Eliza Cook’s Journal, Volumes 11-12

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Eliza Cook’s Journal, Volumes 11-12

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There are no green lanes in the world equal to those of England. Italy has its skies, Greeee its classic ruins, Egypt it s pyramids, Switzerland its Alps, Germany its Rhine, America its Niagara, but none of these has a green lane such as we have thousands of in England. The green lane is essentially English, and is confined to England. There are green lanes neither in Seotland nor Ireland—we mean grassy roads arrayed in greenery, shaded by lofty old hedges, beeeh-trees, alders, or willows, leading to some quiet eot or farmhouse, or range of pasture-lands; and often leading on merely to some other green lane, or series of lanes, branching off to right or left, whieh are there seemingly without any other purpose than that they are there, to feast the eyes of eountry strollers with the sight of their quiet green beauty.

The green lane is the delight alike of our poets and our artists, and of all who love rural scenery. Cowper, Hunt, and Wordsworth have painted them in words; and our living painters, Creswiek, Lee, Witherington, and Redgrave, have painted them in eolours. No pietures are more admired than theirs on the walls of the aeademy. But they can only give us charming “bits,” whereas the pedestrian can range along miles of eharming lanes, even in the very neighbourhood of this crowded metropolis. Leigh Hunt can point ont a favourite route along green lanes in the neighbourhood of Hampstead, whieh takes a long day to visit. Wordsworth has sung that the fields and rural lanes were his “favourite schools.” Indeed, his poetry is full of the sweet breath of the country.

Step out of the dusty highway into the green lane. How cool and quiet it is! Pleasantly it winds on among the farms and fields. A gentle breeze stirs the tree tops, on the summit of one of whieh the throstle is pouring out his sweet musie. But for the feathered singers, the eloister-shade of the green lane were bathed in stillness. The sun, as it streams through the young fun-like foliage of the trees, turns them to green and gold—the bright livery of spring. The gentle wind kisses the leaves as it passes by with a faint rustle and murmur, which still enables you to hear the brushing of your feet over the grassy path.

Flowers are peeping out from the hedge-bottoms. The violet is modestly lifting up its head, and shedding abroad its delicate odour even where unseen. The bees

have already begun their year’s work, and are grappling with the hawthorn blossoms and the wild roses of the hedgerows. The sward is covered with daisies; and foxglove, primroses, and blue-bells eover the banks by the lane side. An open space appears, eovered with gorse, full of golden bloom. Nothing can be more gay and beautiful.

Sometimes the lane is quite overshadowed by tall trees, whieh make a green twilight, but through which the slanting sun’s rays shoot down here and there, lighting up the patches of grass beneath. How bright the leaves through which the sun’s light trembles. What variety of tints, from the eool green to the golden yellow, and the rieh amber brown of the tree stems! With a pool of water in the foreground, or a bright cool stream leaping or triekling from the bank, and straggling irregularly across the path, you have before you one of those delieious “bits ” of woodland or green-lane seenery whieh Creswiek so loves to paint.

The green lane is generally quiet and lonely, but sometimes there is life about it—the life of the fields. Hist! “lis the lowing of a cow, strayed from the adjoining field, tempted by the sweet daisied sward of the lane. She has raised her head, and is lowing to her fellow across the adjoining hedge, who is standing udder-deep in the rich grass and golden buttercups. Or, there is a flock of geese in the lane, watched by a little fellow with red cheeks and flaxen locks, who amuses himself by making whistles ont of reeds, and oeeasional elay-pies and other dainties in the runnel that bustles along under the hedge side. Farther on, you overtake an old man leaning on his staff. He has’crawled forth into the green lane to rejoiee, as he still can rejoiee, in its quiet life and beauty. He is not far from home; a rude style points out the path across a field, and there, within sight, is a little cluster of cottages, rose-embowered and suekle-wreathed, with bees about them; old women peep out from the doors, and the merry voices of ehildren rise up from the grassy spaces near at hand, where they are at play. And here is the spring-well of the hamlet, elose at hand, from which a cottage girl draws her ean full of water, and shily trips over the style and away across the field, out of the stranger’s sight. The well is nooked in a leafy, lush recess, fern-fringed and mossy to the bottom; its elear bubbling waters tempting the stroller to uncoil the rusty chain and fetch up a bumper cool as the polar ice.

These cottages look really pleasant and rural; the eluster of lilaes nodding over their mossy roofs, with those branehing oaks, loftier still, through whieh the thin blue smoke slowly eddies upwards into the bluer sky. There is also an elder-tree growing by the wieket, near the entranee to the eottager’s garden, and no eottagegarden would be eomplete without an elder. And there is a eottager at work, turning over the soil with his spade, whieh tinkles against the pebbles as he delves the dry earth, making it ready for some summer erop.

Move baek into the lane again, and as you proeeed, lo! a patient ass stands before yon, listlessly meditating. No green lane without its ass! Does the ass love green lanes for their quiet, or for their sweet herbage? Either way, the ass must be an animal of taste, mueh-reviled brute as it is. But this poor ass bears upon it the marks of hard work, of blows, of poor feeding. It is not a luxurious, idle, dissipated ass, but a eommon day-labouring ass, the servant of tinkers and gipsies. There they are, eamped out in the green lane!

“Will you have your fortune read?” Then have it read here in the green lane, by that bold tawny girl, with blazing blaek eyes—a genuine gipsy, a true ehild of the East. Sinee Squire .Western had his fortune told in the green lane, as related in Tom Jones, these same strollers have been hannting the lanes of England. The lanes are the eamping ground of the gipsies; there they mend pots and manufaeture brooms; thero they eook, eat, marry, and bring up ehildren. The gipsy ehild, brought up in the green lanes, is no more to be tied down to the plodding life of towns, than is the Ameriean Indian to beeome a eotton planter for a Yankee slave-owner. The gipsy is the Indian of Europe—not to be eivilised, any more than the green lane itself eould flourish in the Strand.

The green lane is beantiful at all seasons. In spring it is youthful and fresh. In summer it is rieh and luseious. In antumn its beanty is ripe and full. The fresh green of the lane in the young spring is delieious; but yet, for riehness of eolour, for brilliant tints, deep browns, lit up with the searlet and red berries with whieh the hedgerows are full in antumn, we have even a preferenee for the latter season. But always is the green lane beantiful. And in summer, when the delieious fragranee from the hay-fields fills the lane, and heavyladen wains eome swinging along the grass path, the seent filling the summer air, a walk in the lane is an inexpressible souree of delight. There is a life among the fields at that season also, sueh as you rarely witness at other times. The mowers are at work, and the haymakers are busy in their wake, easting about the drying hay, amidst langhter, and jesting, and merry glee.

But the pleasures of the green lane at all seasons are endless. In the early morning, at glowing noon, or in the balmy eve, when the sun sets in gold, dimly seen through overarehing trees, the lane is always delightful. It ealls up the poetry of our nature, and quiekens it to life; and we feel as if we eould only enjoy it thoroughly to the aeeompaniment of a volume of Keats, or Tennyson, or .Wordsworth. This love of green lanes is a truly national attaehment. It is a simple and delightful taste, and we are not ashamed of it. The love of eountry and of eountry life is rather our pride and our glory.


We always think of Miss Mitford as we do of the yellow primroses, pink anemones, red elover, and blue eornflowers we used to sit among in our ” merrie ehildhood’s days.” Her name eomes to us with a sort of lily of the valley and sweet woodruff odour about it. It is assoeiated with the newly-turned furrow, where the lark walks elose

“Afherton and other Tales. By Mary Russell Mitford. In 3 vola. London: Uurst and Blaekett. 1854.

behind “the heavy hoots of Hodge.” We eouple it with the rieh brown faggot-staek and the golden waggon-load of barley. It brings reeolleetions of the hamlet-eommon, the rushy pond, the furze patehes, the nibbling geese, the straggling eottages, and the evening tribe of pigmy erieketers, who expend their utmost energies under the influenee of a penny ball and sixpenny bat. We see her standing in a green lane, among elms, beeehes, whitethorns, and mountain ashes, with a buneh of wood-strawberry blossoms in her hand, talking to some tawny-faeed, broad-beavered, red-waisteoated, leather-gaitered son of the soil. We hear her ealling her pet greyhound, ” Mayflower,” within bounds. We eonjure her up in one of the “Belford ” highways, dispensing kind words and sedative sugar-plums to some of the pettieoated nondeseript bipeds so loved by her womanly spirit. We walk with her shadow through eorn-fields and hop-gardens. We go with her blaekberrying and nutting. We have her by our side when the frosty snow eraekles under our doublesoles ; and, in short, Miss Mitford lives with us always and everywhere in the eountry.

We think we read Our Villaye with as mueh delight as any book that ever eame into our hands. We were very young at the time, but it eaptivated us beyond expression; and now, when we have learnt somewhat more of “elassies” and “epies,” we dip into it with affeetionate and enduring pleasure. We are proud to say it is one of the most ” grubby” volumes on our shelves, and if Miss Mitford had never written another line we should ever be most grateful to her for this treasured produetion.

The present and last work from her pen presents all the refreshing traits- of simple and sineere writing whieh marked her earlier emanations. Atherton fills the first volume, and is the longest story, we think, ever published by Miss Mitford. It is a domestie narrative, replete with heart-interest and genial feeling,—making no pretensions to exalted, politieal, or ethieal elaboration, so prevalent in the modern sehools of novel writing; but has a simple freshness in its tone whieh eharms one into reading on, though we are being ealled to supper. Miss Mitford’s rural deseriptions are as usual equally beantiful and truthful. We present our readers with this niee bit of painting from the opening ehapter:—

“There were few houses whieh wore more eompletely the outward show of eomfort and prosperity than the Great Farm at Atherton. It was a large square substantial building, with fine fruit-trees eovering-the upper part of the walls, and jessamine, honeysuekle, and China roses elustering round the windows. The green eourt, whieh divided the house from the road, was gay during nine months of the year with flowers and flowering trees; and boasted still some lingering spikes of hollyhoek, a stray blossom of elove and searlet geraninm, and bunehes of that most fragrant of roses whieh is ealled ‘of the four seasons.’ The mignonette too and the violet still mingled their delieious odours. People who sineerely love flowers eontrive to make them blow sooner and later than others. We see this in the poorest eottages, and here was no poverty to eontend with. On one side of the eourt was that most affluent of all territories, an immense orehard, a perfeet grove of fruit-trees, eherry, apple, pear, plum, and walnut at their tallest growth and fullest bearing. Behind was a large kitehengarden; and on the side opposite to the orehard a magnifieent farm-yard, a huge and indeseribable mixture of riehes and mud. Behind that eame poultry-yard and riek-yard, horse-pond and duek-pond, barns, stables, earthouses, eow-houses, doveeots, and pigsties, with all their inhabitants, biped and quadruped, feathered and unfeathered, of every denomination.

“They who talk of the quiet of the eountry ean hardly have been in a great farmyard towards sunset on a wintry day, when the teams are eome baek from the plough and the eattle from the field, and the whole population is gathered together for the purpose of feeding. I would mateh it for noise and dirt and jostling against Cheapside, and taking into aeeount the variety of the ereatures, and the different keys eombined in that wild ehorus, I should have little doubt of winning.”

The veraeity of the latter paragraph has often been proved in our own experienee. We were intimately eonneeted with a “farmyard” in our jnvenile days, and ean bear witness to all that Miss Mitford deelares touehing its uproar and eonfusion. We remember getting into awkward positions more than onee during the “business hour” of four or five o’eloek. Some teams eame home from market, some from ploughing. The pigs were elamorously aetive in the neighbourhood of the hog-tuh, betraying a wonderful eagerness to eonvert themselves into pork, by grunting and squeeling and pushing, beyond all deeorum, for the usual troughfuls of food. The ealves bleated vigorously at the approaeh of their maternal relatives, and the eows bellowed uneeasingly in reply, to assure their offspring of a mother’s presenee. The fowls were flapping and flying and ehuekling and serambling like insane ereatures about the granary door, and assanlted all who went near it with andaeious pertinaeity. The team-horses rattled their ehains with impatient zeal, earts and waggons were being drawn under sheds by no gentle or silent spirits; Diek, the ploughboy, was exelaiming to Ben, the ploughman, about “that ere traee of old Dumplings being too long,” and “as how he was sure that Smiler went summut lame all day.” Ben, paying not the slightest attention to Diek, was ealling lustily to Harry, in the riek-yard, “to be sure and take them ere saeks out of the big bar n into the little un;” and Jem, “the odd boy,” was “managing” the pigs by dint of the loudest and strongest Sussex dialeet he eould muster; while Martha, the dairy-maid, was alternately sereaming after a missing pail and invoking David Horton, the handsome young thresher, to help her get that obstinate old “Mudge” into the shippen. “Drat that hnssey of a eow, she never would do as she was wanted, and was’nt to be gotten near her plaee no how, if Davy didu’t eome to help” (by-the-by, Martha and Davy were married about six months after). The sheep-dog was barking at an obstreperous sow; the terriers, pointers, and beagles all ehose that anspieious and lively period to bold a sort of gymnastie and barking revel with boisterous glee; and we repeat, that more than onee we have been glad to eseape the eonfusion and Babel of a ” quiet farmyard.”

Miss Mitford gives us a graphie deseription of the inhabitants of this farm, whieh we eannot resist quoting.

“lxird Delaney, the noble owner of the hall, had most extensive estates in the same eounty: but nearly all the parish of Atherton was rented by the tenant of the Great Farm, and that tenant was a woman.

“Mrs. Warner had presided over this land of plenty for nearly fifty years, originally as the wife of the master, latterly as the mistress, and always with high reputation for hospitality and good management. She was a neat, gentle, lady-like person, with silver hair, a fair, pale eomplexion, mild dark eyes, a little tremor of head and voiee, and a slight bend of the slender figure; altogether a most venerable and beantiful old woman. Her family eonsisted of a danghter-in-law, the widow of her only son, and of their danghter Catherine, eommonly ealled Katy Warner, a girl of fifteen.

“Katy’s mother was a round, rosy, merry, bustling dame, who having, sinee the death of her first husband, had, as she expressed it, the luek to marry and bury a seeond, bore the name of Bell. To her for some years baek the ehief government of the house and farm had devolved, and few women eould be fitter for sueh a eharge. With a frame strong and aetive as that of a

man, a eompetent knowledge of husbandry, a good judgment in eattle, and eonsiderable skill in parish affairs; with a kinduess that was always felt and a tongue that was often heard, she seolded her way through the agrieultural year from wheat-sowing to harvest. Ignorant as a new-born ehild of the world and its ways, exeept always the small bit of that ‘huge rotundity’ ealled the manor and royalty of Atherton, it is probable that the very limitation of her faeulties eondueed not a little to her prosperity. Fearful of experiments, she stuek to the old routine adapted to her eapaeity; and trusted to the experienee of her labourers, men for the most part born upon the land, who knew every ineh of the ground, and eared for the interest of their good mistress as if it had been their own. Everything throve in this female household, from the floeks whose numbers were eounted by thousands down to Katy’s bees.

“The parlour, the eommon living-room of the family, was smaller than, to judge from its appearanee, any room in that house ought to have been, ehosen, perhaps, on that aeeount—people who ean eommand large rooms having a frequent tendeney to use small ones.

“It was a sort of exereseenee on one side of the dwelling, a kind of afterthought, with a sunny bay-window eommanding the farm-yard, from whieh it was only parted by a low paling and a slip of turf, and giving a peep at the high-road.

“A snug and eheerful apartment, after all, was that little parlour, erowded with furniture, from the good old lady’s high-baeked ehair to the low stool on whieh Katy, whenever that Mereurial little person did stay five minutes in a plaee, used to sit at her grandmother’s feet.

“In the eentre was a small Pembroke table of dark mahogany, somewhat rieketty; at the end a sideboard of the same material, the drawers groaning with stands of spirits, and bottles of home-made wine, the top eovered with miseellaneous artieles, Mrs. Warner’s large Bible, surmounted by a eookery-book, oeeupying one eorner, whilst Mrs. Bell’s enormous work-baskets and work-bags over-filled the other; a beantiful jar of dried grasses, Katy’s property, oeeupied the middle. Katy’s possessions, indeed, might be traeed everywhere. Her litter, living and dead, eumbered the walls and the floor. Birds, kittens, skipping-ropes, bridles, riding-whips, and battledores were distributed all over the room, whilst a fat spaniel ealled Flora lay basking before the flre.

“Two triangular eupboards oeeupied two opposite eorners; of whieh one was so erammed with eloselypaeked glass and ehina that it was dangerous for any unaeeustomed finger to attempt to extrieate eup or saneer from the pile; whilst the other was filled to bursting with artieles of daily eall, tea, sugar, lemons, nutmegs, and gingerbread. Fruit at all seasons, and eakes of every denomination eompleted the array. No one eould enter that room without tasting the light seed-eake—diet-bread Mrs. Warner ealled it—eompounded from a family reeipe a hundred years old; or the green gooseberry wine, famous as that of Mrs. Primrose, sparkling and efferveseent as ehampagne. It was the very temple of hospitality.”

Katy is the heroine of the story, and we beg to eommend her to our young friends as a fine speeimen of English girlhood. We will not extraet more from Atherton, but advise the reading of it in its perfeet form.

The other two volumes are eomposed of short stories, whieh have only appeared in eomparatively uuread and expensive annuals. They are all good and pleasing. We must present a speeimen from Dolly and her Beaux:—

“Dolly, whose real name, by the way, was Dora, though it is doubtful whether she had been so addressed sinee the ehristening; the very maids — even Mrs. Hieks herself, ealling her Miss Dolly. Dolly was a niee little girl: small of her age, but well formed and aetive, with abundanee of flaxen ringlets, blue eyes, and a pink and

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white eomplexion, not mueh unlike her own great wax doll, and not very mueh larger, the ehief differenee between them eonsisting in the absenee of noise and motion on the doll’s part, wherein Dolly had the advantage, and in the far superior neatuess of the waxen lady’s apparel: neither Mrs. Hieks, nor her aide-de-eamp, Patty (the nursery-maid) being able to keep Dolly tidy, though they tried hard, after their several fashions, to aehieve that most landable objeet. Mrs. Hieks hoping, lamenting, and sighing in her great ehair, over torn froeks and tattered trowsers; whilst Patty ehased her young mistress, needle in hand, ruuning up tueks, sewing on strings, and tying sashes; all of whieh might truly be ealled labour in vain, for Dolly was a romp at heart, a romp in grain, and it would be as easy to wash a blaekamoor white as to preserve eleanliness and order in the person of a young lady who labours under that unlueky propensity.

“Dolly (I am sorry to give so bad a eharaeter to my heroine) was a most inveterate romp. She romped with her brothers and sisters wherever she met with them; with her father and mother whenever she eould eoax them into the sport; with Miss Harris, the governess: with Patty, the nursery-maid; and, finally, notwithstanding eorns and the rhenmatism, with Mrs. Hieks herself, who, in spite of a eonsiderable degree of gravity, mental and bodily, and a deeided theoretieal objeetion to sueh rudeness, eould not always find in her heart to resist Dolly’s praetieal temptation, espeeially when Dolly elimbed to the top of her great ehair, and stole the very speetaeles from off her nose.

“This was the sigual for a game of play, whieh used to last till poor fat Mrs. Hieks, tired as ever a poor fat Mrs. Hieks was before, was foreed to give in and ery for qnarter: and then Dolly (who seldom attaeked Mrs. Hieks until she had exhansted the patienee of her other biped play-fellows) used to resort to the qnadrupeds of the house—her mamma’s lap-dog, her papa’s poodle, her sister’s kitten, Miss Harris’s eat, and a mueh-enduring terrier of her own, eally Tiny, for amusement and eonsolation; and they, espeeially Tiny and the kitten, would enter into her glee, and jump and frisk about, and serateh and tear the elothes upon her baek, and moke sueh a eommotion as would have wearied anybody under the sun exeept Dolly; but Dolly was untirable. It was perfeetly wonderful bow mueh fatigue under the name of play, that little person eould endure — from sunrise to sundown she was in perpetnal motion. Miss Harris (who dreaded her eoming into the sehool-room), used to deelare that it made her head aehe only to look at her!

“Besides being a romp, Dolly (the sins are apt to go together in damsels under four years old) was, I am sorry to say, a most desperate flirt. She bad early made the diseovery that gentlemen, who have no bounets to diseompose, nor gowns to rumple, make far better playfellows than ladies who have their millinery and pettieoats to take eare of, and are, besides, less strong in the arm, and therefore less eapable of giving, what Dolly liked better than anything, a good high toss. Gentlemen were, therefore, her deeided favourites; and every male visitor, who eame to the house, was sure of being ehallenged to a game of romps with Miss Dolly. But, besides these ehanee beanx, she had, nearly from the time she eould talk, a regular flirtation on hand with some favourite of the house.

“First on the list was Mr. Simon Bates, the house steward; a retainer of the family of somewhere about Mrs. Hieks’ standing, for whom in his youth he had been suspeeted of a lurking penehant, and for whom he still retained suffieient partiality to induee him to pay her long and frequent visits in the nursery, when his flirtation with Miss Dolly eommeneed. It did not last long. Poor Mr. Simou Bates, besides being nearly as unwieldy as

Mrs. Hieks, was subjeet to fits of the gout, whieh utterly ineapaeitated him from the aetive gambols that his young lady reqnired, so he relinqnished his post, or she turned him off (either version may serve) as speedily as possible.

“His sueeessor was Mr. Jaekson, the butler, whose pantry, abutting on the great stairs, threw him frequently in Dolly’s way, and enabled him to give her two exereises of whieh she was exeeedingly fond—sliding down the banisters, and trotting round the hall on horsebaek, Mr. I Jaekson performing the part of a steed, and praneing and eurvetting on hands and feet for her gratifieation. What added to her pleasure in this sport was Jaekson’s being furnished with a natural bridle, in the shape of a pig-tail, he being of the old-fashioned raee of butlers, with a red I’aeo blazing amidst his frizzed and powdered hair—silk stoekings, paste buekles, and, on state oeeasions, an embroidered waisteoat with long flaps, whieh sonie former head of the Vernons had worn at eourt. A eapital steed. Dolly, in her lisping English, was pleased to eall him “vely nithe horthe;” but, notwithstanding bis alaerity in moving on all-fours, poor Mr. Jaekson’s red nose was fated to be put out of joint even sooner than that of his predeeessor, Mr. Bates.

“The favourite by whom the galloping butler was superseded, was a eertain Eugene Prinee, or, as his eomrades ealled him, Prinee Eugene, who aeeompanied Horry Vernon home from the Military College, one Christmas holidays. Prinee Eugene was exaetly the person to worry a young lady off her feet; bold, aetive, lively, and good humoured, and blest with sueh a fund of animal spirits that he eould even tire down Dolly herself. Prinee Eugene was irresistible; he tossed her over his bead, he shook her into peuny-pieees, he ealled her his little wile, he sang songs, made faees, and played Puneh for her amusement; and reigued without a rival, whether on four feet or on two. But, alas! the Christmas hours do not last for ever. Prinee Eugene departed, and poor Dolly was left a diseonsolate damsel, to seek another playfellow as best she might.

“She found, or rather made one, in the shape of the viear of the parish; a grave, deeordus, respeetable, M r. Harman, who at first sight seemed an uupromising subjeet for a romping bout. But the gentleman had more fun in him than he seemed to have; and being mueh at the house, and amused by the mauner in whieh Dolly foreed herself upon his attention, and insisted on his tossing her up to the eeiling, and shaking her into peunypieees, and ealling her his little wife, like her ‘ poor dear Printh,’ he took very greatly to the offiee, and, on my arrival at General Veriwu’s, I found him as regularly romping with Dolly after diuner, as saying graee before.

“This state of things did not last long; Dolly was, as I have said, a flirt as well as a romp; and an oeeasion soon presented itself for displaying her unlueky qnality in full perfeetion. It eame, as usnal, in the form of a rival.

“The time of my visit happened to be on the eve of a general eleetion; and a few days after my arrival, a fellow guest made his appearanee in the shape of a young baronet, who was a eandidate for the representation of the next town, where the Vernons had great interest. A very agreeable person was Sir Robert,—eheerful, pliant, and good humoured, and so overflowing with eivility, that he made his eourt to every ereature in the house, from Lady Aun, the really lovely eldest danghter, down to Finette and Tiny. Of eourse, Dolly was not overlooked. He outtossed and out-shook Mr. Harman; mode more faees and sang more songs that Prinee Eugene; played Puneh twiee over; galloped on all fours three times round tho great drawing-room; deelared that she should be nobody’s wife but his; and finally, promised to eariy her away with him the next morning.

“The night had been stormy, and Mr. Harman had, as was frequently the ease in bad weather, slept at the great

house; and the morning being brilliantly fine, we were all assembled to witness the departure of the two gentlemen—the one on foot to the viearage, the other on horsebaek to the independent borough of G , when, to our

great astonishment, Dolly marehed into the hall, equipped in her best pelisse and bonnet, with a huge wax doll in one hand, and a eoaeh and four with their outriders (the gift of Mr. Harman), in the other. ‘Thtop!’ shouted Dolly, pereeiving that her new admirer, who was already mounted, was boiving himself off as fast as possible, ‘thtop! I go too!’

“‘No,’ rejoined the faithless swain,’not now, dear Dolly; there’s no room; you see I’m on horsebaek: I’ll eome baek in a earriage and feteh you and your doll. I ’11 eome baek for you to-morrow, Dolly.’

“‘ I go now’ sereamed Dolly. ‘I ride before—I ride behind. I oor wife !” quoth Dolly. But all in vain, for her treaeherous admirer nodded, and kissed his hand, and galloped off; he langhed and he rode away, and poor Dolly, quite astounded at anybody’s being as fiekle as herself, seemed likely to ery, till, eatehing a glimpse of Mr. Harman, who was now, in his turn, taking leave, she resumed her doll and her eoaeh-and-four, whieh she had put down in her eonsternation, and then said very quietly—’ Well, then, Mither Harman, I go with oo.’

“‘ No,’ rejoined Mr. Harman, ‘not to-day, Miss Dolly. I’ll eome and feteh you another time;’ and off he bowed himself; and poor Dolly, quite astounded with this great moral lesson on the dangers of flirtation, and the treaehery of men, walked baek to the nursery quite misanthropie, exelaiming, with the drollest possible union of mirth, of observation, and falseness of grammar,’Manth ith all alike!’ she being, perhaps, the first young lady of three years and a half old, who ever had oeeasion, on her own aeeount, to verify the words of the old song,—

‘Sigh no more, ladies, ladies, sigh no more,—

Men were deeeivers ever;
One foot on sea and one on shore,
To one thing eonstant never.’

“‘ Manth ith all alike,” quoth poor Dolly, and off she marehed to play with Tiny.

We are by no means eertain that the last refleetive deelaration of Miss Dolly, is not rather beyond the mental and moral pereeption of a young lady rising “three and a half,” but we should require to find many more serious fanlts before we eould quarrel with sueh a pretty sketeh of infant life.

In the third volume there is a ” Story for ehildren of all ages,” entitled, The Two Cousins, whieh affords an exeellent lesson on wisdom, illustrated by a eharmingly related tale of girlish folly. We meet with Sheridan’s Rhyminy Calendar in it, whieh may be new to many of our readers:—

1 January snowy;

February flowy;

Mareh blowy;

April ahowery;

May flowery;

June bowery;

July moppy;

August eroppy;

September poppy;

Oetober breeay;

November wheezy;

Deeember freeay.’

We weleome this publieation as we would a pieture of Gainsborough’s or Wilkie’s, among a gallery of mosaies and marbles; and fervently hope that the amiable and gifted anthoress will yet present the world with many produetions of her refined and refining genins.

There is a likeness of Miss Mitford in the first volume, whieh will at onee impress those who look on it with a most favourable opinion of the nature and temper of the original. There is something unaffeeted, English-like, and loveable in the faee and figure, whieh is unusual in

the average portaits of popular writers, and Miss Mitford has been lueky in finding an artist who has done eommon justiee to her real lineaments. We elose these volumes, feeling they will be perused and appreeiated as they deserve.


The reeord of the life of the eeeentrie old physieian is riehly suggestive, and will be found to possess no mean interest, although it may not entitle Cardan to more than a seeondary position among the great men who have imprinted their memorials upon the eventful history of a singularly fertile period, in whieh the empire of seienee and thought was extended, in various ways, with wonderful rapidity.

It is eertain, we think, in eommon with Mr. Morley, that historians have been negleetful, if not unjust, to Jerome Cardan. That many wild and faneiful theories are to be found in his writings must be admitted; that exeeption may be taken to mueh of his moral philosophy is true; that his life was stained by dissipation we must also regret, although it should not be forgotten, the evidenee on the last point proeeeds from his own pen, and but for his own, perhaps, too frank eonfessions, he would not have been aeeounted worse than his eontemporaries.

It was eharged against Cardan, as a physieian, in his lifetime, that he never eoneentrated his powers upon his profession, and he was a man of versatile attainments. He studied intensely, wrote mueh upon the abstraet seienees; and, despite the singular eoneeits upon many topies, these writings display a remarkable aeuteness of observation, and profundity of researeh and analysis. But so strangely eompounded was his nature, that Briieker observes, “If we read only eertain of his works, we may say he was the greatest fool who ever lived; at the same time he was one of the most fertile geninses that Italy has produeed, and one who made eertain rare diseoveries in mathematies and medieine.”

The early days of the philosopher were beset with evil. His birth, we are told, made no man happy, and his first gaze into the world was darkened by a mother’s frown. This mother was one Chiara, or Clara Mieheria, a young widow; his father, who was fifty-six years old, was Fazio Cardan, a lawyer of some repute, and juriseonsult of Milan. The unweleome ehild was, however, born at Pavia, on the 24th of September, 1501, whither its maternal parent had fled, to avoid the plague, then raging in the former eity. His infaney was a series of easualties, and to aeeident more than design, on her part, may the preservation of his life be attributed. At length she returned to Milan, taking Jerome with her, and soon after Fazio dwelt under the same roof with the widow, their ehild, and her sister Morgherita, of whom the nephew gives no very favourable aeeount. And he may be well exeused in his want of affeetion towards one who treated him so unkindly, that he faneied “she must have been without a skin, for she eared so little for the skin of Clara’s ehild.” The systematie eruelty to whieh little Cardan was subjeeted, added to his feeble health and hereditary disease, made up the sum of martyrdom, but

* The Life of Oirolamo Cardano, of Milan, Physioian—By Heury Morley, Author of Pali*e) t\t Patter, &e. London: Chapman and Hall. 185i.

The Love Affairs of an Old Maid (Google Books)

Percival is a genius. People in general do not recognize this fact. He is an inarticulate genius. Men feel that he is in some occult way different from them, yet they do not know just how. Nor will they ever take the trouble to study out a problem in human nature, either in man or woman, unless they are philosophers.

Women care for Percival in proportion to their intuitions. You must comprehend him synthetically. You cannot dissect him. With generous appreciation and sympathetic encouragement, Percival’s genius would become articulate. To discover it he must needs marry—but he must wait for the hundredth woman. This, of course, he will not do. If he can find a Flossy, he will go down on his knees to her, when she ought to be on hers to him; metaphorical knees, in this case.

I am very much afraid he has found her. He is in love. You can always tell when a man is in love, Tabby, especially if he is not the lovering kind and has never been troubled in that way before. The best kind of love has to be so intuitive that it often is grandly, heroically awkward. Depend upon it, Tabby, a man who is dainty and pretty and unspeakably smooth when he makes love to you, has had altogether too much practice.

Percival knows that he is in love—that is one great step in the right direction. But he is in that first partly alarmed, partly curious frame of mind that a man would be in who touched his broken arm for the first time to see how much it hurt. Whoever she is, he loves her deeply and thinks she never can care for him. He did not tell me this. If he thought that I knew it, he would wonder how in the world I found it out. Women are born lovers. They have to do the bulk of the loving all through the world. I told Percival so. At first he seemed surprised; then he said that it was true. I believe some men could go through life without loving anybody on earth. But the woman never lived who could do it. A woman must love something—even if she hasn’t anything better to love than a pug-dog or herself.

“ Why aren’t women the choosers 5‘” said Percival seriously. The same question twice in one day, Tabby. “Whenever I think of understanding the question of love, I wish for a woman’s intuitions. Women know so much about it. They absorb the whole question at a glance. But, with so many different kinds of women, how is a man to know anything?”

I always liked Percival, but a woman never likes a man so well as when be acknowledges his helplessness in her particular line of knowledge, and throws himself on her mercy. Mentally, I at once began to feel motherly towards Percival, and clucked around him like an old hen. He went on to say that men often are not so blind that they cannot see the prejudices and complexities of a woman’s nature, but they are not constituted to understand them by intuition as women understand men. “The masculine mind,” he said, “is but ill-attuned to the subtle harmonies of the feminine heart.”

I was secretly very much pleased at this remark, but I made myself answer as became an Old Maid, just to make him continue without self-consciousness. If I had blushed and thanked him, he would have gone home.

“They set these things down to the nat- A ural curiousness and contrariness of women, and often despise what they cannot com’ prehend.”

He answered me with the heightened consciousness and slight irritation of a man who has been in that fault, but has seen and mended it.

“All men do not. Still, how can they help it at times?”

Then, Tabby, I went a-sailing. I launched out on my favorite theme.

“Men must needs study women. Often the terror with which some men regard these—to us—perfectly transparent complexities, could be avoided if they would analyze the cause with but half the patience they display in the case of an ailing trotter. But no; either they edge carefully away from such dangers as they previously have experienced, or, if they blunder into new ones, they give the woman a sealskin and trust to time to heal the breach.”

I thought of the Asburys when I said that. But Percival ruminated upon it, as if it touched his own case. A very good thing

about Percival is that he does not think he
knows everything. It encourages me to
believe in his genius. To rouse him from
a brown-study over this Flossy girl, I said
rather recklessly,

“I should like to be a man for a while,
in order to make love to two or three wom-
en. I would do it in a way which should
not shock them with its coarseness or starve
them with its poverty. As it is now, most
women deny themselves the expression of
the best part of their love, because they
know it will be either a puzzle or a terror
to their lovers.” ‘

Percival was vitally interested at once.

“ Is that really so P” he asked. “ Do you suppose any of them withhold anything from such a fear?” His face was so uplifted that I plunged on, thoroughly in the dark, but, like Barkis, “willin’.” If I could be of use to him in an emergency, I was only too haPPY

“ Men never realize the height of the pedestal where women in love place them, nor do they know with how many perfections

_ they are invested nor how religiously wom

De schaapherder: een verhaal uit den Utrechtschen oorlog 1481-1483 (Google Books)

» Hetgeen ik moet overbrengen, heeft zooveel waarde, dat ik zonder belooning er niet toe kan besluiten,” zeide Van Schaffelaar lachende, en hij hield haar met zijn arm omvat. » Een vriend voor zulk een kleine dienst eene belooning aan te bieden, zou onbeleefd zijn,” zeide Maria, haar gelaat afwendende. mWelnu, betaal u zelven dan maar, Van Schaffelaar!” riep de smid vroolijk; wde vrouwen houden zich altijd, alsof zij er niet mede. …” Hier verhinderde zijne vrouw hem te vervolgen, daar zij hare hand voor zijn mond hield. m. Het is uw vader, die zulks goedvindt, liefste Maria!” zeide Van Schaffelaar, zich zelven betalende. t mGenoeg! te veel!” riep Maria; mfoei, Jan! ik had niet gedacht, dat gij zoo inhalig zoudt wezen. Ik zal voortaan mijne eigene boodschappen doen,” zeide zij zacht, en schoof een weinig ter zijde. Zij wendde alle pogingen aan om een ontevreden gelaat aan te nemen, doch het gelukte haar niet, haar bevallig wezen in eene onvriendelijke plooi samen te trekken. Hare moeder waarschuwde haar berispend, dat de strooken van haar hulsel gebogen waren, en terwijl zij dit met de nette vingers van hare blanke hand herstelde, en terzijde naar Van Schaffelaar en ook naar haar vader zag, zeide deze laatste op eenmaal: m. Maar hoe heeft Frank het toch, Heer Jan ? heeft niemand daarnaar gevraagd? Maria! hebt gij nu dien armen jongen zoo geheel vergeten, en aan Moor denkt gij wel?” m’Ik heb nog niet naar hem gevraagd, vader!” zeide Maria blozend, mik vertrouw, dat hij wèl zal zijn. wWèl is hij,” zeide Van Schaffelaar, wten minste het gaat nog al, ofschoon het beter kon.” WEn waarom hebt gij hem dan niet medegebracht?” vroeg vrouw Martha, whet ware toch beter geweest dan zoo alleen te komen.” “Het is zoo, maar dat zou niet gemakkelijk gegaan zijn, ook geloof ik, dat hij wel wat anders in het hoofd had dan met mij mede te gaan.”

» Ha, ha! ik begrijp het al, riep Wouter, wdan is hij verliefd, niet waar?” wFrank verliefd!” vroeg Maria verwonderd. wJa, en waarom niet, Maria? de meester heeft het geraden,” zeide Van Schaffelaar vroolijk. “Frank is immers een knappe jongen.” mEn die, bij St. Eloy ! wel naar eene meid kan omzien,” zeide Wouter, m’gij zit immers naast uw vrijer, Maria! gun dan den armen knaap ten minste ook een klein genoegen; hij moet zich wel troosten, daar zijne Amersfoortsche vrienden niet eens aan hem denken.” Maria zweeg verlegen, maar hare moeder vatte het woord op en zeide: mOnze dochter heeft wel gelijk; hij had nog wel wat kunnen wachten, tot hij wat om- en aanhad, dat had nog geen haast, en gij hadt wel wat beters kunnen zeggen dan aan de klok te hangen, dat wij ons meer met heer Jan dan met een knaap bemoeid hebben, die ons eigenlijk niet aangaat.” m Ho, ho! moeder! wat rijdt gij weer op den bezem!” riep Wouter lachende, mzoodra de vrouwen van vrijen en trouwen hooren, dan zijn zij in haar element. Zeg het nu maar ronduit, moeder ! Ha, ha! zijt gij jaloersch op den armen jongen of op zijne meid? En wat zegt Griet er wel van?” vroeg hij luid, en wendde zich naar deze, die tot nog toe alleen maar nu en dan aan het gesprek had deelgenomen. m’Dat men eerst weten moet, wie de jonkman in het oog heeft, voordat men kan oordeelen, meester!” hernam zij. m’De oude Griet heeft meer verstand om over eene vrijpartij te spreken, dan gij, Wouter!” zeide zijne vrouw. m’Ik wilde u juist hetzelfde zeggen, lieve Martha!” hernam de smid, “maar wees zoo goed om te vragen, hetgeen gij weten wilt; ik zal zwijgen.” Dit zeggende, wierp hij een blik vol beteekenis op Van Schaffelaar, zag zijne vrouw van ter zijde aan, haalde zijne schouders op, schonk de bekers vol, nam den zijnen in de hand, en eindigde lachende: m’Op uwe gezondheid, heer Van Schaffelaar!”

nAls gij wat eer gezwegen hadt, dan was alles nu al afgepraat,” hernam zijne vrouw, die Griet eens aanzag, en met het hoofd schudde. m’Wees zoo goed, Heer Jan ! en zeg mij, zoo gij het weet, hoe zijn meisje heet, en wat hare ouders doen.” Van Schaffelaar had den kleinen twist tusschen den man en de vrouw onopgemerkt laten voorbijgaan, en stak Maria zijne hand toe, in het vertrouwen, dat zij hem de hare zou reiken; eindelijk had hij haar ook, door den smeekenden blik van zijn donker oog, overgehaald aan zijn verlangen te voldoen. En echter nog niet tevreden, wilde hij, dat zij weder vlak naast hem zou komen zitten. Zij deed vruchtelooze pogingen om hare kleine hand, die hij zorgvuldig vasthield, wederom vrij te krijgen; maar zij scheen zich eindelijk te onderwerpen, daar zij hem gewillig hare hand overliet en aan zijne zijde plaats nam; doch op het oogenblik, dat haar vader hem den dronk toebracht, dien hij moest beantwoorden, en hare moeder hem aansprak, rukte zij schielijk hare hand los, en schoof ter zijde. m Maria! bedenk, hoe spoedig ik weder vertrekken moet,” zeide hij zacht, doch met gevoel, waarna hij vervolgde: ,,Om u de waarheid te zeggen, lieve vrouw Martha! zoo weet ik er zelf niet veel van, daar Frank er mij niets van gezegd heeft, ofschoon ik hem er meermalen naar gevraagd heb; ja, hij zegt, dat hij niet verliefd is, en dat al hetgeen men mij gezegd heeft, maar uitstrooisels zijn. Ik heb dan gehoord, dat zekere jonkvrouw uit Utrecht, die bij haar oom, heer Loef Van Oosterweerd woont, hem ondubbelzinnige blijken van hare liefde gegeven, en dat heer Loef hem zeer vriendelijk ontvangen heeft.” mIs zij rijk?” vroeg Martha. wO, zeg mij, of zij jong en schoon is, Jan!” zeide Maria, die weder wat naar hem was toegeschikt. “Ik geloof, dat zij dat alles is,” antwoordde hij, nten minste weet ik, dat haar oom zeer rijk is, maar tevens zeer gierig; ook heb ik gehoord, en dit zou mij doen denken, dat Frank waarlijk niet op haar verliefd is, dat zij op den duur niet goed bij het verstand is, en het er nu en dan zoo wat doorloopt.” mEene mooie, gekke vrouw met geld is zoo kwaad niet, als zij maar niet nijdig is,” zeide Wouter. mIk hoop toch, dat Frank haar niet zal nemen, een jongen, die zijne ouders niet kent, is ook geen goed man voor zulk eene vrouw van aanzien,” zeide Martha. m’En waarom niet?” zeide Wouter; whet kan wel zijn, dat, zoo als Van Schaffelaar zegt, onze arme Frank niet van de jonkvrouw houdt, en evenwel zin heeft in hare bezittingen; voor een armen ruiter is het geene zaak van klein gewicht, om in eens zoo maar een rijk man te worden; dat brengt de jon: gen van zijn stuk.” m’Ik geloof niet, vader ! dat Frank eene vrouw zal nemen uit eigenbelang,” zeide Maria; mgaarne zou ik haar eens zien, die hem bemint. Zij is schoon, nietwaar, Jan? en niet trotsch; ik houd reeds veel van haar, omdat zij Frank liefheeft, en wil wedden, dat men haar zinneloos noemt, omdat zij een armen verlaten ruiter bemint; en ik, ik vind, dat het een bewijs is van hare oprechtheid en de goedheid van haar hart.” vSpreek altijd zoo, Maria!” riep Van Schaffelaar aangedaan, en hij sloot haar in zijne armen, men nimmer zal het mij vervelen naar u te luisteren, indien ik u niet reeds met geheel mijn hart beminde, dan zou ik u in dit oogenblik voor eeuwig mijne liefde schenken.” mEn vreest gij niet, Heer Jan Van Schaffelaar!” zeide zij vriendelijk lachende, terwijl zij zijn haar met hare fijne vingers glad streek, mdat men u voor zinneloos zal houden, omdat gij de vrijer zijt van Maria, Wouter’s dochter? Bedenk eens, gij, een edelman, en ik, een burgermeisje; gij, zoo dapper, zoo gezien bij den eerwaarden heer Bisschop en alle krijgslieden, en ik…” En gij, zoo bevallig, ofschoon wat dartel,” viel van Schaffelaar haar in de rede, en drukte hare hand aan zijne lippen; whoe men mij noemt om onze liefde, scheelt mij weinig, alleen als ik uw hart verloor, zou ik zinneloos worden, Maria!… doch voor korten tijd slechts; weldra zou ik sterven van verdriet…” wDat nimmer,” zeide zij zacht, en een traan ontrolde haar bekoorlijk oog; windien mijn hart u ontrouw werd, zou het aan mij staan om van berouw en smart te sterven, maar neen, Jan! bij de Heilige Moeder Gods, ik gevoel, dat ik u altijd zal liefhebben.” “Om mij voortdurend gelukkig te maken,” zeide Schaffelaar, haar op het voorhoofd kussende. “Amen!” zeide de smid; wonder uw goedvinden zullen wij God danken voor hetgeen wij genoten hebben.” Hierna sprak hij het dankgebed uit, en de oude Griet verliet nu de tafel, bracht de overgeblevene spijzen weg, en zette daarentegen eenige andere gerechten op de tafel, bestaande hoofdzakelijk uit fijn brood, dat hard gebakken was, boter en een paar soorten van kaas, onderscheidene soorten van koekjes, amandelen, okkernoten, enz. Griet verliet nu het vertrek, dewijl zij geen deel nam aan het nagerecht. Vrouw Martha had op last van haar man een nieuwe kan met wijn gehaald, Maria voor haar en hare moeder ook zilveren bekers gekregen, en de smid deed de deur dicht, toen zijne vrouw gezeten was. mZie zoo!” zeide hij, m nu zijn wij eens geheel onder ons, uitgezonderd de kleine Snip, die zich ook onder de vrienden geplaatst heeft.” Het hondje had zich namelijk op de bank tusschen Van Schaffelaar en zijne vrijster geplaatst, en niet voldaan met het koekje, dat de laatste hem reeds gegeven had, zag hij dan hem, dan haar met bedelende blikken aan, ja verstoutte zich nu en dan zelfs hunne aandacht tot zich te trekken door een zacht gesnap, of het aankrabben met zijn poot. “Wat zit die hond daar aardig, Martha!” vervolgde hij, whebt gij niet eens verteld, Maria! dat de hond het zinnebeeld der getrouwheid is?” De Schaapherder. I. 4

“What I have to convey has so much value that I can not decide without reward,” said Van Schaffelaar laughingly, and he held her with his arm. »A friend to offer a reward for such a small service would be rude, “said Mary, turning her face away. “Well, you pay yourself, Van Schaffelaar!” cried the smith cheerfully; Women always keep, as if they were not there. … “Here his wife prevented him from prosecuting, as she held her hand over his mouth. It is your father, who agrees to this, dearest Mary! “said Van Schaffelaar, paying himself. t mGenoeg! too much! “exclaimed Maria; mfoei, Jan! I had not thought you were so greedy. From now on I will do my own shopping, “she said softly, and pushed aside a little. She turned every attempt to accept a disgruntled face, but she failed to pull her graceful creature into an unfriendly fold. Her mother warned her of reproaching, that the strokes of her sheath were bent, and while she was repairing it with the clean fingers of her white hand, and seeing Van Schaffelaar and her father at one side, the latter said at once: m. But how did Frank do, Lord Jan? did nobody ask about it? Maria! Have you now completely forgotten about the poor young man, and you think of Moor? “” I have not asked him, Father! “said Mary, blushing, trust that he will be well. Why is he, “said Van Schaffelaar, at least it is still going, although it could be better.” Why then did you not bring him? “asked Martha, who had been better than being alone.” “It is so, but that would not have been easy, I also believe that he had something else in mind than to come with me. ” and while she recovered it with the clean fingers of her white hand, and looked at Van Schaffelaar and her father at once, the latter said at once: m. But how does Frank have it, Lord Jan? did nobody ask about it? Maria! Have you now completely forgotten about the poor young man, and you think of Moor? “” I have not asked him, Father! “said Mary, blushing, trust that he will be well. Why is he, “said Van Schaffelaar, at least it is still going, although it could be better.” Why then did you not bring him? “asked Martha, who had been better than being alone.” “It is so, but that would not have been easy, I also believe that he had something else in mind than to come with me. ” and while she recovered it with the clean fingers of her white hand, and looked at Van Schaffelaar and her father at once, the latter said at once: m. But how does Frank have it, Lord Jan? did nobody ask about it? Maria! Have you now completely forgotten about the poor young man, and you think of Moor? “” I have not asked him, Father! “said Mary, blushing, trust that he will be well. Why is he, “said Van Schaffelaar, at least it is still going, although it could be better.” Why then did you not bring him? “asked Martha, who had been better than being alone.” “It is so, but that would not have been easy, I also believe that he had something else in mind than to come with me. ” and at one side to Van Schaffelaar and also to her father, the latter said at once: m. But how does Frank have it, Lord Jan? did nobody ask about it? Maria! Have you now completely forgotten about the poor young man, and you think of Moor? “” I have not asked him, Father! “said Mary, blushing, trust that he will be well. Why is he, “said Van Schaffelaar, at least it is still going, although it could be better.” Why then did you not bring him? “asked Martha, who had been better than being alone.” “It is so, but that would not have been easy, I also believe that he had something else in mind than to come with me. ” and at one side to Van Schaffelaar and also to her father, the latter said at once: m. But how does Frank have it, Lord Jan? did nobody ask about it? Maria! Have you now completely forgotten about the poor young man, and you think of Moor? “” I have not asked him, Father! “said Mary, blushing, trust that he will be well. Why is he, “said Van Schaffelaar, at least it is still going, although it could be better.” Why then did you not bring him? “asked Martha, who had been better than being alone.” “It is so, but that would not have been easy, I also believe that he had something else in mind than to come with me. ” Lord Jan? did nobody ask about it? Maria! Have you now completely forgotten about the poor young man, and you think of Moor? “” I have not asked him, Father! “said Mary, blushing, trust that he will be well. Why is he, “said Van Schaffelaar, at least it is still going, although it could be better.” Why then did you not bring him? “asked Martha, who had been better than being alone.” “It is so, but that would not have been easy, I also believe that he had something else in mind than to come with me. ” Lord Jan? did nobody ask about it? Maria! Have you now completely forgotten about the poor young man, and you think of Moor? “” I have not asked him, Father! “said Mary, blushing, trust that he will be well. Why is he, “said Van Schaffelaar, at least it is still going, although it could be better.” Why then did you not bring him? “asked Martha, who had been better than being alone.” “It is so, but that would not have been easy, I also believe that he had something else in mind than to come with me. ”

»Ha, ha! I already understand, called Wouter, then he is in love, is not he? “WFrank fall in love!” Maria wondered. wJa, and why not, Maria? the master has guessed it, “said Van Schaffelaar cheerfully. “After all, Frank is a handsome boy.” With him, at St. Eloy, he can look after a maid, “said Wouter,” you are sitting next to your suitor, Mary, “then the poor boy, at least a small pleasure. He must comfort himself, as his Amersfoort friends do not even think about him. “Maria was silent, but her mother took the word and said,” Our daughter is right, he could have waited a little, until he could – and wearing, that was not in a hurry, and you could have said better things than to hang on the clock, that we would have more intercourse with Mr Jan than with a boy,m Ho, ho! mother! What are you riding on the broom again? “Wouter shouted, as if the women of lovemaking and getting married heard, they are in her element. Say it now, mother! Ha, ha! are you jealous of the poor boy or his maid? And what does Griet say? “He asked loudly, and turned to this one, who until now had only participated in the conversation. “It must first be known who is in the eye of the young man, before he can judge,” she resumed. m’The old oneGriet has more reason to talk about a party than you, Wouter! “Said his wife. “I just wanted to say the same thing, my dear Martha,” the blacksmith said, “but be so kind as to ask what you want to know, I will be silent.” Saying this, he glanced at Van Schaffelaar with a look. His wife from the side, shrugged his shoulders, poured the cups, took his hand, and ended laughing: “To your health, Mr. Van Schaffelaar!”

“If you had kept quiet, everything was already finished,” said his wife, who once looked at Griet, and shook his head. “Be so good, Lord John! and tell me, if you know how his little girl is called, and what her parents do. “Van Schaffelaar had let the small dispute between the man and the woman go by unnoticed, and gave Mary his hand, in the confidence that she him would reach hers; at last he had persuaded her, by the smoldering look of his dark eye, to satisfy his desire. And yet not satisfied, he wanted her to come right next to him again. She made fruitless attempts to release her little hand, which he carefully held, again; but she seemed at last to submit, as she willingly left her hand and sat down at his side;m Maria! remember how soon I have to leave, “he said softly, but with feeling, after which he continued:” To tell you the truth, my dear wife Martha! I do not know much about it myself, since Frank did not tell me anything about it, although I asked him several times about it; yea, he says that he is not in love, and that all that I have been told is stinking. I then heard that some lady from Utrecht, who lives with her uncle, Mr. Luff Van Weerd Orientals, gave him unequivocal expression of her love, and that Mr Luff has received him very kindly. ” Misshe rich? “asked Martha. wO, tell me if she is young and beautiful, Jan! “said Mary, who had been reassigned to him. “I believe that she is all that,” he replied, “I do not know at least that her uncle is very rich, but also very stingy, I have also heard, and this would make me think that Frank really does not fall in love with her.” is that she is not well with the mind in the long run, and now and then it goes through a little. “Mine beautiful, crazy woman with money is not so bad, if she is not angry,” said Wouter. I hope that Frank will not take her, a boy who does not know his parents is not a good man for such a woman of sight, “said Martha. “Why not?” said Wouter; it may well be that, as Van Schaffelaar says, our poor Frank does not love the damsel, but is interested in her possessions; for a poor rider it is not a matter of small weight, to become just a rich man; that’s what makes the jon gene out of his piece. “” I do not believe, father! that Frank will take a wife out of self-interest, “said Mary; I would see her once, who loves him. She is clean, is not it, Jan? and not proud; I love her very much, because she loves Frank, and wants to bet that she is called senseless, because she loves an abandoned rider; and I, I think, it is a proof of her sincerity and the goodness of her heart. “v Always say so, Mary!” cried Van Schaffelaar, and he closed her in his arms, never will it bore me to you. If I did not already listen to you with all my heart, I would give you my love for eternity in this moment. “Do not you fear, Lord Jan Van Schaffelaar!” she said, laughingly, while she was her with hers. fine fingers smoothed, that one will keep you senseless, because you are the freeman of Maria, Wouter’s daughter? Just think, you, a nobleman, and I, a burgermeister; you, so brave, whoe one calls me for our love, saves me little, only if I lose your heart, I would become senseless, Mary! … but for a short time only; soon I would die of grief … “wDat never,” she said softly, and a tear unraveled her charming eye; If my heart became unfaithful to you, it would be up to me to die of repentance and sorrow, but no, Jan! to the Holy Mother of God, I feel that I will always love you. “” To keep me happy, “said Schaffelaar, kissing her on the forehead.”Amen!” Said the blacksmith, “we will thank your God for what we have enjoyed.” After this he gave the prayer of thanks, and the oldGriet now left the table, removed the remaining food, and put a few other dishes on the table, consisting mainly of fine bread, hard-fried, butter and a few kinds of cheese, different kinds of biscuits, almonds, walnuts, etc. Griet left the room now, because she did not take part in the dessert. Woman Martha had bought a new jug of wine by order of her husband, Mary had received silver cups for her and her mother, and the blacksmith closed the door when his wife was seated. m.See so! “he said, now we are all among us, except for the little Snip, who has also placed himself among the friends.” The little dog was on the couch between Van Schaffelaar and his lover.placed, and not satisfied with the biscuit, which the latter had already given him, he then saw him, then looked at her with begging glances, yes now and then even turned their attention to themselves by a gentle snapping, or scratching with his paw. “What’s that dog there nice, Martha!” He continued, whebt ye not even told Mary! The dog is the symbol of faithfulness? ” The Shepherd. I. 4

Bilder und Geschichten aus dem schwäbischen Leben (Google Books)

Eine alte Jungfer.
In der Vorſtadt des Städtchens, wo ich meine Jugend
verlebt, ſtand ein gar freundliches Häuschen, das aus ſeinen
vier Fenſtern recht hell in die Welt hinaus ſchaute; daneben
ein Garten, nicht eben kunſtvoll angelegt, noch zierlich ge
pflegt, ſondern zum Theil mit Küchengewächſen, zum größern
aber mit luſtigem Gras und mit Obſtbäumen bepflanzt. Dicht
neben dem Häuschen breitete ein ſtattlicher Nußbaum ſeine
dunkelgrünen Zweige aus und warf ſeinen Schatten und zur
Herbſtzeit ſeine Früchte gaſtlich weit in die Straße hinein,
ein beliebter Sammelplatz für die liebe Jugend der ganzen
Vorſtadt. Minder freundlich und einladend erſchien ein Paar
kleiner fetter Möpſe, die ſich abwechſelnd oder gemeinſam auf
der Gartenmauer präſentirten und die obbemeldete Jugend
und die Vorübergehenden beharrlich anbellten, ohne jedoch
die mindeſte Furcht zu erregen, da ihre beſchwerliche Leibes
beſchaffenheit ihnen nicht geſtattet hätte ihre Drohungen aus
Wer nun erwartet an den Fenſtern des Häuschens einen
lockigen Mädchenkopf zu erblicken, wie das in ländlichen No
vellen der Fall zu ſein pflegt, der täuſcht ſich. Nein, ſo oft
6 Eine alte Jungfer.
an der Hausglocke gezogen wurde, und das geſchah ſehr oft,
erſchien am Fenſter das allzeit freundliche, aber ſehr runzelvolle Angeſicht der Jungfer Mine, der unumſchränkten Herrin und
Beſitzerin des Häuschens. Und doch wurde dieſes gealterte
Antlitz von Jung und Alt ſo gern geſehen, wie nur je eine
blühende Mädchenroſe, und ihre Beliebtheit ſtieg noch von
Jahr zu Jahr, was bei jungen Schönheiten gar ſelten der Fall iſt.

An old maid.
In the suburb of the town where I have my youth
lived, there was a friendly little house that made his
four windows looked quite bright out into the world; Besides
a garden, not exactly artfully laid out, still daintily ge
but partly with kitchen plants, for the greater part
but with funny grass and planted with fruit trees. close
next to the little house a stately walnut spread its
dark green branches and cast its shadow and to
Autumn time its fruits hospitable far into the street,
a popular gathering place for the dear youth of the whole
Suburb. Less friendly and welcoming, a couple appeared
small fat boobs that take turns or together
presented the garden wall and the reported youth
and the passersby persistently barked, but without
to arouse the least fear, since her arduous body
their nature would not have allowed their threats
Who now expects one at the windows of the cottage
curly girl’s head to behold like that in rural No
If it is the case, he is wrong. No, so often
6 An old maid.
was pulled on the house bell, and that happened very often,
At the window the ever friendly, but very wrinkled face of the virgin mine, the unrestricted mistress and
Owner of the cottage. And yet this has aged
Face of young and old so gladly seen, as only one ever
flowering rose, and its popularity was still rising
Year to year, which is rarely the case with young beauties.

Die Jungfer Mine war der hülfreiche Genius des
Städtchens. Wie die Glocke begleitete ſie „des Lebens wech
ſelvolles Spiel“, aber nicht herzlos, ſondern mit dem aller
herzlichſten Mitgefühl. Wo Kindtaufe war, da durfte Jung
fer Mine nicht fehlen; geſchäftig und eifrig, aber leiſe, leiſe,
um die Wöchnerin nicht zu ſtören, ſchaffte und waltete ſie
in Küche und Vorzimmer, um alles zu beſorgen, was an
Speiſe und Trank zur Erhöhung der Feſtlichkeit gehörte.
In’s Zimmer ging ſie nicht, auf kein Bitten: „Behüte, laßt
mich gehen, Kinder, ich kann nicht, ich habe zu ſchaffen.“
Sie glich den Erdleutlein, die den Menſchenkindern mit emſi
gen Händen ihre Arbeit verrichten und vor Tag verſchwin
den. Ein Hochzeitmahl war vollends ihr Element; da konnte
man Tage lang zuvor in allen Räumen des Hauſes ihre
etwas ſingende Stimme, ihr geſchäftiges Hin- und Hertrip
Peln hören. Sie war unentbehrlich, denn wer hätte ſolche
Torten gebacken, ſolche Braten gewürzt, wer vor Allem ſolche
Nudeln geſchnitten, wie die Jungfer Mine? Wo der Tod in
einem Hauſe eingekehrt war, da war ſie die erſte, die mit
beſcheidener, aufrichtiger Theilnahme nahte und mit geſchickter
Hand den Leidtragenden die materiellen Mühen und Sorgen
abzunehmen wußte, die betrübten Herzen ſo ſchwer werden.
Alle Kinder lachten ihr ſchon von weitem entgegen,
Eine alte Jungfer. 7
denn allen hatte ſie ſchon eine Freude gemacht. Wie fröhlich
ſtürmte das junge Volk zur Oſterzeit in den Garten der
Jungfer Mine, wo eine lange Reihe von Neſtchen bereit
ſtand, mit bunten Eiern und Backwerk gefüllt, eine zahl
reichere Oſtergabe als die kinderreichſte Mutter zu ſpenden
hatte! Und wie manchen Biſſen hatte ſich die gute Seele am
Munde abgeſpart, bis ſie um Weihnachten die Hanne, ihre
treue Dienerin, von Haus zu Haus ſenden konnte, wo be
freundete Kinder waren, um Allen eine kleine Weihnachts
freude zu ſpenden!

The maiden mine was the helpful genius of the
Town. Like the bell she accompanied “of life
Delightful play “, but not heartless, but with all
heartfelt sympathy. Where baby baptism was, Jung was allowed
Do not miss the mine; busy and eager, but quiet, quiet,
not to disturb the woman, she managed and defended her
in the kitchen and anteroom, to get everything, what to
Food and drink belonged to the increase of the festivity.
She did not go into the room, at no request, “Be careful, let it go
I can go, children, I can not, I have to do. ”
It resembled the earthly little one, the emsi with the human children
their hands and do their work before daylight
the. A wedding meal was completely her element; there could
you days in all rooms of the house for days before
a little singing voice, her busy back and forth trip
Hear ping. It was indispensable, because who would have such
Pies baked, such roasts spiced, who, above all, such
Pasta cut, like the spinster mine? Where death is in
When she had come to a house, she was the first to come with her
modest, sincere sympathy approached and with skillful
Hand the mourners the material troubles and worries
knew how to make sad hearts so sad.
All the children laughed at her from afar,
An old maid. 7
because she had already made everyone happy. How happy
stormed the young people at Easter time in the garden of
Virgin Mine, where a long line of nesting ready
stood, filled with colorful eggs and pastry, a number
to donate richer Easter gifts than the mother with the highest number of children
would have! And how many bites the good soul had on
Munde saved, until at Christmas the Hanne, her
loyal servant, could send from house to house, where be
Children were friends to give Allen a little Christmas
to donate joy!

Eine Geſchichte hat ſie nicht gehabt, die Jungfer Mine.
So mittheilend und geſprächig ſie war, ſo hat doch nie eine
Seele etwas von ihr gehört über die Zeit, wo ihr Herz
jung war; Niemand weiß, ob ſie auch einmal geliebt, gehofft
und geträumt, ob ſie eben als ein vergeſſenes Blümchen ſtehen
geblieben, oder ob Schuld eines Ungetreuen ſie betrogen um
des Weibes ſchönſtes Lebensziel. Ihr einfacher Lebensgang
lag offen vor aller Augen; ihr Vater war Bürgermeiſter des
Städtchens geweſen, in dem ſie ihre Tage verlebte, und ſie
hatte eine harmloſe fröhliche Jugendzeit unter günſtigen Ver
hältniſſen verbracht. Ein Paar alte Herrn der Gegend, die
ſie noch fleißig heimſuchten, verſicherten, daß ſie ein recht
hübſches Mädchen und eine flinke Tänzerin geweſen ſei,
welche Bemerkung ſie immer recht günſtig, wenn auch mit
niedergeſchlagenen Augen und vielen Verwahrungen auf
nahm. Zur Zeit, wo ich ſie kannte, zeigte ihr Aeußeres
nun eben keine Spuren ehemaliger Reize mehr, aber auf das
eingefallene Geſicht mit den freundlichen Aeuglein hatte die
Herzensgüte ihre unſichtbaren, aber fühlbaren Züge geſchrie
ben, ſo daß man doch gern hineinſehen mußte. Ihre ſchmale
ſchmiegſame Geſtalt war in beſtändiger Bewegung, da ſie
8 Eine alte Jungfer.
ſtets im Begriff war, irgendwo anzugreifen und beizuſpringen.
Auf ihren Putz konnte ſie vollends ganz und gar nichts
verwenden, dazu war ſie immer viel zu ſehr beſchäftigt, und
wenn ihre Freundinnen ſie mit einem modernen Putzartikel
verſahen, ſo hatte er gar bald ſeine faſhionable Form ver
loren; zumal die Hauben, mit denen ſie ihr ſpärliches graues
Haar bedeckte, ſaßen immer ſchief, da ſie im Geſchäftseifer
ſich hinter den Ohren zu kratzen pflegte.
Ihre Eltern verlor ſie ziemlich frühe, auch die einzige
Schweſter, die im Orte verheirathet war. Die Hand des
Wittwers derſelben wies ſie entſchieden zurück. Das Erbe
der Eltern war klein; ein Hauptbeſtandtheil deſſelben war
ein gelähmter, gichtkranker Bruder. Doch gelang es ihr mit
großen ſonſtigen Opfern und Einſchränkungen, das höchſte
Ziel ihrer Wünſche, ein eigenes kleines Häuschen nebſt Gar
ten zu erringen. Das bezog ſie mit ihrem Bruder, mit der
Hanne und den zwei Möpſen und pflegte den Bruder lange
Jahre mit klageloſer Geduld, mit unermüdeter Liebe, mit
unerſchütterter Freundlichkeit, bis zu ſeinem Tod.
Die Jungfer Mine ſah man allezeit zufrieden und wohl
gemuth. Wie groß auch oft ihr Mangel, ihre Entbehrungen
ſein mochten, Niemand hörte ſie klagen, ſie hatte immer einen
Grund zu beſonderer Dankbarkeit. Sie hatte auch genug zu
thun, bis ſie ſich freute mit allen Fröhlichen und weinte mit
allen Traurigen; wie hätte ſie noch Zeit gefunden, an ſich
zu denken? Sie war immer in Eile, ſtets raſtlos thätig für
Andere, und es kann ſich Niemand denken, ſie in Ruhe ge
ſehen zu haben.

She did not have a story, the Maiden Mine.
As communicative and talkative as she was, there never was one
Soul heard something about her over time, where her heart
was young; Nobody knows if she once loved, hoped
and dreamed, if they just stand as a forgotten flower
remained, or whether guilty of an unfaithful cheated on her
the woman’s most beautiful life goal. Your simple life course
lay open before all eyes; her father was mayor of
Town where she spent her days, and she
had a harmless happy youth under cheap ver
spent. A couple of old gentlemen of the area who
they were still plundering, assuring them they were right
she was a pretty girl and a nimble dancer
which remark she always quite cheap, albeit with
dejected eyes and many custodies
took. At the time when I knew her, she showed something external
but now no traces of former stimuli, but on the
sunken face with the friendly little eyes had the
Goodness of heart screamed their invisible but palpable features
ben, so that one would have to look inside. Your narrow one
pliable figure was in constant motion as she
8 An old maid.
was always about to attack and jump in somewhere.
On her plaster, she could do absolutely nothing at all
she was always too busy, and
when her girlfriends provide her with a modern cleaning article
he soon had his fashionable form
lost; especially the hoods with which they give their sparse gray
Hair covered, always sat crooked, being in business zeal
used to scratching behind the ears.
Her parents lost her pretty early, even the only one
Sister who was married in places. The hand of
Wittwers of the same decidedly rejected her. The Heritage
the parents were small; was a main component of the same
a paralyzed, gouty brother. But she succeeded
great other sacrifices and restrictions, the highest
Aim of her wishes, her own little house together with Gar
to win. That’s what she got with her brother, with the
Hanne and the two pugs and took care of the brother for a long time
Years of unabashed patience, with untiring love, with
unshaken friendliness, until his death.
The Virgin Mine was always satisfied and comfortable
gemuth. How great is her shortage, her privations
No one heard her complain, she always had one
Reason for special gratitude. She had enough too
until she rejoiced with all the happy and wept with
all the sad ones; how would she have found time, in herself
to think? She was always in a hurry, always restlessly active for
Others, and no one can think of leaving them alone
to have seen.

Die Hanne war gerade durch ihre Verſchiedenheit die
unentbehrliche Gehilfin der Jungfer Mine. So beſcheiden,
ſchüchtern und rückſichtsvoll dieſe, ſo raſch, keck und entſchloſſen
Eine alte Jungfer. 9
war die Hanne im Verkehr mit den Leuten. Sie vertheidigte
mit Löwenmuth den Garten ihrer Jungfer gegen diebiſche
Gaſſenjungen, ihren Brunnen gegen ſchmutzige Viehtreiber,
ihre ſchmalen Einkünfte gegen ſäumige Zinszahler. Sie
hing ihr mit unerſchütterlicher Treue an und hätte ſich eher
zerreißen, als ihrer Jungfer ein Härchen krümmen laſſen.
Als ganz junges Mädchen von ihr aufgenommen, diente ſie
ihr ganz ohne Lohn, ſie wußte aus dem kleinen Garten einen
faſt fabelhaften Gewinn zu ziehen und verwandte den Ueber
ſchuß ihrer rüſtigen Kräfte zum Waſchen und andern Arbeiten
um Taglohn. Den Lohn lieferte ſie pflichtmäßig ihrer Jung
fer ab, dieſe beſtritt dagegen ihre einfachen Bedürfniſſe.
Jungfer Mine war eine ganz beſondere Gönnerin der
Jugend, vom wilden Knaben bis zum Studenten, vom ſpie
lenden Kinde bis zum aufgeblühten Mädchen. Deßhalb war
ihr Häuschen auch gar oft der Sammelplatz der fröhlichen
Jugend, und die Verſchiedenheit ihrer Beſucher gab oft zu
komiſchen Scenen Anlaß. – Einmal wußte man, wie man
in kleinen Städten Alles weiß, daß Jungfer Mine den Be ſuch von zwei Damen des Orts erwartete, die ſich durch
ſtrenge Frömmigkeit und entſchiedene Weltverachtung auszeich
neten; ſogleich ward ſämmtliche anweſende männliche Jugend
aufgeboten: Schreiber, Commis, Apothekergehülfen, ein langer
Zug leichtfertig ausſehender Leute begab ſich vor das Haus
der Jungfer Mine und ſchellte gewaltig, um ſich zum Kaffee
anzuſagen. Den Schluß des Zugs bildete das Malerle, ein
zwerghaftes Männlein, das eine Zeit lang im Städtchen graſ
ſirte und die ganze Gegend abkonterfeite. Was für ein Schreck
befiel die gute Jungfer, als ſie die Freiſchaar da unten er
blickte und an ihr Zuſammentreffen mit den geſtrengen Da men dachte! Trotz aller Gaſtlichkeit öffnete ſie das Haus
10 Eine alte Jungfer.
nicht, ſondern kapitulirte zum Fenſter heraus, bis auf das
Verſprechen eines guten Kaffees unter dem Nußbaum für
den nächſten Tag der Haufen lachend abzog.
Ein andermal ſaß ein Trupp luſtiger Studenten, die
ihre Ferienzeit verjubelten, an einem Sonntag am runden
Tiſch in ihrem behaglichen Stübchen und hatte ſo eben trotz
der beſcheidenen Einreden der Jungfer Mine ein Kartenſpiel
arrangirt, als es am Haus läutete. Siehe da, es war der
Herr Diaconus, ein beſonders hochverehrter Freund der
Jungfer Mine. Nun war er zwar ein ſehr freundlicher,
toleranter Mann, aber der Tiſch voll rauchender Studenten,
das Kartenſpiel am Sonntag – das war denn doch zu arg!
„O ihr lieben Herren! ich kann euch nicht mehr brau
chen, – der Herr Helfer! – Geht doch in den Garten! –
Hanne, führ ſie hinten hinaus!“ rief ſie, in großem Eifer
hin und her rennend. Lachend zog die junge Schaar ab
in’s Nebenzimmer, die fatalen Karten aber ſchob ſie eilig
unter den Tiſchteppich und empfing nun den Herrn Diaco
nus. Aber, o weh! während des Geſprächs zupfte dieſer
unwillkührlich an dem Teppich und die Karten fielen ihm
in Maſſe auf den Schooß. Daneben ſtreckte das junge
Volk die Köpfe durch die Wandöffnung über dem Ofen
und brachte durch komiſches Geſichterſchneiden die ehrbare
Jungfrau dermaßen außer Faſſung, daß es am Ende das Beſte war, die Frevler zu verrathen, worauf die Scene mit
allgemeinem Lachen ſchloß.

The Hanne was just because of their diversity the
indispensable helper of the maiden mine. So modest,
shy and considerate of them, so swift, bold and determined
An old maid. 9
Hanne was in communication with the people. She defended
with Löwenmuth the garden of her spinster against thieving
Alley boys, their wells against dirty drovers,
their narrow income against defaulting interest payers. you
She clung to her with unflinching fidelity and would rather have
tearing up as her maiden curls a hair.
As a very young girl absorbed by her, she served
her without wages, she knew one from the little garden
to draw almost fabulous profit and related the Ueber
shot of their vigorous powers for washing and other works
for daily wages. The wage she dutifully gave her young
on the other hand, they denied their simple needs.
Jungfer Mine was a very special patron of the
Youth, from the wild boy to the student, from the spie
Lolling children until the bloated girl. That was half
her little house also often the gathering place of the happy ones
Youth, and the diversity of their visitors was often
strange occasion. – Once you knew how to
Little Towns All know that Maiden Mine was expecting the visit of two ladies of the place, passing through
auspicious piety and determined world contempt
Neten; At once all the male youth were present
Schreiber, Commis, Apothekergehülfen, a long
Train of frivolous-looking people went to the house
the maiden mine and rang violently to go to the coffee
to say. The end of the train was the Malerle
Dwarf male, who is in the town for a while
sirte and the whole area abkonterfeite. What a shock
the good maid came upon her as she released the free-hair down there
looked and thought of their meeting with the strictest men! Despite all the hospitality, she opened the house
10 An old maid.
not, but capitulated to the window, except for the
Promise of a good coffee under the walnut tree for
the next day the bunch laughingly pulled off.
Another time a group of funny students sat
celebrated their holiday season on a Sunday at the round
Table in her comfortable little room and had so in spite of
the modest plea of ​​maiden mine a card game
arranged when the house rang. Behold, it was that
Mr. Diaconus, a particularly revered friend of
Maiden Mine. Now he was a very friendly,
tolerant man, but the table full of smoking students,
the card game on Sunday – that was too bad!
“Oh dear sirs! I can not brew you anymore
chen, – the helper! – Go to the garden! –
Hanne, take her out the back! “She exclaimed, in great zeal
running back and forth. Laughing, the young Schaar left
in the next room, but the fatal cards pushed them in a hurry
under the table carpet and received now the Mr. Diaco
nus. But, alas! during the conversation this plucked
involuntarily by the carpet and the cards fell to him
in bulk on the lap. Nearby, the boy reached out
People heads through the wall opening above the stove
and brought by honorable faces cutting the respectable
The maiden was so out of sorts that in the end it was best to betray the wrongdoers, whereupon the scene interfered
general laugh closed.

Sie wurde von der Jugend auch jederzeit in Ehren ge
halten. Zur Zeit der Herbſtferien wurde alljährlich ein ſo
genannter „allgemeiner Herbſt“ gehalten, von dem man ſin
gend und ſchießend im Fackelzug heimkehrte. Jungfer Mine nahm nie Antheil an ſo großartigen und geräuſchvollen Feſten,
Eine alte Jungfer. 11
wo man ihrer Hilfe ja doch nicht bedurfte. Vor ihrem Häus
chen aber hielt jedesmal der fröhliche Zug bei der Heimkehr
und brachte ihr ein Ständchen, ohne beſondere Auswahl der
Muſikſtücke; Jungfer Mine ſtand dann freundlich am Fenſter
und dankte mit züchtigem Verneigen. Ich erinnere mich wohl,
wie die Studenten ihr einmal jubelnd zuſangen:
Ach wie bald, ach wie bald,
Schwindet Schönheit und Geſtalt c.,
und wie ſie dann lächelnd mit dem Finger drohte: „ei ihr
Schelmenherrn!“ Niemand hat beſſer einen Spaß verſtanden
als die Jungfer Mine, ſogar über ihr Alter, und das will
viel ſagen bei einem ledigen Frauenzimmer.
Ihre allerhöchſte Freude war aber, wenn ſie einem lie
benden Pärchen irgendwie Vorſchub thun konnte, ihr ganzes
Herz lachte, wenn ſie junge Herzen gegen einander aufgehen
ſah, und manch glückliche Verbindung iſt durch ihre ſo an
ſpruchlos geleiſtete Beihülfe zu Stande gekommen. Wie er
finderiſch war ſie in Wendungen, mit denen ſie liebende Her
zen durch das Lob des Geliebten zu erfreuen wußte, wie
unermüdet, Liebende bei ungünſtigen Ausſichten zur Treue
und Ausdauer zu ermahnen! „Lieb’s Kind, ich koch’ Ihnen
einmal das Hochzeiteſſen!“ war ſtets der Dank, mit dem ſie
jungen Mädchen kleine Aufmerkſamkeiten und Freundlichkeiten
vergütete. – In einer Schublade, in der viele Briefpäckchen
aus ihren vergangenen Tagen pünctlich geordnet aufbewahrt
lagen, vielleicht auch ein eigenes Herzensgeheimniß der guten
Jungfer darunter, bewahrte ſie mit beſonderer Sorgfalt ein
Paket Briefe mit ſchwarzen Bändern umbunden. Es war
die Korreſpondenz eines jungen Paares, das auch einſt unter
ihrem Schutze ſich geliebt hatte und durch Elternhärte ge trennt worden war, und deſſen Andenken ſie mit beſonderer
12 Eine alte Jungfer.
Wehmuth erfüllte. Nie aber hätte eine unerlaubte Liebe auch
nur im Entfernteſten auf ihren Schutz rechnen dürfen. Be
hüte, die Junger Mine war eine loyale Perſon, Gott und
der Obrigkeit unterthan, und ſprach trotz aller Sanftmuth
eine ſehr entſchiedene Entrüſtung aus gegen Alles, was gegen
göttliche Ordnung und die heilige Sitte verſtieß.

She was also honored by the youth at all times
hold. At the time of the autumn holidays, a yearly
called “general autumn” from which one sin
and returned home in the torchlight procession. Maiden Mine never took part in such great and noisy festivals,
An old maid. 11
where you did not need your help after all. In front of her house
But every time the joyful procession came home
and brought her a serenade, without special selection of
Music; Maid Mine then stood by the window friendly
and thanked with chaste bowing. I remember well
how the students once cheered her:
Oh how soon, oh how soon,
Dwindles beauty and figure c.,
and then, with a smile, threatening with her finger: “Hey you
Rogue Lord! “Nobody understood a joke better
as the maiden mine, even over her age, and that wants
say a lot in a single woman.
Her greatest joy, however, was when she loved one
the couple could somehow move forward, their whole
Herz laughed when they raised young hearts against each other
saw, and many a happy connection is so through her
without compensation. Like him
She was in phrases with which she loved her
knew how to enjoy the praise of the beloved
tireless, lovers with unfavorable prospects to loyalty
and to warn perseverance! “Darling, I cook you
once the wedding dinner! “was always the thanks, with which she
young girls little attentions and kindnesses
tempered. – In a drawer, in which many letter packages
kept neatly organized from their past days
lay, perhaps also a private secret of the good ones
Virgin among them, she preserved with special care
Bundle letters with black ribbons. It was
the correspondence of a young couple, once also under
She had loved her protector and had been separated by parental hardship, and whose memory she had with special kindness
12 An old maid.
Melancholy filled. But never would an unauthorized love have
can only remotely count on their protection. Be
Hats, the Young Mine was a loyal person, God and
subject to the authority, and spoke in spite of all gentleness
a very determined indignation against everything against
divine order and the sacred custom transgressed.

„Laß mich mit Jedermann in Fried und Freundſchaft
leben!“ war ihr tägliches Gebet zu Gott, und der liebe
Gott hat es gehört, indem er ihr ein fromm und freundlich
Gemüth gab, das Allen diente und es mit Keinem verderben
konnte. Durch alle Spaltungen, die in kleinen Städten am
tiefſten eingreifen, durch alle Zänkereien und öffentliche und
Privatſtreitigkeiten ging ſie unberührt und unangefochten, und
wußte mit den Häuptern kriegführender Mächte Freundſchaft
zu bewahren, ohne Achſelträgerei und Zweizüngigkeit. Sie
that Allen zu lieb was ſie vermochte, redete keinem Anweſen
den zu Gefallen, keinem Abweſenden zu Leid, und meinte es
mit Jedem ſo von Herzen wohl, daß ihr Jeder gut bleiben
mußte, und ſo war es ihr vergönnt, mitten in vielem Un
frieden ihre Tage in Frieden zu verleben und zu beſchließen.
Ihr Beſitzthum war beinahe Gemeingut; das Gras in
ihrem Garten war immer zertreten, weil es den Kindern als
Spielplatz diente, ihre Obſtbäume kamen nicht zum Gedeihen,
weil die ganze Stadt Waſchſeile daran zog, um den ſonnigen
Platz zum Trocknen zu benützen. Die Hanne eiferte oft ge
waltig gegen dieſe Duldſamkeit, und die gute Jungfer hatte
alle ihre Beredſamkeit aufzuwenden, um ſie wieder zu be
Auch der Unterſchied der Stände, der in kleinen Städten
ſo ſcharf abgegrenzt iſt, war für die Jungfer Mine aufge
hoben. Obgleich ſie ihrem beſcheidenen Anzug wie ihrer
Eine alte Jungfer. 13
Herkunft nach zum Honoratiorenſtande gehörte, war ſie doch
daheim und befreundet in allen ehrbaren Bürgerhäuſern, wo
man ihres Beiſtandes bedurfte, und ihre „Weiblein,“ wie ſie
ihre Freundinnen aus dem Bürgerſtande nannte, wurden jeder
zeit mit derſelben Rückſicht und Freundlichkeit aufgenommen
wie die erſten Frauen der Stadt. Ihr beſonders guter
Freund war der Nachbar David, ein alter Hufſchmied. Er
beſorgte ihre Holzeinkäufe und nahm ſich ihrer überall treulich
an, wo ihre Güte und ihre Schutzloſigkeit mißbraucht werden
konnte. Er war ihr Wetterprophet, deſſen Meinung immer
entſchied, wenn es zweifelhaft war, ob die Wäſche ins Freie
gehängt werden könne. Sobald ein Ungewitter am Himmel
aufſtieg, warf der ehrliche Meiſter ſein Schurzfell ab und be
gab ſich zur Jungfer Mine, die große Furcht vor Gewittern
hatte; ſie bewirthete ihn dann mit einem Kelche ſelbſtfabri
zirten Liqueurs, und ſie tröſteten einander mit Geſprächen
über die Zeitläufte und mit Vorleſungen aus Arndts wah
rem Chriſtenthum und aus dem Schatzkäſtlein, bis das Ge
witter vorüber war.

“Leave me with everyone in peace and friendship
live! “was her daily prayer to God, and to love
God has heard it by giving her a pious and friendly
Mighty gave, which served Allen and spoiled it with none
could. Through all the divisions that occur in small towns on the
deepest intervention, by all the bickering and public and
Private disputes she went untouched and unchallenged, and
knew friendship with the heads of belligerent powers
to preserve, without armpit support and ambiguity. you
That all too dear to what she could talk to no estate
to please, no grief to any absent, and meant it
with everyone so well that everyone will stay well
had to, and it was granted to her in the midst of much Un
peace to spend their days in peace and to decide.
Their possessions were almost common property; the grass in
her garden was always crushed, because it was as the children
Playground served, their fruit trees did not thrive,
because the whole city was pulling washing ropes on it, around the sunny one
Space to use for drying. The Hanne often jubilated
violently against this tolerance, and the good maid had
to use all her eloquence to reassure her
Also the difference of the stalls, in small towns
so sharply demarcated, mine was raised for the maiden
lifted. Although she likes her modest suit like hers
An old maid. 13
Origin after belonging to the dignitaries, she was
at home and befriended in all respectable town houses, where
one needed her assistance, and her “wife,” like her
their civilian friends called everyone
taken up with the same respect and kindness
like the first women in the city. Yours very good
Friend was the neighbor David, an old farrier. He
got her wood purchases and took her everywhere faithfully
where their goodness and their vulnerability are abused
could. He was her weather prophet, his opinion always
decided, if it was doubtful, whether the laundry to the outside
could be hanged. Once a thunderstorm in the sky
ascended, the honest master threw off his plush fur and be
gave herself to the maiden mine, the great fear of thunderstorms
would have; she then entertained him with a chalice selbstfabri
chirping liqueurs, and they consoled each other with conversation
about the times and with lectures from Arndts wah
rem Christianity and from the treasure chest until the Ge
weather was over.

Das ehrwürdige Paar Möpſe ſpielte keine kleine Rolle
im Hauſe, und ein guter Theil der Sorgfalt der Jungfer
Mine war ihnen zugewendet. Die Katze und der Kanarienvogel
waren nur untergeordnete Subjecte. Die Katze hatte zwar ein
Kiſſen unter dem Ofen, die beiden Möpſe aber, Mopper und
Weible genannt, nahmen ihre eigenen gepolſterten Stühle da
neben ein, wenn ſie es nicht vorzogen, bei gutem Wetter im
Garten zu promeniren und die Leute zu inſultiren. „Es muß
das Herz an etwas hangen,“ ſagte ſie zur Entſchuldigung ihrer
Vorliebe für die garſtigen Thiere. Der Tod der Möpſe betrübte
ſie tief, doch nahm ſie mit gutem Humor den Beileidsbeſuch auf,
den ihr einige Freundinnen in tiefer Trauerkleidung abſtatteten.
14 Eine alte Jungfer.
Mit Lectüre hat ſich die Jungfer Mine nie viel befaßt,
weder mit ſentimentaler noch mit gelehrter. Ein geſcheidtes
Wort konnte man aber doch mit ihr reden, und Niemand
hat je Langeweile bei ihr gehabt. Deßhalb waren auch ihre
Kaffeeviſiten, der einzige Lurus, den ſich die Jungfer erlaubte,
ſehr gern beſucht, nicht nur weil ſie den beſten Kaffee und
die gelungenſten Kuchen produzirte, ſondern weil in dem klei
nen Stübchen mit den geflickten Gardinen und dem verbliche
nen Sopha ein guter Geiſt wehte, der das Geſpräch leben
dig machte und die Herzen fröhlich. In’s Raiſonniren
ſtimmte ſie nie mit ein; es war ihr unmöglich von einem
Menſchen Böſes zu ſagen.
Auch für das mütterliche Gefühl, das in jedem weib
lichen Buſen ſchlummert, ſollte es nicht an einem Gegenſtand
für ſie fehlen, obgleich es ein altes Kind war, das man ihrer
treuen Fürſorge übergab. Ein ehemaliger Kaufmann aus
guter Familie, dem in ſeinen jungen Jahren die ſüdamerika
niſche Sonne das Gehirn ausgebrannt, lebte als harmloſer
Narr in der kleinen Stadt. Er war der zufriedenſte Menſch,
den man ſehen konnte, ſtets vergnügt, ſtets aufgeräumt und,
obſchon bei Jahren, hüpfte und ſprang er mehr als er ging.
Der Friz nun wurde in die freundliche Obhut der Jungfer
Mine befohlen. Sie quartirte ihn in das Stübchen, das
ſeither ihre Heiligthümer verwahrt hatte: den „Papa“ und
die „Mama“ (lebensgroße Kinderbilder in hölzernen Röck
lein, an denen ein Hündlein hinaufſprang, und eine ſpaniſche
Wand, darauf die ſieben Bitten des Vaterunſers bildlich dar geſtellt waren), und ſie behütete und pflegte ihn mit mütter
licher Sorgfalt. In dem netten Haus und dem freundlichen
Garten war der Friz ganz in ſeinem Element, er ſchenkte
ſein Herz abwechslungsweiſe bald der Jungfer, die er aber
Eine alte Jungfer. 15
daneben ſehr reſpektirte, bald der Hanne, der es zum erſten
mal in ihrem Leben paſſirte, daß Jemand ihre Reize bewun
derte. „Hübſch, Hannah, hübſch!“ rief er ihr ermunternd
zu, ſo oft er ſie erblickte, ſetzte auch von Zeit zu Zeit den
Hochzeitstag feſt, ohne ſich zu grämen, wenn der Termin im
mer wieder hinausgeſchoben wurde. Ein verwandter Beam
ter war ſo freundlich den Friz in ſeiner Kanzlei zu beſchäf
tigen, obgleich ſeine ſchriftlichen Arbeiten unbrauchbar waren,
da allezeit ſeine krauſen Ideen ſich darein miſchten. Aber er
fühlte ſich dadurch ſo beſchäftigt, ſo wichtig! er eilte mit
einer ſo glücklichen Amtsmiene auf ſein Bureau, während
Jungfer Mine und die Hanne daheim ſein Stübchen ordneten
und ſein Mahl bereiteten. Nur Ein Leiden hatte der arme
Friz, das zugleich eine Plage für die Jungfer war: die
Heren, von denen er nach ſeiner Meinung jede Nacht heim
geſucht wurde. Er ſchnitt ſich Stöcke und Stöckchen von
jeder Größe, um die Heren damit durchzuklopfen, und das
gab oft einen wahren Herentanz in ſeiner Stube, bis ihn
die ſanftmüthige Stimme der Jungfer Mine aus der andern
Stube her wieder beruhigte.

The venerable couple of pugs played no small role
in the house, and a good part of the care of the maid
Mine was turned to them. The cat and the canary
were only subordinate subjects. The cat did have one
Pillows under the stove, the two pugs, however, and mopper
Called Weibel, took their own upholstered chairs there
next to, if they did not prefer, in good weather
To promenade garden and to insult people. “It must
your heart hanging on something, “she said in apology to her
Preference for the nasty animals. The death of the pugs saddened
she deep, but she accepted the condolence letter with good humor,
whom her some friends in deep mourning clothes paid off.
14 An old maid.
With lecture, the Maiden Mine has never been much concerned
neither sentimental nor learned. A clever one
But one could talk to her, and nobody
has ever bored with her. Deßhalb were her too
Coffee Visits, the only Lurus the maid allowed,
very popular, not only because they have the best coffee and
the most successful cake produced, but because in the klei
A little room with the patched curtains and the faded
Sopha blew a good spirit to live the conversation
dig made and hearts happy. In the Raisonniren
she never agreed; it was impossible for her
People to say evil.
Also for the maternal feeling, that in every woman
dormant breasts, it should not be an object
they are missing, although it was an old child, that of theirs
devoted faithful care. A former merchant out
Good family, who in his younger years South America
Sun burned out the brain, lived as a harmless
Fool in the small town. He was the happiest person,
you could see, always cheerful, always tidy and,
though for years, he hopped and jumped more than he left.
The Friz now was in the friendly care of the maid
Mine commanded. She quartered him in the little room, the
since then kept her sanctities: the “daddy” and
the “Mama” (life-sized pictures of children in wooden skirts
where a little dog jumped up, and a Spanish one
Wall, whereupon the seven petitions of the Our Father were figuratively depicted), and she protected and nursed him with mothers
due care. In the nice house and the friendly
Garten was the Friz in his element, he gave
his heart alternately soon the maiden, but he
An old maid. 15
next very respected, soon the Hanne, the first
Sometime in her life somebody passed her charms
-made. “Pretty, Hannah, pretty!” He called encouragingly
to as often as he saw her, also set the time from time to time
Anniversary fest without grieving when the appointment is in
was postponed again. A related beam
He was kind enough to look after Friz in his office
although his written work was unusable,
because his curly ideas were always mixed in it. But he
felt so busy, so important! he hurried along
such a happy official appearance on his bureau, while
Jungfer Mine and the Hanne at home arranged his little room
and prepared his meal. Only one suffering had the poor
Friz, which was also a plague for the maid: the
Heren, of whom he thinks home every night
was searched. He cut sticks and sticks from
of any size, to knock the herd with it, and that
often gave a true dance in his room until him
the meek voice of the virgin mine from the other
Stube calmed down again.

Da der Friz bei der Küche der Jungfer Mine ſo wohl
gedieh, ſo meldeten ſich auch vernünftige Subjeete, anſtändige
junge Männer vom Schreibereifach um Koſt und Wohnung
bei ihr; der Holzſtall wurde noch zu einem Stübchen einge
richtet und der Pflichten- und Geſchäftskreis der Jungfer hatte
ſich bedeutend erweitert. Wie nöthig hatte ſie nun, um von
ihren ſonſtigen Expeditionen rechtzeitig heimzukommen! ſogar
„Offertenmacher,“ wie ſie die commis voyageur nannte,
wurden nun hie und da als Kaffeegäſte zu ihr gebracht,
und noch ſehe ich ſie, wie ſie einſt in höchſter Eil über die
Straße rannte und allen Bekannten, die ſie zum Spaß auf
16 Eine alte Jungfer.
zuhalten ſuchten, zurief: „Kann nicht, muß heim, hab’ vier
Herren und eine Gans!“
Alles geht hin.ieden dem Ende zu, und der guten Jung
fer Mine, die in Ehren und bei guten Kräften ein ſchönes
Alter erreicht hatte, wollte der liebe Gott die Leiden eines
langen Lagers und die Beſchwerden des hülfloſen Alters
erſparen. Sie erkrankte bei der treuen Pflege ihrer Diene
rin, die ein Fieber befallen hatte; ſie mußte ſich legen, um
nicht wieder aufzuſtehen. Verlaſſen war ſie nicht in ihren
letzten Tagen: ſie, die ſo Vielen gedient, wurde von freund lichen Händen treulich gepflegt, und ſie entſchlief in ihrem Gott mit frohem und dankbarem Herzen, von Vielen auf
richtig betrauert, wenn auch die Trauer nicht von langer
Dauer war.
– Nach ihrem Tode fand ſich, daß ihr Vermögen außer
dem Häuschen ſo gering war, daß Niemand begreifen konnte,
wie es ihr möglich geweſen, davon zu leben. Und doch war
ſie ſo reich geweſen an Freuden für Andere. Die Hanne
blieb zum Lohn ihrer langen treuen Dienſte als alleinige
Erbin des Häuschens und Gartens zurück; für ein armes
Mädchen ihres Standes ein beneidenswerther Beſitz! Aber
ſie hat ſich deſſelben nicht mehr lange gefreut, obgleich ſie
von der Krankheit, in der ſie noch die letzte Pflege ihrer
Herrin genoſſen hatte, wieder geneſen war. Man hörte
ihre laute, ſcharfe Stimme nicht mehr, mit der ſie ſonſt ſo
eifrig die Rechte ihrer Jungfer verfochten hatte, ſtill und
bleich ſchlich ſie umher, es ſchien ihr Lebensnerv gebrochen,
und nach einem halben Jahr folgte ſie ihrer Herrin nach
zur letzten Ruheſtatt.
Wenige der alten Freunde von Jungfer Mine leben nun
noch in dem Städtchen, und ſo iſt auch ihr Grab verlaſſen
Eine alte Jungfer. 17
und vergeſſen; von den ſchönen Levkoyen und Reſeden, die
wir aus ihrem Garten dorthin verpflanzt hatten, iſt nichts
mehr zu ſehen, aber ein Fruchtbäumlein hat darauf Wurzel
gefaßt und beſchattet es mit ſeinen grünen Zweigen. –
Leicht ſey ihr die Erde, der guten Jungfer Mine, und ſanft
ihre Ruhe, ihr, die ſich hienieden keine Ruhe gegönnt hat!

Since the Friz at the kitchen of the maiden Mine so well
prospered, so also informed subjeete, decent
young men from the writing room for food and apartment
with her; the wooden stable was turned into a little room
and the duties and business of the maid had
significantly expanded. How necessary was she to get away from
to come home in time to her other expeditions! even
“Offerer,” as she called the commis voyageur,
were now and then brought to her as coffee guests,
and I still see them, as they once in the highest speed on the
Street ran and all the acquaintances that they up for fun
16 An old maid.
“Can not, must go home, have four
Gentlemen and a goose! ”
Everything is coming to an end, and the good boy
fer mine, in honor and good forces a beautiful
Age had reached, the dear God wanted the suffering one
long camp and the discomfort of helpless old age
spare. She fell ill with the faithful care of her servants
who had a fever; she had to lie down, um
not to get up again. She was not in her leave
Last days: she who served so many was faithfully nursed by kind hands, and she was in her God with glad and grateful heart, of many on
properly mourned, though the grief does not last long
Duration was.
After her death it was found that her fortune was beyond
The house was so small that no one could understand
how she had been able to live on it. And yet it was
she was so rich in pleasures to others. The Hanne
remained the sole reward for their long faithful services
Heiress of the cottage and garden back; for a poor one
Girls of her estate an enviable property! But
she did not enjoy it much longer, though she did
from the disease in which she still takes the last care of her
Mistress had recovered, had recovered. You heard
her loud, sharp voice no longer, with the usual way
eagerly championed the rights of her maiden, silent and
pale, she crept around, her vital nerve seemed broken,
and after half a year she followed her mistress
to the last resting place.
Few of the old friends of Jungfer Mine live now
still in the town, and so is her grave left
An old maid. 17
and forget; from the beautiful Levkoyen and Reseden, the
we transplanted from their garden is nothing
To see more, but a fruit tree has root on it
Grasp and shade it with its green branches. –
Easily you are the earth, the good maiden Mine, and gentle
her peace, you who have not allowed any peace here!

Elegant Extracts: Or, Useful and Entertaining Passages in Prose, Selected … (Google Books)

favour and consideration of our neighbourr

2. Again : the man who governs him’self by the spirit of the Apostlc’s precept, expresses hispreferenee ot another in such a Way as is worthy of himself; in all innoCtnt compliances, in all honest eivilities, in all (leCent and manly eondescensions. _ On the contrary, the man ofthe world, who rests in the letter of this command, is regardless of the means by which he conducts himself. He t’CQPCClSUCllhCI‘hiShWII dignity, nor that ofhuman nature. Truth, reason, virtue, are all equally betrayed by ,this supple impostor. He assents to the

errors, though the most pernicious; ht- ap- ‘

plauds the follies, though the mmt ri’diculoun, he soothes the vices, though the most flagrant, of other men. He never contradicts, though in the softest form of insinuation; he never disapproves, though by a respectful silence; he never eondemns, though it be only by a good example. In short, he is solicitous for nothing, but by some studied devices to hide from others, and, if possible, to palliate to himself, the ‘grossness of his illibetal adulation.

‘ Lastly; we may be sure, that the ultirrtate ends for which these different objects are pursued, and by so different means, must also lie wide of each otherl _

_ Accordingly, the true polite man would, by all proper testimonies of respect, promote the creditand estimation ofhis neighb’our; because he sees that,by this generous consideration of each other, the peace of the World is, in a good degree, preserved; l’ecausc he knows that these mutual attentions prevent animosities, soften the fierceness of men‘s manners, and dispose them to all the offices of benevolence and charity; house, in a word, the interests of society are best served by this conduct; and because he understands it to be his duty to love his neighbour. “

The lsely pol.te, on the contrary, are cuxiou , by all means whatever, to procure the favour and consideration of those they converse with; because they regard, ultimately, nothing more than their private interest; betause they perceive, that their out: selfish designs are best carried on by suco practices: in a word, because they love themselves.

Thus we see, that genuine virtue consults the honour of others by worthy means, and for the noblest purposes; the

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Never indulge yourselves in ridicule on religious subjects; uorgive. countenanceto it in others,-bysceming diverted with what they say. This, to people of good breeding, will be a sufficient check.

I wish you to go no farther than the Scriptures for your religious opinions, Embrace those you find clearly revealed. Never perplex yourselves about such as you donot under- tand,hut treat them w ith silent and becoming reverence.

1 would advise you to read only such religious books as are addressed to the heart, such as inspire pious and devout affections, such as are proper to direct you ltfyottr conduct; and not such as tend to entangle you in the endless maze of opi- I ttions and systems.

By punctual in the stated performance of your, private devotions, morning and If you have any sutsibihty or imagination, this w ill establish such an intercourse between you and the Spprcme Being, as will be. ofinlinitt: consequence to you in life. It \villcommnoicatc an habitual cheerfulness to your temper, giVe afirmness an“| steadiness to your virtue, and enab c you logothrough all the vicissitudes , of human life with propriety and dig: ity.

I wish you to be regular in your attendance on public worship, and in receiving ~. the communion. Allow nothing to inter- ‘ rupt your public or private’devotions‘, except the performance of some active duty in life, to which they should always give place.—-1n your behaviour at public w’orship, __

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ship, observe an exemplary attention and gravity. ‘

That extreme strictness which I recommend to you in these duties, will be considered by many of your acquaintance as a superstitious attachment to forms; but in the advices I give you on this and other subjects, I have an eye to the spirit and manners of the age. There is a levity and dissipation in the present manners, a coldness and listlessnessin whatever relates to religion, which cannot fail toinfect you, unless you purposely cultivate in your minds a contrary bias, and make the devotional one habitual.

Gregory‘s Advice.

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frequently bears a melancholy proportion to its exaltation. This the Liar litish monarch experienced. He sought in piety, that peace which he could not find in empire, and alleviated the. disquictudes of state, with the exercises of devotion. His invaluable Psalms convey those comforts to others, which they afforded to himself. Composed upon particular occasions, yet designed for general use: dclivered out as services for Israelites under the Law, yet no less adapted to the cirQlmstattces of Christians under the Gospcl: they present religion to us in the most engaging dress; communicating truths which philosophy could never inVestigate, in a style which poetry can never equal ; uhile history is made the vehicle of prophecy, and creation lends all its Charms to paint the glories of redemption. Calculated alike to profit and to please, they inform the understanding, elevate the atlcctions, and entertain the imagination. lndite’l under the influence of Him, to Whom all hearts are known, and allevunis foreknown, they suit mankind in all_situ-‘

ations, gratetul as the manna which tle-.

mended from above, and conformed itself to every palate. The fairest productions of human wit, after a few pcru’sals, like gathered tlowcrs, wither in our hands, and lose their fragrancy; but these unfading plants of paradise become, as we are ac~ customed to. them, still more and more beautiful; their bloom appears to be daily heightened; fresh odours are emitted, and new sweets extracted from them. He who hath once tasted their eacellcncies, will desire to taste them yet again 3 and he

who tastes them Oftenest, will relish them best.-And now. could the author flatter’ himself that any One would take half the pleasurc’in reading his work which he hath taken in writing it, he would not fear the loss of his labour. The employment de; tached him from the hustle and hurry of life, the din of politics, and the noise of folly; vanity and veaation flew away for a’ season, care and disquietude came not neat“ his dwelling. He rose, fresh as the moming. to his task; the-silence of the night invited him to pursue it; and he can truly say, that food- and rest were not preferred before it. Every Psalm improved infinitely upon his acquaintance with it, and no one gave him uneasiness but the last; for then he grieVe-d that his work was done.’ Hap‘ pier hours than those which have beerr’ spent in these meditations on the songs of Sion, he never exp’ectsto see in this world.’ Very pleasantly did they pass, and movedsmoothly and swiltly along; for when thus engaged, he counted no time. They’ are gone, but have left a relish and a fra~’ grauce upon the mind, and the remembrance of them is sweet. Home.

§ 85. The Temple of Virtuous Love.

The structure on the right hand was (a! [afterwards found) consecrated to virtuous Love, and could not be entered, but by’ such as received a ring, or someother token, from a person who was placed as a guard at the gate of it. ‘Hc wore a garland of ‘ roses and myrtles on his head, and on his shoulders a robe like an imperial mantle, white and Unspnltcd all over, excepting only, that whereit was ClaiPCdatiliS breast, there ‘were .two golden turtle doves that buttoned it by their hills, which were wrought in rubies: he was called by the name of Hymen, and was seated near the entrance of the temple, in a delicious bower, made upof several trees that were embraced by wmd’bines, jcasamines, and’ amaranths, which were as so many em~ blcms of marriage, and ornaments to the trunks that supported them. As I was single and unaccompanied, l was not permitted to enter the temple, and for that reason am a’strauger to all the mysteries that were performed in it. I had, however, the curiosity to observe, how the several couples that entered were disposed of; which was after the following manner: I there Were two great gates on the backside of the edifice, at which the whole crowd was let out. At one of these gates

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were two women, extremely beautiful, though in a dinerent kind ; the one hav~ ing a very careful and composed air, the other a sort of smile and inefiable sweetness in her countenance : the name of the first was Discretion. and of the other Complacency. All who came out of this

ate, and put themselves under the direction of these two sisters, were immediately conducted by them into gardens, groves, and meadows , which ahouuded in delights, and were furnished with every thing that could make them the proper seats of happiness. The second gate of this temple let out all the couples that were unhappily married : “ ho came out linked together by chains, which each of them strove to break, but could not., Several of these Were’such as had never been acquainted with each other before they met in the great walk, or had been too well acquainted in the thicket. The entrance to this gate was possessed by ‘hree sisters, who joined themselves with these \vretches, and occasioned most of their miseries. The youngest of the sisters was known by the name of Levity; who, with the innocence of a virgin, had the dress and behaviour of a harlot: the name of the second was Cotttentiou, who bore on her right arm a muff made of the skin of a porcupine, and on her left carried a little lap-dog, that

barked and snapped at every one that ‘

passed by her. ‘lhe eldest of the sisters, who scented to have an haughty and imperious air, was always accompanied with a tawny Cupid, who generally marched hctbre her with a little mace on his shoulder, the end of which was fashioned into the horns ofa stag: her garments were yellow, and her complexion pale; her eyes were piercing, but’had odd cash; in them, and that particular distemper which makes ersous who are troubled with it see ob)ccts double. Upon inquiry, I was intormed that her name was Jealousy. Taller.

§ 86. The Temple of Lust.

7 _ Having finished my observations upon this temple, and its votaries, I repaired to that which stood on the left hand, and was called the temple of Lust. The front of it was raised on Corinthian pillars, with all the mcrctricious ornaments that accompany that order; whereas thatof the other was composed of the chaste and matronlikc Ionic. The sides of it Were adorned with several grotesque figures of goats,

sparrows. heathen gods, satyrs, and men’sters, made up ot half men, half beast. The gates were unguarded, and open to all that had a mind to enter. Upon my going in, I found the windows were blinded, and let in only a kind of twilight, that served to (liaCOl/Cf a prodigious number of dark corners and apartments, into which the whole temple was divided. 1 was here stunned with a mixed noise ofclamour and jollity: on one side of me I heard singing and dancing; on. the other, brawls and clashing of swurds: in short, I was so little pleased with the place, that I was going out of it : but found I could not returti by the gate where l cntcred, which was barred against all that were come in, with bolts 0t iron and locks of adan ant: there was no going back from this temple through the paths of pleasure which led to it : all who passed through the ceremonies of the place, went out at an iron wicket, which was kept by a dreadtul giant called Remorse, that held a scourge of scorpions in his hand, and drove them into the only outlet from that temple. This was a pas. sage so rugged, so uneven, and choked with so many thorns and briars, that it. was a melancholy spectacle to behold the pains and ditiiculties which both sexes suffered who walked through it: lht‘ men, though in the prime of their youth, ap-‘ peart’d weak and enfeeblcd with old age; the Wot’tlt’n wrung their hands, and tore their hair, and several lost their linzbs, bttbre they could extricate themselves out of the perplexities ot’ the path itt which they were engaged—1hr- remainingr part otthis vision, and the adventures ltnet with in the two great roads of Ambition and Avaricc, Hillel. be the subject ot another p’aper. ‘ Hid. §S7. The Temple Ql’l’irluc.

\\’it h much labour and ditticulty I passed through the first part of my vision, and recovctcd the centre of the wood, in m whence 1 had the prospect of the three great roads. I here jointd myself to the middle-aged party of mankind, who marched behind the standard of Ambition. ‘lhe great road lay in a direct line, and was terminated by the temple of Virtue. It was planter! on each side with laurels, which were intermixed with marble tree phies, carved pillars, and statues of law~ givers, heroes, statesmen, philosophers, and poets. The persons who travel‘ ‘d up this great path, u ere such whose thoughts were bent upon doing eminent services to mankind, or promoting the good ofthelr country. On each side of this great road, Were several paths that were also laid out in straight lines, and ran parallel with it; these were most of them covered walks,and received into them men of retired virtue, who proposed to themselves the same end of their journey, though they chose. to make it in shade and obscurity. The edifices, at the extremity of the walk, were so contrived, that We could not see the temple of Honour, by reason of the temple of Virtue, which stood before it: atthe gates 0fthis temple, we were met by the goddess of it, who conducted us into that of Honour, which was joined to the other edifice by a beautiful trinmphal arch, and had no other entrance into it. \Vhen the deity of the inner structure had received us, she presented us in a body, to a figure that was placed over the high altar, and was the emblem of Eternity. She sat on a globe, in the midst of a golden Zodiac, holding the figure ofa sun in one hand, and a moon in the other: her head was veiled, and her feet covered. Our hearts glowed within us, as we stood amidst the sphere of light which this image cast on every side of it. Taller.


§ 88. The Temple (fl/unity.

Having seen all that happened to the hand of adventurers, I repaired to another pile of buildings that stood within view of the temple of Honour, and was raised in imitation of it, upon the very same model; but, at my approach to it, l found that the stones were laid together without mortar, and that the whole fabric stood upon to weak a tbundatitm, that it shock with every wind that blew. This was called the temple of Vanity. The goddess of it sat in the midst of a great many tapers, that burned day and night, and made her appear much better than she would have done in open day-light. Her whole art was to show herself more beautiful and majesticthan she really was. For which reason she had painted her face, and wore a cluster of false jewels upon her breast ; but what l more particularly observed,was the breadth of her petticoat, which was made altogether in the fashion of a modern fardingal. This place was filled with hypocrites, nts, free-thinkers, and prating politicians, with a rabble of those who have only titles to make them great men. Female votarics crowded the tem

ple, choked up the’ avenues of it, and were more in number than the sand upon the sea-shore. 1 made it my business, in my return towards that part of the wood from whence I first set out, to observe the walks which led to this temple; for I met in it several who had begun their journey with the band of virtuous persons, and travelled some time in their company’: but, upon examination, lfound that there were several paths, which led out of the great road into the sides ofthe wood, and ran into so many crooked turns and windings, that those who travelled through them, often turned their backs upon the temple of Virtue, then crossed the straight road, and sometimes marched in it for a little space, till the crooked path which they were engaged in again led them into the wood. The several alleys of these wanderers, had their particular ornaments : one of them 1 could not but take notice of, in the walk of the mischievous pretenders to politics, which had at every turn the figure ofa person, whom, by the inscription, I found to be Machiavel, pointing out the way, with an extended finger, like a Mercury. Il’id.

§ 89. The Temple qfzlvarice.

I was now returned in the same manner as before, with a design to observe carefully every thing that passed in the region of Avarice, and the occurrences _ in that assembly, which was made up of persons of my own age. This body of travellers had not gone far in the third great road, before it led them insensibly into a deep valley, in which they journied several days with great toil and uneasiness, and without the necessary refreshments of food and sleep. The only relief they met with, was in a river that ran through the bottom of the valley on a bed of golden sand : they often drank of this stream, which had such a particular quality in it, that though it refreshed them for a time, it rather inflamed than quenched their thirst. On each side of the river was a range of hills full of precious ore; for where the rain: had washed otf the earth, one tnight see in sevaral parts of them long veins of gold,

~and rocks that looked like pure silver.

\Ve were told that the deity of the place had forbad any of his votaries to dig into the bowcis of these hi’ls, or convert the treasures the contained to any use, under pain of starv ng. At the end of the valley stood the temple of Avarice, made after

F 3 – the the manner of a fortification, and surrounded with a thousand triple-headed dogs. that were placed there to keep oti~ beggars. At our approach they all fell a barking, and would have much terrified ‘us, had not an old woman, who had called herself by the forged name of Competency, otfered herself for our guide. She carried under her garment a golden how, _which she no sooner held uptn her hand, but the dogs lay down, and the gates flew open for our reception. \‘v’e Were led through an hundred iron doors before we _cntered the temple. At’the upper end of .it, sat the God of Avarice, with a long I filthy beard. and a meagre starved cottotenance, inclosed with heaps of ingots and pyramids of money, but half naked and _shivering with cold: on his right hand was a’ fiend called Rapinc, and on his left a particular favourite, to whom he had given the title of Parsimony; the first was his collector, and the other his cashier. There were several long tables placed on each side of the tem )lC, with respective ‘officcrs attending behind thtm: some of _these I, inquired into: at the first table was kept the office of Corruption. Seeing a solicitor extremely busy, and whispering ctrery body that passed by, I kept .my eye up.;n him very attentively, and saw him often going up to a person that had a pen in his hand, with a multiplication-table, and an almanack before him, which, as I afterwards heard, was all the learning he was master of. The solicitor .would often apply himself to his ear, and at the same time convey money into his hand, for which the other would give him out a piece of paper, or parchment, signed and sealed in form. ‘llte name of this dexterous and successful solicitor was Bribery -—At the next table was the office of Extortion: behind it sat a person in a bob-wig, counting over a great sum of money: he gave out little purses to several, who, after a short tour, brought him, in return, sacks full of the same kind pf coin. I saw, at the same time, a person palled Fraud, who sat behind the cottnter, with false scales, light weights, and s’canty measures; by the skiltul application of ‘which instruments, she had got together an immense heap of wealth ; it would be ‘endless to name the several ofliccrs, or .describe the votaries that attended in this temple; there were many old men, panting and breathless, reposing their heads on

bags of money: nay, many of them sci tuztlly dying, whose very pangs and convttlsions (vt hich rendered their purses use— less to them) only made thetn grasp them the faster. There were some tearing with one hand all things, even to the garments and flesh ofmany misetahle persons who stood before them; and with the other hand throwing away what they had seized, to harlots. flatterers, and pandcrs, that stood bthind them. On a sudden the whole assembly fell a trembling; and, upon inquiry, I found that the great room We Were in was haunted with a spectre, that many times aday appeared to them, and terrified them to distraction. In the midst of their terror attd amazement, the apparition entered, which I immediately knew to be Poverty. \Vhether it were by my acquaintance with this phantom, which had rendered the sight of her more fami— liar to me, or however it was, she did not make so indigent or frightful a figure in my eye, as the god of this loathsome temple. The miserable votaries of this place were, I found, of another mind : every one fancied himself threatened by the apparition as she stalked about the room, and began to lock their cotfers, and tie their bags, with the utmost fear and trembling. Imnst confess, I look upon the passion which I saw in this unhappy people, to be of the same nature vt ith t use unaccountable antipathies which some persons are born with, or rather as a kind of phrcnzy, not unlike that which throws a man into terrors and agonies at the sight of so useful and innocent a thing as water. The vthole assembly was sntpriZed, when, instead of paying my devotions to the deity whom ‘ they all adored, they saw me address myself to the phantom. “ Oh ! Poverty! (said I) my first petition to thee is, that thou wouldest never appear to me hereafter; but if thou wilt not grant me this, that thou wouldcst not bear a form more tcrri’ ble than that in which thou appearest to me at present. Let not thy threats or menaccs betray me to any thing that is ungrateful or unjust. Let me not shut my ears to the cries of the needy. Let me not forget the person that has deserved well of me. Let me not, from any fear of Thee, desert my friend, my principles, or my honour. If Wealth is to visit me. and come with her usual attendants, Vanityand Avarice, do thou, 0 Poverty! hasten to my rescue; but bring along with T2)“

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Works, prose and verse
By Mary Russell Mitford

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214 – 218

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“Ay, sir, in full song; piping away, jug, jug, jug, all the day, and half the night. I wish your honour would come and hear it.” And, with a promise to that effect, we parted, each our several ways; we to visit our friend, he to catch, if catch he could, a couple of woodlarks to make Mrs. Bennett’s villa look rural.

Old Robin had not always been a birdcatcher. He had, what is called, fallen in the world. His father had been the best-accustomed and most fashionable shoemaker in the town of B., and Robin succeeded, in right of eldership, to his house, his business, his customers, and his debts. No one was ever less fitted for the craft. Birds had been his passion from the time that he could find a nest or string nn egg: and the amusement of the boy became the pursuit of the man. No sooner was he his own master than his whole house became an aviary, and his whole time was devoted to breeding, taming, and teaching the feathered race; an employment that did not greatly serve to promote his success as a cordwainer. He married; and an extravagant wife, and a neglected, and, therefore, unprosperous business, drove him more and more into the society of the pretty creatures, whose company he had always so greatly preferred to that of the two-legged unfeathered animal, called man. Things grew worse and worse; and at length poor Robin appeared in the Gazette—ruined, as his wife and his customers said, by birds: or, as he himself said, by his customers and his wife. Perhaps there was some truth on either side; at least, a thousand pounds of bad debts on his books, and a whole pile of milliners and mantuamakers’ bills, went nigh to prove the correctness of his assertion. Ruined, however, he was; and a happy day it was for him, since, his stock being sold, his customers gone, and his prospects in trade fairly at an end, his wife (they had no family) deserted him also, and Robin, thus left a free man, determined to follow the bent of his genius, and devote the remainder of his life to the breeding, catching, and selling of birds.

For this purpose he hired an apartment in the ruinous quarter of B. called the Soak, a high, spacious attic, not unlike a barn, which came recommended to him by its cheapness, its airiness, and its extensive cage-room; and his creditors having liberally presented him with all the inhabitants of his aviary, some of which were very rare and curious, as well as a large assortment of cages, nets, traps, and seeds, he began his new business with great spirit, and has continued it ever since with various success, but with unabaling perseverance, zeal, and good-humour — a very poor and a very happy man. His garret in the Soak is one of the boasts of B.; all strangers go to see the birds and the bird-catcher, and most of his visiters are induced to become purchasers, for there is no talking with Robin

on his favourite subject without catching a little of his contagious enthusiasm. His room is quite a menagerie, something like what the feathered department of the ark must hare been—as crowded, as numerous, and as noisy.

The din is really astounding. To say nothing of the twitter of whole legions of linnet*, goldfinches, and canaries, the latter of all ages; the clattering and piping of magpies, parrots, jackdaws, and bullfinches, in every stage of their education; the deeper tones of blackbirds, thrushes, larks, and nightingales, never fail to swell the chorus, aided by the cooing of doves, the screeching of owls, the squeakings of guinea-pigs, and the eternal grinding of a barrel-organ, which a little damsel of eight years old, who officiates under Robin as feeder and cleaner, turns round, with melancholy monotony, to the loyal and patriotic tunes of Rule Britannia and God tart the Kinj, the only airs, as her master observes, which are sure not to go out of fashion.

Except this young damsel and her music, the apartment exhibits but few signs of human habitation. A macaw is perched on the little table, and a cockatoo chained to the only chair; the roof is tenanted by a choice breed of tnmbler pigeons, and the floor cumbered by a brood of curious bantams, unrivalled for ugliness.

Here Robin dwells, in the midst of the feathered population, except when he sallies forth at morning or evening to spread his nets for goldfinches or bullfinches on the neighbouring commons, or to place his trap-cages for the larger birds. Once or twice a year, indeed, he wanders into Oxfordshire, to meet the great flocks of linnets, six or seven hundred together, which congregate on those hills, and may be taken by dozens; and he has had ambitious thoughts of trying the great market of CoTentgarden for the sale of his live stock. But in general he remains quietly at home. That nest in the Soak is too precious a deposit to leave long; and he is seldom without some especial favourite to tend and fondle. At present, the hen-nightingale seems his pet; the last was a white blackbird; and once he bad a whole brood of gorgeous kingfishers, seven glorious creatures, for whose behoof he took up a new trade and turned fisherman, dabbling all day with a hand-net in the waters of the Soak. It was the prettiest sight in the world to see them snatch the minnows from his hand, with a shy mistrustful tameness, glancing their bright heads from side to side, and then darting off like bits of the rainbow. 1 had an entire sympathy with Robin’s delight in his kingfishers. He sold them to his chief patron, Mr. Jay, a little fidgety old bachelor, with a sharp face, a hooked nose, a brown complexion, and a full suit of snuff-colour, not much unlike a bird himself; and that worthy gentleman’s mismanagement and a frosty winter killed the kingfishers every one. It was quite affecting to hear poor Robin talk of their death. But Robin has store of tender anecdotes; and any one who has a mind to cry over the sorrows of a widowed turtle-dove, and to hear described to the life her vermilioneye, black gorget, soft plumage, and plaintive note, cannot do better than pay a visit to the garret in the Soak, and listen for half an hour to my friend the bird-catcher.


Or one of my godmothers I recollect but little. She lived at a distance, and seldom came in my way. The little, however, that I do remember of her, is very pleasing. She was the wife of a dignified clergyman, and resided chiefly in a great cathedral town, to which I once or twice accompanied my father, whose near relation she had married. She was a middle-aged woman, with sons and daughters already settled in life, and must in her youth have been exceedingly lovely; indeed, in spite of an increase of size which had greatly injured her figure, she might still be deemed a model of matronly beauty. Her fate was in the highest degree soft, feminine, and delicate, with an extreme purity and fairness of complexion; dove-like eyes, a gentle smile, and a general complacency and benevolence of aspect, such as I have rarely seen equalled. That sweet face was all sunshine. There was something in her look which realized the fine expression of the poet, when he speaks of—

“those eyes affectionate and glad,

That DeemVI to love whate’er they looked upon.”

Her voice and manner were equally delightful, equally captivating, although quite removed from any of the usual arts of captivalion. Their great charm was their perfect artlevsness and graciousness, the natural result of a most artless and gracious nature. She kept little company, being so deaf as almost ‘o unfit her for society. But this infirmity, which to most people is so great a disadvantage, seemed in her case only an added charm. She sal on her sofa in sober cheerfulness, placid and smiling, as if removed from the rates and the din of the work-a-day world; w, if any thing particularly interesting was ping forward in the apartment, she would wok np with such a pretty air of appeal, such •ilent questioning, as made every body eager [to translate for her,—some hy loud distinct ‘*7?””K some by writing, and some by that |d»iif3«e and mysterious sign-manual, that unwritten shorthand, called talking on the fingers, «t>Mever happened to be passing; and she •» so attentive and so quick, that one scn»w». half a sentence, a word, half a word, •mild often be enough. She could catch even

the zest of a repartee, that most evanescent and least transfusible of all things; and when she uttered her pretty petition, ” Mirth, admit me of thy crew!” brought as ready a comprehension, as true a spirit of gaiety, and as much innocent enjoyment into a young and laughing circle, as she found there. Her reliance on the kindness and affection of all around her was unbounded; she judged of others by herself, and was quite free from mistrust and jealousy, the commonest and least endurable infirmity of the deaf. She went out little, but at home her hospitality and benevolence won all hearts. She was a most sweet person. I saw too little of her, and lost her too soon; but I loved her dearly, and still cherish her memory.

Her husband was a very kind and genial person also, although in a different way. The Dean, for such was his professional rank, was a great scholar, an eminent Grecian, a laborious editor, a profound and judicious critic, an acute and sagacious commentator—who passed days and nights in his library, covered with learned dust, and deep in the metres. Out of his study he was, as your celebrated scholar is apt to be, exceedingly like a boy just let loose from school, wild with animal spirits, and ripe for a frolic. He was also (another not uncommon characteristic of an eminent Grecian) the most simple-hearted and easy-tempered creature that lived, and a most capital playfellow. I thought no more of stealing the wig from his head than a sparrow does of robbing a cherry-tree; and he, merriest and most undignified of dignitaries, enjoyed the fun as much as I did, would toss the magnificent caxon (a full-bottomed periwig of most capacious dimensions,) as high in the air as its own gravity would permit it to ascend, to the unspeakable waste of powder, and then would snatch me up in his arms, (n puny child of eight years old, who was as a doll in his sinewy hands,) and threaten to fling me after his flying peruke. He would have done just the same if he had been Archbishop of Canterbury—and so should I—the arch-episcopal wig would have shared the same fate; so completely did the joyous temperament of the man break down the artificial restraints of his situation. He was a most loveable person was Mr. Dean; but the charm and glory of the Deanery, was my dear godmamma.

My other godmother was a very different sort of person, and will take many more words to describe.

Mrs. Patience Wither (for so was she called) was the survivor of three maiden sisters, who, on the death of their father, a rich and welldescended country gentleman, had agreed to live together, and their united portions having centred in her, she was in possession of a handsome fortune. In point of fact, she was not my godmother, having only stood as proxy for her younger sister, Mrs. Mary, my mother’s intimate friend, then falling into the lingering decline, of which she afterwards died. Mrs. Mary must have been, to judge of her from universal report, and from a portrait which still remains, a most interesting woman, drooping, pale, and mild; and beautiful also, very beautiful, from elegance and expression. She was undoubtedly my real godmamma; but on her death, Mrs. Patience, partly from regard for her sister, partly out of compliment to my family, and partly, perhaps, to solace herself by the exercise of an office of some slight importance and authority, was pleased to lay claim to me in right of inheritance, and succeeded to the title of my godmother pretty much in the same way that she succeeded to the possession of Flora, her poor sister’s favourite spaniel. I am afraid that Flora proved the more grateful subject of the two.

Mrs. Patience was of the sort of women that young people particularly dislike, and characterize by the ominous epithet, cross. She was worse than cross; stern, stiff, domineering, and authoritative, her person was very masculine, tall, square, and large-boned, and remarkably upright. Her features were sufficiently regular, and would not have been unpleasing, but for the keen angry look of her light-blue eye, (your blue eye, which has such a name for softness amongst those great mistakers, lovers and poets, is often wild, and almost fierce in its expression) and her fiery wiry red hair, to which age did no good,—it would not turn grey. In short she was, being always expensively drest, and a good deal in the rear of fashion, not unlike my childish notion of that famous but disagreeable personage, Queen Elizabeth; which comparison being repeated to Mrs. Patience, who luckily took it for a compliment, added considerably to the interest she was so good as to take in my health, welfare, and improvement.

I never saw her but she took possession of me for the purpose of lecturing and documenting on some subject or other,—holding up my head, shutting the door, working a sampler, making a shirt, learning the pence-table, or taking physic. She used to hear me read French out of a well-thumbed copy of Telemaque, and to puzzle me with questions from the English chronology—which may perhaps be the reason, that I, at this day, to my great shame be it spoken, dislike that famous prose epic, and do not know in what century Queen Anne came to the throne.

In addition to these iniquities, she was assiduous in presents to me at home and at school; sent me cakes with cautions against over-eating, and needle-cases with admonitions to use them; she made over to me her own juvenile library, consisting of a large collection of unreadable books, which I, in my turn, have given away; nay, she even rummaged out for me a pair of old battledores, curiously constructed of netted pack-thread—the toys

of her youth! But bribery is generally thrown away upon children, especially on spoilt ones; the godmother whom I loved never gave me any thing; and every fresh present from MrsPatience seemed to me a fresh grievance. I was obliged to make a call and a carUy, aad to stammer out something which passed fcr i speech; or, which was still worse, to write a letter of thanks—a stiff, formal, precise letter! I would rather have gone without cakes or needle-cases, books or battledores, to my dying day. Such was my ingratitude from five to fifteen.

As time wore on, however, I amended. I began to see the value of constant interest and attention—even although the forms they assumed might not be the most pleasant—to be thankful for her kindness and attentive to her advice; and by the time I arrived at years of discretion, had got to like her very much, especially in her absence, and to endure her presence (when it was quite impossible to run away) with sufficient fortitude. It is only since she has been fairly dead and buried, that I have learnt to estimate her properly. Now, I recollect how very worthy of esteem and respect she really was, how pious, how hospitable, how charitable, how generous! Nothing but the comfort of knowing that she never found it out, could lull my remorse for having disliked her so much in her life-time; the more especially, as upon recollection, I don’t think she was so absolutely unbearable. She was only a little prejudiced, as one who had lived constantly in one limited sphere; rather ignorant and narrow-minded, a full century behind the spirit of the age. as one who had read dull books and kept dull company; fearfully irritable, fretful, and cross, as one who has had all her life the great misfortune (seldom enough pitied or considered) of having her own way; and superlatively stiff, and starched, and prim, in her quality of old maid. There is a great improvement now-a-days in the matter of single ladies; they may be, and many of them actually are, pleasant with impunity to man or woman, and are so like the rest of the world in way and word, that a stranger is forced to examine the third finger of the left hand, to ascertain whether or no they be married; but Mrs. Patience was an old maid of the old school—there was no mistaking her condition—you might as well question that of the frost-bitten gentlewoman pacing to church through the snow in Hogarth’s inimitable and unforgetable ” Morning.” With these drawbacks she was, as I hare said before, an estimable person; stanch in her friendships, liberal in her house-keeping, much addicted to all sorts of subscriptions, and a most active lecturer and benefactress of the poor, whom she scolded and relieved with indefatigable good-will.

She lived in a large, tall, upright, stately house, in the largest street of a large town. It was a grave-looking mansion, defended from the pavement by iron palisades, a flight of steps before the sober brown door, and every window curtained and blinded by chintz and silk and muslin, crossing and jostling each other; none of the rooms could be seen from the street, nor the street from any of the rooms—so complete was the obscurity. She seemed to consider this window-veiling as a point of propriety; notwithstanding which, she contrived to know so well all the goingson of all her neighbours, and who went up or who went down Chapel Street, that I could not help suspecting she had in some one of her many muffling draperies a sort of peep-hole, such as you sometimes see a face staring through in the green curtain at the play-house. I am sure she must have had a contrivance of the kind, though I cannot absolutely say that I ever made out the actual slit; but then I was cautious in my pryings, and afraid of being caught. I am sure that a peep-hole there was. She lived in a good position for an observatory too, her house being situate in a great thoroughfare, one end abutting on a popular chapel, the other on a celebrated dancingacademy, so that every day in the week brought affluence of carriages to the one side or to the other;—an influx of amusement of which she did not fail to make the most, enjoying it first, and complaining of it afterwards, after the fashion of those unfortunate persons who have a love of grumbling, and very little to grumble at. I don’t know what she would have done without the resource afforded by her noisy neighbours, especially those on the saltatory side, whose fiddles, door-knockings, and floor-shakings, were the subject of perpetual objurgation; for the usual complaining ground of the prosperous, health and nerves, was completely shut against her. She never was ill in her life, and was too much in the habit of abusing nerves in other people, to venture to make use of them on her own account. It was a most comfortable grievance, and completed the many conveniences of her commodious mansion.

Her establishment was handsome and regular, and would have gone on like clock-work, if she had not thought a due portion of managing, that is to say, of vituperation, absolutely necessary for the well-being of herself and servants. It did go on like clock-work, for the well-seasoned domestics no more minded those diurnal scolding fits, than they did the great Japan time-piece in the hall when it struck the hour; a ring of the bell, or. a knock at the door, were events much more startling to this staid and sober household, who, chosen, the men for their age, and tie women for their ugliness, always seemed to have a peculiar hatred to quick motion. They would not even run to get out of the way of their mistress, although pretty sure of a lecture, right or wrong, whenever she

encountered them. But then, as the fishmonger said of the eels that he was skinning, —” They were used to it.”

The only things in the house which she did not scold were two favourite dogs—Flora, a fat, lazy, old spaniel, soft and round as a cushion, and almost as inert; and Daphne, a particularly ugly, noisy pug, that barked at every body that came into the house, and bit at most. Daphne was the pet par excellence. She overcrowed even her mistress, as old Spenser hath it, and Mrs. Patience respected her accordingly. Really, comparing the size of the animal with the astonishing loudness and continuance of her din, she performed prodigies of barking. Her society was a great resource to me, when I was taken to pay my respects to my godmamma. She (I mean Daphne) had, after her surly and snipsnap manner, a kindness for me; condescended to let me pat her head without much growling, and would even take a piece of cake out of my hand without biting my fingers. We were great friends. Daphne’s company and conversation lightened the time amazingly. She was certainly the most entertaining person, the most alive of any one I met there.

Mrs. Patience’s coterie was, to say the truth, rather select than numerous, rather respectable than amusing. It consisted of about half a dozen elderly ladies of unexceptionable quality, and one unfortunate gentleman, who met to play a rubber at each other’s houses, about six evenings in the week, all the year round, and called on one another nearly every morning. The chief member of this chosen society was, next to Mrs. Patience, who would everywhere be first, Lady Jane, a widow, and Miss Pym, her maiden sister, who resided with her. Lady Jane was a round, quiet, sleepy woman, not unlike — with reverence be it spoken—to the fat spaniel Flora; you never knew when she was present or when she was not; Miss Pym, sharper and brisker, thinner and shorter, bore more resemblance to my friend Daphne, the vixenish pug—you were pretty sure to hear her.— There was also a grave and sedate Mrs. Long, a slow, safe, circumspect person, who talked of the weather; a Mrs. Harden, speechifying and civil, and a Miss Harden, her daughter, civiller still. These were the ladies. The beau of the party, Mr. Knight, had been originally admitted in right of a deceased wife, and was retained on his own merits. In my life I never beheld a man so hideously ugly, tall, shambling, and disjointed, with features rough, huge, and wooden, grey hair, stiff and bristly, long shaggy eyebrows, a skin like a hide, and a voice and address quite in keeping with this amiable exterior, as uncouth as Caliban.

For these gifts and accomplishments he was undoubtedly preferred to the honour of being the only gentleman tolerated in this worship ful society, from which Dr. Black, the smart young physician, and Mr. White, the keen, sharp, clever lawyer, and Mr. Brown, the spruce curate of the parish, and even Mr. Green, the portly vicar, were excluded. I did not so much wonder at their admiring Mr. Knight for his ugliness, which was so grotesque and remarkable, as to be really prepossessing—it was worth one’s while to see any thing so complete in its way; but I did a little marvel at his constancy to this bevy of belles, for, strange and uncouth as the man was, there was an occasional touch of slyness and humour about him, and a perpetual flow of rough kindness, which, joined with his large property, would easily have gained him the entre into more amusing circles. Perhaps he liked to be the sole object of attention to six ladies, albeit somewhat past their prime; perhaps he found amusement in quizzing them —he was wicked enough sometimes to warrant the supposition; perhaps—for mixed motives are commonly the truest in that strangely compounded biped man—a little of both might influence him; or perhaps a third, and still more powerful inducement, might lurk behind as yet unsuspected.—Certain it is, that every evening he was found in that fair circle, cordially welcomed by all its members except my godmamma. She, to be sure, minced and primmed, and tossed her head, and thought they should have been better without him; and although she admitted him to the privilege of visiting at her house, to the coffee, the green tea, the chit-chat, the rubber, the cake and the liqueur, she carefully refrained from honouring with her presence, the annual parly at his country farm, where all the other ladies resorted to drink syllabub, and eat strawberries and cream; pertinaciously refused to let him drive her out airing in his handsome open carriage, and even went so far as to order her footman not to let him in when she was alone.

Besides her aversion to mankind in general, an aversion as fierce and active as it was groundless, she had unluckily, from having been assailed by two or three offers, obviously mercenary, imbibed a most unfounded suspicion of the whole sex; and now seldom looked at a man without fancying that she detected in him an incipient lover; sharing, in this respect, though from a reverse motive, the common delusion of the pretty and the young. She certainly suspected Mr. Knight of matrimonial intentions towards her fair self, and as certainly suspected him wrongfully. Mr. Knight had no such design; and contrived most effectually to prove his innocence, one fair morning, by espousing Miss Harden, on whom, as she sat dutifully netting by the side of her mamma, at one corner of the cardtable, I had myself observed him to cast very frequent and significant glances. Miss Harden was a genteel woman of six-and-thirty,

rather faded, but still pleasing, and sufficiently dependent on her mother’s life-income, to find in Mr. Knight’s large fortune, to say nothing of his excellent qualities, an adequate compensation for his want of beauty. It was altogether a most suitable match, and so pronounced by the world at large, with the solitary exception of Mrs. Patience, who, though thus effectually secured from the attentions of her imputed admirer, by no means relished the means by which this desirable end had been accomplished. She sneered at the bride, abused the bridegroom, found fault with the bride-cake, and finally withdrew herself entirely from her former associates, a secession by which, it may be presumed, her own comfort was more affected than theirs.

She now began to complain of solitude, and to talk of taking a niece to reside with her, a commodity of which there was no lack in the family. Her elder brother had several daughters, and desired nothing better than to see one of them adopted by Mrs. Patience. Three of these young ladies came successively on trial —pretty lively girls, so alike, that I scarcely remember them apart, can hardly assign to them a separate individuality, except that, perhaps, Miss Jane might be the tallest, and Miss Gertrude might sing the best. In one particular, the resemblance was most striking, their sincere wish to get turned out of favour and sent home again. No wonder! A dismal life it must have seemed to them, used to the liberty and gaiety of a large country house, full of brothers, and sisters, and friends, a quiet indulgent mother, a hearty hospitable father, riding, and singing, and parties and balls; a doleful contrast it must have seemed to them, poor things, to sit all day in that nicely furnished parlour, where the very chairs seemed to know their places, reading aloud some grave, dull book, or working their fiegrrs to the bone, (Mrs. Patience could not bear to see young people idle,) walking just one mile out and one mile in, on the London road ; dining tete-a-tete in all the state of two courses and removes; playing all the evening at backgammon, most unlucky if they won, and going to bed just as the clock struck ten! No wonder that they exerted all their ingenuity to make themselves disagreeable; and as that is an attempt in which people who set about it with a thorough good-will, are pretty certain to succeed, they were discarded, according to their wishes, with all convenient dispatch.

Miss Jemima was cashiered for reading novels, contrary to the statutes made and provided—Belinda, the delightful Belinda, sealed her fate. Miss Gertrude was dismissed for catching cold, and flirting with the apothecary, a young and handsome son of Galea, who was also turned off for the same offence. Miss Jane’s particular act of delict has slipt my memory,—but she went too. There was some talk of sending little Miss Augusta, the young

est of the family, but she, poor child! never made her appearance. She was her father’s favourite, and probably begged off; and they had by this time discovered at the Hall, that their young lasses had been used to too much freedom to find the air of Chapel Street agree with them. The only one we ever saw again was Miss Jemima, who, having refused a rich baronet, a good deal older than herself, for no better reason than not liking him, was sent to lior aunt’3 on a visit of penitence; a sort of house of correction — an honourable banishment. I believe in my heart that the fair culprit would have preferred the Tread-Mill or Botany Bay, had she her choice; but there was no appeal from the lettre de cachet which had consigned her to Mrs. Patience’s care and admonitions, so she took refuge in a dumb resentment. I never saw any one so inveterately sullen in my life. One whole week she remained in this condition, abiding, as best she might, her aunt’s never-ending lectures, and the intolerable ennui of the house, during a foggy November. The next, the rejected lover arrived at the door, and was admitted; and before she had been three weeks in Chapel Street, Sir Thomas escorted her home as his intended bride. They were right in their calrulations; rather than have passed the winter with Mrs. Patience, the fair Jemima would have married her grandfather. Another niece now made her appearance, who, from circumstances and situation, seemed peculiarly fitted for the permanent companion and heiress—the orphan daughter of a younger brother, lately deceased, who had left this only rbild but slenderly provided for. Miss Patience (for she was her aunt’s namesake) was a young woman of two-and-twenty, brought up in a remote parsonage, without the advantage of any female to direct her education, and considerably more unformed and unpolished than one is accustomed to see a young lady in this accomplished age. She was a good deal like her aunt in person—far more than comported with beauty—large-boned and red-haired, and looking at least ten years older than she really was. Ten years older, too, •newas in disposition; staid, sober, Ihonght”>1. discreet; would no more have read a novel or flirted with an apothecary, than Mrs. Patewe herself.

Aunt and niece seemed made for each other. But somehow they did not do together. One does not quite know why—perhaps because they were too much alike. They were both great managers; but Miss Patience had been tised to a lower range of household cares, and tormented mistress and servants by unnecessary savings and superfluous honesty. Then •he was too useful; would make the tea, m’nuld snuff the candles, would keep the keys; •|T>w_i»d ihe housekeeper by offering to make ** F»*’ry, and the butler by taking under her t^nheirgand lamp; which last exploit was

unsuccessful enough—a lamp being a sort of machine that never will submit to female direction; a woman might as well attempt to manage a steam engine. The luminary in question was particularly refractory. It had our burners, which never, for the three nights which she continued in office, were all in action together. Some sent forth long tongues of flame, like those which issue from the crater of a volcano, giving token of the crash that was to follow; some popped outright, without warning; and some again languished, and died away, leaving behind them a most unsavoury odour. At last the restive lamp was abandoned to the butler, and light restored to the drawing-room; and had Miss Patience taken a lesson from this misadventure, all might have gone well.

But Miss Patience was not of a temperament to profit by her own errors. She went on from bad to worse; disobliged Flora by plunging her in the wash-tub, to the great improvement of her complexion; made an eternal enemy of Daphne, by a fruitless attempt to silence her most noisy tongue; and, finally, lectured Mrs. Patience herself for scolding about nothing. In short, she was a reformer, honest, zealous, uncompromising, and indiscreet, as ever wore petticoats. She had in her head the beau ideal of a perfect domestic government, and would be satisfied with nothing less. She could not let well alone. So that she had not been a month in that well-ordered and orderly house, before her exertions had thrown every thing into complete disorder; the servants were in rebellion, the furniture topsy-turvy; and the lady, who found herself likely to be in a situation of that dynasty of French kings who reigned under a maire du palais, in a very justifiable passion. This rightful anger, was, however, more moderately expressed than had usually happened with Mrs. Patience’s causeless indignation. The aunt remonstrated, indeed, and threatened; but the niece would not stay. She was as unbending as an oak-tree; rejected all compromise; spurned at all concession; abjured all rich relations; and returned to board at a farm-house in her old neighbourhood. After this contumacy, her name was never heard in Chapel Street; and for some time the post of companion remained vacant.

At length Mrs. Patience began to break, visibly and rapidly, as the very healthy often do, affording so affecting a contrast with their former strength. In her the decline was merely bodily; neither the mind nor the temper had undergone any change; but her increasing feebleness induced her medical attendants to recommend that some one should be provided to sit with her constantly; and as she protested vehemently against any farther trial of nieces, the object was sought through the medium of an advertisement, and appeared to be completely attained when it produced Miss Steele. How Miss Steele should have failed to please, still astonishes me. Pliant, soothing, cheerful, mild, with a wonderful command of countenance and of temper, a smiling aspect, a soft voice, a perpetual habit of assentation, and such a power over the very brute beasts, that Flora would get up to meet her, and Daphne would wag her tail at her approach—a compliment which that illustrious pug never paid before to woman. Every heart in Chapel Street did Miss Steele win, except the invulnerable heart of Mrs. Patience. She felt the falseness. The honey cloyed; and before two months were over, Miss Steele had followed the nieces.

After this her decline was rapid, and her latter days much tormented by legacy-hunters. A spendthrift nephew besieged her in a morning—a miserly cousin came to lose his sixpences to her at backgammon of an afternoon —a subtle attorney and an oily physician had each an eye to her hoards, if only in the form of an executorship; and her old butler, and still older housekeeper, already rich by their savings in her service, married, that they might share together the expected spoil. She died, and disappointed them all. Three wills were found. In the first, she divided her whole fortune between Flora and Daphne, and their offspring, under the direction of six trustees. In the second, she made the County-hospital her heir. In the third, the legal and effectual will, after formally disinheriting the rest of her relations, she bequeathed her whole estate, real and personal, to her honest niece Patience Wither, as a reward for her independence. And never was property better bestowed; for Patience the Second added all that was wanting to the will of Patience the First; supplied every legacy of charity and of kindness; provided for the old servants and the old pets, and had sufficient left to secure her own comfort with a man as upright and as downright as herself. They are the most English couple of my acquaintance, and the happiest. Long may they continue so! And all this happiness is owing to the natural right-mindedness and sturdy perception of character of my cross godmamma.

The Leisure Moments of Miss Martha Haines Butt, A.M.
By Martha Haines Butt

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“You have much to learn yet, Aunt Torrey; life can have no charms for you if you do not love children.” “Well, I do not imagine it possible for me ever to love them now, as I never have all this time.” “Aunt Torrey, you remember how much the Savior loved little children. There is something truly interesting and lovely about the little creatures. They are like sweet flowers springing up in our pathway. Only think what the world would be without them.” “It would be a great sight better off. I tell you there would be less vexation and trouble. You might talk to me till doomsday, and then never get me to think as you do. No, no, I am much older than you, and know too well the folly of such things.” (Clara wonders to herself how Aunt Torrey knows any thing about it.) “Do look, do look, Aunt Torrey ! Byron has fallen asleep; oh, can any thing be more lovely?” Lovely did the cherub-like child look as it lay nestled in its mother’s arms—the very picture of innocence and happiness— a smile lingered round its ruby lips, or nestled in the dimples of its rosy cheeks. The bright eyes of blue were gently closed by some unseen hand. Oh, what a pride and joy did the young mother feel as she gazed upon a picture drawn by the Creator’s own hand. It held converse with angels during its slumbering hours; for what seraph would not court the smiles of one so lovely and fair? Yes, Aunt Torrey, that was a picture upon which you might gaze with admiring eyes, and say in your heart, “Earth hath

some who are innocent.”

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“I must go, Clara, for I want to finish that silk bed quilt. It does seem to me it will never be finished. I love to do patchwork; I think, Clara, if you had something like that to employ your time, it would be better for you.” “Little Byron takes up all my time.” “So I suppose. What good is there, then, of your having a nurse? But I quite forgot; it is fashionable, you know, to have a nurse—a piece of extravagance, that is all. If it takes up all your time to ‘tend to him, you had better discharge Bridget.” “Who could take him out, then, during these lovely mornings?” “Oh, I forgot he had to be taken out for a show, once in a while.” “No, no, Aunt Torrey, not for that. He must have the fresh air. Flowers cannot thrive without it: neither could little Byron.” “Yes, I suppose they would, too.” “Aunt Torrey, the nurse is not the proper instructor for children, either.” “I suppose not. But what can such a child as you teach him? It is just like the ‘blind leading the blind.’” “I confess I am not a very good instructor; but still, for all that, I can learn him to talk.” “Can’t Bridget do that?” “Oh, yes, but 35 “But what? Just nothing at all; only you want to be dang

ling him all the time, just as a child does a mere toy; and, after a while, get tired of it. He will be a spoiled child, I tell you.” “It is most likely he will, Aunt Torrey.” “You had better try to find something better to occupy your time than nursing children.” “But there are its little clothes to make.” “It is your place to do that: I suppose you do make them. But such a quantity of useless stuff as you do put on themedgings, and fixings, and the dear knows what. That is all right, though. Women need some employment to keep themselves out of mischief Why, sure as I am alive, he has a gold chain.” “Well, Aunt Torrey, that was a gift from his papa.” * “I suppose it was. I tell you that you are going to bring that child up to be entirely too extravagant.” * “Let me ask you some questions, Aunt Torrey: there is Bruno, your pet dog, with a gold collar around his neck; now, do you call that extravagance #” “Lor bless you, child, no! why that chain will last him his life-time.” “But that is the second one he has had since my knowledge.” “The other was stolen.” That stands the same chance. And, Aunt Torrey, just look at the jewelry you purchase—the elegant dresses you wear at your time of life. – … ” “At my time of life!” exclaimed Aunt Torrey, sitting up more erect; “I hope you do not call me old.” “Oh, no,” said Clara, perceiving she had touched a weak point. “I only thought you lectured me too severely about Byron.”

“Well, that is a different matter altogether; a baby is a baby, no matter what you put on it.” “I cannot see how you can lavish so much affection on a lapdog.” “No, I suppose not. But a dog is no trouble; I only have his food cut up, water given him, washed once a day in the winter, twice in the summer, take him out for a little stroll once or twice a day. That is all, you see. But a child is so much trouble.” (Clara could not help smiling to herself while Aunt Torrey enumerated the only trouble a pet-spoiled lap-dog was). “Well, good morning, Clara; come and spend the day with me; but don’t bring Byron.” “Oh! I could not leave him for the world.” “I suppose not. Good morning.” :: * * sk * * * Aunt Torrey was one of those persons whom the world calls an old maid. She had her own peculiar notions about every thing, and one had as well try to bind the wind as to turn her opinion. Children were her abhorrence, and she often said she could tolerate any thing except a child. One great consideration with her was, when they came near her, she thought of some serious detriment they might do her dress, or else get her collar awry, or get one strand of her hair out of the right place, where she had been so careful to put it. Her affections were lavished upon lap-dogs! Only think! a lady to prefer something incapable of speech, to that to whom God hath given a soul, and breathed in it His own image. But Aunt Torrey had her own views about such matters. Ah! “Bruno” knew too well the meaning when she raised one of her menacing digits; he knew just how far he could go by a single glance of her cat-like eye. But children now are not so easily governed, and are apt to do pretty much as they may fancy. Aunt Torrey was sadly deficient in one particular; she was inconsistent, too; for she seemed to think that little children —the very sunbeams of the world—ought never to have any thing except what was of the plainest and cheapest kind. She pronounced all mothers foolish if they lavished nothing more than the ordinary caresses upon their little gems. There was indeed a dark film over the eyes of Aunt Torrey, . through which she could not see. Her heart had not been educated in the right school, or else she might soon have discovered how and why it was young mothers make so much of their children. She had never loved any thing apart from a lap-dog, or she might have looked with more admiring eyes upon what she so much disliked. Instead of looking frowningly upon children, she might have had a smile or a kind word. Depend upon it, Aunt Torrey, all is not right with you. Perhaps if you had not resigned yourself to a life of single blessedness, you would love the little creatures, too, and think with Clara, that life would be a desert without them. Bless the sweet little creatures—may you ever find some one to notice your innocent prattle, and have a kind word of encouragement to cheer you on. There are some in the world who do not look upon you as a nuisance or trouble; but rather take a

delight in catering to your every wish.

The love-chase. Woman’s wit. The maid of Mariendorpt. Love. John of Procida …

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His proper errand; and—as glimpses only
Beget and whet desire to see the whole—
Awakens interest to hear the tale
So stintingly that’s told. I know his practice—
Luck to you, Master Waller! If you win,
You merit it, who take the way to win!

Wal. Good, Master Neville!

True. I should laugh to see
The poacher snared!—the maid, for mistress sought,
Turn out a wife.

Nev. How say you, Master Waller?
Things quite as strange have fallen!

Wal. Impossible!

True. Impossible! Most possible of things—
If thou’rt in love! Where merit lies itself,
What matters it to want the name, which, weigh’d,
Is not the worth of so much breath as it takes
To utter it! If, but from Nature’s hand,
She is all you could expect of gentle blood,
Face, form, mien, speech; with these, what to belong
To lady more behoves—thoughts delicate,
Affections generous, and modesty—
Perfectionating, brightening crown of all!—
If she hath these—true titles to thy heart—
What does she lack that’s title to thy hand?
The name of lady, which is none of these,
But may belong without? Thou mightst do worse
Than marry her. Thou wouldst, undoing her,
Yea, by my mother’s name, a shameful act,
Most shamefully perform’d!

Wal. [Starting up and drawing.’] Sir!

Nev. [and the others, interposinyV Gentlemen!

True. All’s right! Sit down!—I will not draw again.
A word with you: If—as a man—thou say’st,
Upon thy honour, I have spoken wrong,
I’ll ask thy pardon!—though I never hold
Communion with thee more!

Wal. [After a pause, putting up his sword.] My sword is sheathed? Wilt let me take thy hand?

True. ‘Tis thine, good sir,
And faster than before—A fault confess’d,
Is a new virtue added to a man!
Yet let me own some blame was mine. A truth
May be too harshly told—but ’tis a theme

I am tender on—I had a sister, sir, .

You understand me!—’Twas my happiness ,
To own her once—I would forget her now !—
I have forgotten!—I know not if she lives!—
Things of such strain as we were speaking of,
Spite of myself, remind me of her !—So!

Nev. Sit down! Let’s have more wine.

Wild. Not so, good sirs.
Partaking of your hospitality,
I have overlook’d good friends I came to visit,
And who have late become sojourners here—
Old country friends and neighbours, and with whom
I e’en take up my quarters. Master Trueworth,
Bear witness for me.

True. It is even so.
Sir William Fondlove and his charming daughter.

Wild. Ay, neighbour Constance. Charming, does he say?
Yes, neighbour Constance is a charming girl
To those that do not know her. If she plies me
As hard as was her custom in the country,
I should not wonder though, this very day,
I seek the home I quitted for a month! [Aside.

Good even, gentlemen.

Hum. Nay, if you go,
We all break up, and sally forth together.

Wal. Be it so—Your hand again, good Master Trueworth! I am sorry that I pain’d you.

True. It is yours, sir. [They go out.

SCENE HI.—Sir William Fondlove’s Rouse.—J Room.
Enter Sir William Fondlove.

Sir Wil. At sixty-two, to be in leading-strings,
Is an old child—and with a daughter, too!
Her mother held me ne’er in cheek so strait
As she. I must not go but where she likes,
Nor see but whom she likes, do anything
But what she likes!—A slut, bare twenty-one!
Nor minces she commands!—A brigadier
More coolly could not give his orders out
Than she! Her waiting-maid is aide-de-camp,
My steward adjutant; my lacqueys Serjeants,
That bring me her high pleasure how I march
And counter-march—when I’m on duty—when
I’m off—when suits it not to tell it me
Herself—” Sir William, thus my mistress says!”
As saying it were enough—no will of mine
Consulted! I will marry. Must I serve,
Better a wife my mistress, than a daughter!
And yet the vixen says, that if I marry,
I’ll find she’ll rule my wile, as well as me!

Enter Trueworth.

Ah, Master Trueworth! Welcome, Master Trueworth!

True. Thanks, sir; I am glad to see you look so well!

Sir Wil. Ah, Master Trueworth, when one turns the hill, ‘Tis rapid going down! We climb by steps;

By strides we reach the bottom. Look at me,
Aid guess my age.

True. Turn’d fifty.

Sir Wil. Ten years more!
How marvellously well I wear! I think
You would not flatter me!—But scan me close,
And pryingly, as one who seeks a thin”
He means to find—What signs of age dost see?

True. None!

Sir Wil. None about the corners of the eyes?
Lines that diverge like to the spider’s joists,
Whereon he builds his airy fortalice?
They call them crow’s feet—Has the ugly bird
Been perching there ?—Eh ?—Well?

True. There’s something like.
But not what one must see, unless he’s blind
Like steeple on a hill!

Sir Wil. [after a pause]. Your eyes are good!
I am certainly a wonder tor my age;
I walk as well as ever! Do I stoop?

True. A plummet from your head would find your heel.

Sir Wil. It is my make—my make, good Master Trucworth; I do not study it. Do you observe The hollow in my back? That’s natural. As now I stand, so stood I when a child, A rosy, chubby boy!—I am youthful to A miracle! My arm is firm as ’twas At twenty. Feel it!

True. [Feeling Sir William’s arm.l It is oak!

Sir Wil. Flint—flint
Isn’t it, Master Trueworth? Thou hast known me
Ten years and upwards. Think’st my leg is shrunk?

True. No.

Sir Wil. No! not in the calf?

True. As big a calf
As ever!

Sir Wil. Thank you, thank you—I believe it!
When others waste, ’tis growing-time with me!
I feel it, Master Trueworth! Vigour, sir,
In every joint of me!—could run!—could leap!
Why shouldn’t I marry? Knife and fork I play
Better than many a boy of twenty-five—
Why shouldn’t I marry? If they come to wine,
My brace of bottles can I carry home,
And ne’er a headache. Death! why shouldn’t I marry?

True. I see in nature no impediment.

Sir Wil. Impediment? She’s all appliances !—
And fortune’s with me, too! The Widow Green
Gives hints to me. The pleasant Widow Green!
Whose fortieth year, instead of autumn, brings
A second summer in. Odds bodikins,
How young she looks! What life is in her eyes!

What ease is in her gait!—while, as she walks,
Her waist, still tapering, takes it pliantly!
How lollingly she bears her head withal:
On this side, now—now, that! When enters she
A drawing-room, what worlds of gracious things
Her curtsey says !—she sinks with such a sway,
Greeting on either hand the company,
Then slowly rises to her state again 1
She is the empress of the card-table!
Her hand ana arm !—Gods, did you see her deal—
With curved and pliant wrist dispense the pack,
Which, at the touch of her fair fingers flies!
How soft she speaks—how very soft! Her voice
Comes melting from her round and swelling throat,
Reminding you of sweetest, mellowest things—
Plums, peaches, apricots, and nectarines—
Whose bloom is poor to paint her cheeks and lips.
By Jove, I’ll marry!

True. You forget. Sir William,
I do not know the lady.

Sir Wil. Great your loss! By all the gods I’ll marry!—but my daughter Must needs be married first. She rules my house; Would rule it still, and will not have me wed. A clever, handsome, darling, forward minx! When I became a widower, the reins Her mother dropp’d she caught,—a hoyden girl; Nor, since, would e’er give up; howe’er I strove To coax or catch them from her. One way still Or t’other she would keep them—laugh, liout, plead; Now vanquish me with water, now with hre; Would box my face, and, ere I well could ope My mouth to chide her, stop it with a kiss! The monkey! what a plague she’s to me! How I love her!—How I love the Widow Green!

True. Then marry her!

Sir Wil. I tell thee, first of all
Must needs my daughter marry. See I not
A hope of that. She nought affects the sex:
Comes suitor after suitor—all in vain.
Fast as they how she curtsies, and says “Nay!”
Or she, a woman, lacks a woman’s heart,
Or has a special taste which none can hit.

True. Or taste, perhaps, which is already hit.

Sir mi. Eh !—how?

True. Remember you no country friend, Companion of her walks—her squire to church, Her beau whenever she went a-visiting— Before she came to town?

Sir Wil. No!

True. None ?—art sure?
No playmate when she was a girl?

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That Master Wildrake, I pray’d thee go
And wait for at the inn; but had forgotten.
Is he come?

True. And in the house. Some friends that met him,
As he alighted, laid strong hands upon him,
And made him stop for dinner. We had else
Been earlier with you.

Sir Wil. Ha! I am glad he is come.

True. She may be smit with him.

Sir Wil. As cat with dog!

True. He heard her voice as we came up the stairs,
And darted straight to join her.

Sir Wil. You shall see
What wondrous calm and harmony take place,
When fire meets gunpowder!

Con. [without]. Who sent for you?
What made you come?

Wild, [withouf]. To see the town, not you! A kiss!

Con. I vow I’ll not.

Wild. I swear you shall.

Con. A saucy cub! I vow, I had as lief Your whipper-in had kiss’d me.

Sir Wil. Do you hear?

True. I do. Most pleasing discords!

Enter Constance and Wildrake.

Con. Father, speak
To neighbour Wildrake!

Sir Wil. Very glad to see him!

Wild. I thank you, good Sir William! Give you joy Of your good looks!

Con. What, Phoebe !—Phoebe !—Phoebe!

Sir Wil. What want’st thou with thy lap-dog?

Con. Only, sir,
To welcome neighbour Wildrake! What a figure
To show himself in town!

Sir Wil. Wilt hold thy peace?

Con. Yes; if you’ll lesson me to hold my laughter! Wildrake.

Wild. Well?

Con. Let me walk thee in the Park—. How they would stare at thee!

Sir Wil. Wilt ne’er give o’er?

Wild. Nay, let her have her way—I heed her not! Though to more courteous welcome I have a right; Although I am neighbour Wildrake! Reason is reason!

Con. And right is right ! so welcome, neighbour Wildrake; I am very, very, very glad to see you! Come, for a quarter of an hour, we’ll e’en Agree together! How do your horses, neighbour?

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The Lily of Devon
By F Claudius Armstrong

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anxiety came over her features, as she repeated the words—Twenty-third Regiment; and then in a sad tone she added—” My poor father, Sir, was in the Twenty-third Regiment, and died in Jamaica, of yellow fever.”

Horace felt his cheek flush with intense excitement; he at once conjectured he was talking to his cousin, as he said, “then I feel satisfied that your father’s name was O’Kelly.”

At that moment the coachman pulled up at a road-side inn to change horses, and at once the outside passengers got down, and for a time our hero and the young girl remained alone on the roof of the Highflyer.

“Who then are you?” enquired the young girl in an agitated voice, “you who seem to have known my lamented father, and yet,” looking into his face, while a tear stole down her cheek, “you could scarcely have known him, for he has been dead these eight years.”

“And so,” said Horace, in a voide of great emotion, “I have found a relative at last. Miss

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O’Kelly, it rejoices me to think” I am your first Horace De Lacy; but calm yourself I pray you, they are putting up the steps, and this is no place either to give] way to one’s feelings, or continue this conversation. Let us be silent now; but I thank God that I have found you, the world is no longer a blank, for I have some one to love as a sister, and if necessary, to protect.”

“Horace De Lacy!” murmured Miss O’Kelly, in a very agitated tone, “how often have I heard that name. Let me however remain here, Mr. De Lacy,” she continued, “for I am too agitated and nervous, and indeed my manner would attract observation.” She could scarcely refrain from bursting into tears.

“But you cannot, Miss O’Kelly,” said our hero, “you cannot remain here all the time, we shall be more than an hour; pray descend, you can go into a private room.”

“No, no,” said the poor girl, alas! her means would not permit her to call for a private room and a separate repast, and her sensitive spirit shrunk from letting even her new found cousin know how poor and unprotected she was,—” I will make an effort, Mr. De Lacy,” she said, “and go into the room, I see there are other females; but,”—she hesitated—” do not think I am cold-hearted, or that I do not rejoice at finding a relation, and one so often talked of; but I beg you not to shew me any particular attention, as it might bring down upon me illnatured remarks.”

De Lacy felt his beautiful cousin was quite right, human nature too often puts a wrong construction upon the most innocent actions, and blames where praise is due; he therefore merely said—” You are quite right, Miss O’Kelly, I will avoid bringing any remarks upon you;” so saying, he helped her to descend.

As she walked into the house, a very pretty girl about fifteen or sixteen, the daughter of the landlady, came out to meet her, and looking into her flushed and beautiful features, seemed struck with them, for she immediately said—” Will you join Mamma and me, Miss, at our dinner? I am sure you will be more at home than in the coach parlour.”

“Oh, I am so obliged to you,” exclaimed Miss O’Kelly, taking the young girl’s hand in hers, and at once going with her into the little back parlour. Our hero, full of thought, walked into the room where the dinner was to be served- There was no hurry-skurry in those days of coach travelling, and much more politeness; for in fast times, when only ten minutes were allowed for bolting dinner, every one thought only of self, and of getting down the largest amount of food, in the shortest possible time.

The tall distinguished looking figure of De Lacy had its effect upon the passengers assembled, and a stout, red-faced, elderly gentleman, one of the insides, and who sat down to carve a fine piece of roast beef, addressing him—said, “Well, Sir, I dare say you found the outside more agreeable, this fine day. I should like it myself, but I never could get up, my head is too light.”

V Oh, this gentleman had a very pleasant companion alongside him,” observed the box seat very flippantly, ” I could only get a very slight glimpse of the damsel’s face, but it was very charming what I did see, so much so, that I quite envied my fellow-traveller.”

“Some bar-maid going to seek a place I dare say,” cried the old maid with the pet lap-dog, “they always put young good-looking girls in those places—they are to be pitied.”

“By Jove, I dont know that,” retorted the red-faced gentleman, “a pretty girl handing you a tumbler of punch enhances its flavor; and faith, they always make good matches those girls—at all events, very few, if any of them, die old maids.”

De Lacy thought it the best plan to make no remark: he spoke of something foreign to the purport of the late conversation to the gentleman at the head of the table, who seemed a good humoured jovial kind of personage, and having ate sufficient

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Novels, Volume 10
By Edward Bulwer Lytton Baron Lytton

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of the pure and lofty character of the man, quite apart from sympathy with his doctrines. But although Roach remained an unconverted Protestant of orthodox, if High Church, creed, yet there was one tenet he did hold in common with the author of the “Apologia.” He ranked celibacy among the virtues most dear to Heaven. In that eloquent treatise, “The Approach to the Angels,” he not only maintained that the state of single blessedness was strictly incumbent on every member of a Christian priesthood, but to be commended to the adoption of every conscientious layman.

It was the desire to confer with this eminent theologian that had induced Kenelm to direct his steps to Oxford.

Mr. Roach was a friend of Welby, at whose house, when a pupil, Kenelm had once or twice met him, and been even more charmed by his conversation than by his treatise.

Kenelm called on Mr. Roach, who received him very graciously, and, not being a tutor or examiner, placed his time at Kenelm’s disposal; took him the round of the colleges and the Bodleian; invited him to dine in his college-hall; and after dinner led him into his own rooms, and gave him an excellent bottle of Chateau Margeaux.

Mr. Roach was somewhere about fifty,— a good-looking man and evidently thought himself so; for he wore his hair long behind and parted in the middle, which is not done by men who form modest estimates of their personal appearance.

Kenelm was not long in drawing out his host on the subject to which that profound thinker had devoted so much meditation.

“I can scarcely convey to you,” said Kenelm, “the intense admiration with which I have studied your noble work, ‘Approach to the Angels.’ It produced a great effect on me in the age between boyhood and youth. But of late some doubts on the universal application of your doctrine have crept into my mind.”

“Ay, indeed?” said Mr. Roach, with an expression of interest in his face.

“And I come to you for their solution.”

Mr. Roach turned away his head, and pushed the bottle to Kenelm.

“I am quite willing to concede,” resumed the heir of the Chillinglys, “that a priesthood should stand apart from the distracting cares of a family, and pure from all carnal affections.”

“Hem, hem,” grunted Mr. Roach, taking his knee on his lap and caressing it.

“I go further,” continued Kenelm, “and supposing with you that the Confessional has all the importance, whether in its monitory or its cheering effects upon repentant sinners, which is attached to it by the Roman Catholics, and that it ought to be no less cultivated by the Reformed Church, it seems to me essential that the Confessor should have no better half to whom it can be even suspected he may, in an unguarded moment, hint at the frailties of one of her female acquaintances.”

“I pushed that argument too far,” murmured Roach.

“Not a bit of it. Celibacy in the Confessor stands or falls with the Confessional. Your argument there is as sound as a bell. But when it comes to the layman, I think I detect a difference.”

Mr. Roach shook his head, and replied stoutly, “No; if celibacy be incumbent on the one, it is equally incumbent on the other. I say’if.'”

“Permit me to deny that assertion. Do not fear that I shall insult your understanding by the popular platitude; namely, that if celibacy were universal, in a very few years the human race would be extinct. As you have justly observed, in answer to that fallacy, ‘It is the duty of each human soul to strive towards the highest perfection of the spiritual state for itself, and leave the fate of the human race to the care of the Creator.’ If celibacy be necessary to spiritual perfection, how do we know but that it may be the purpose and decree of the All Wise that the human race, having attained to that perfection, should disappear from earth? Universal celibacy would thus be the euthanasia of mankind. On the other hand, if the Creator decided that the human race, having culminated to this crowning but barren flower of perfection, should nevertheless continue to increase and multiply upon earth, have you not victoriously exclaimed, ‘Presumptuous mortal! how canst thou presume to limit the resources of the Almighty? Would it not be easy for Him to continue some other mode, unexposed to trouble and sin and passion, as in the nuptials of the vegetable world, by which the generations will be renewed? Can we suppose that the angels — the immortal companies of heaven — are not hourly increasing in number, and extending their population throughout infinity? and yet in heaven there is no marrying nor giving in marriage.’ All this, clothed by you in words which my memory only serves me to quote imperfectly,— all this I unhesitatingly concede.”

Mr. Roach rose and brought another bottle of the Chateau Margeaux from his cellaret, filled Kenelm’s glass, reseated himself, and took the other knee into his lap to caress.

“But,” resumed Kenelm, “my doubt is this.”

“Ah!” cried Mr. Roach, “let us hear the doubt.”

“In the first place, is celibacy essential to the highest state of spiritual perfection; and, in the second place, if it were, are mortals, as at present constituted, capable of that culmination?”

“Very well put,” said Mr. Roach, and he tossed off his glass with more cheerful aspect than he had hitherto exhibited.

“You see,” said Kenelm, “we are compelled in this, as in other questions of philosophy, to resort to the inductive process, and draw our theories from the facts within our cognizance. Now looking round the world, is it the fact that old maids ‘and old bachelors are so much more spiritually advanced than married folks? Do they pass their time, like an Indian dervish, in serene contemplation of divine excellence and beatitude? Are they not quite as worldly in their own way as persons who have been married as often as the Wife of Bath, and, generally speaking, more selfish, more frivolous, and more spiteful? I am sure I don’t wish to speak uncharitably against old maids and old bachelors. 1 have three aunts who are old maids, and fine specimens of the genus; but I am sure they would all three have been more agreeable companions, and quite as spiritually gifted, if they had been happily married, and were caressing their children, instead of lapdogs. So, too, I have an old bachelorcousin, Chillingly Mivers, whom you know. As clever as a man can be. But, Lord bless you! as to being wrapped in spiritual meditation, he could not be more devoted to the things of earth if he had married as many wives as Solomon, and had as many children as Priam. Finally, have not half the mistakes in the world arisen from a separation between the spiritual and the moral nature of man? Is it not, after all, through his dealings with his fellow-men that man makes his safest’approach to the angels’? And is not the moral system a very muscular system? Does it not require for healthful vigour plenty of continued exercise, and does it not get that exercise naturally by the relationships of family, with all the wider collateral struggles with life which the care of family necessitates?

“I put these questions to you with the humblest diffidence. I expect to hear such answers as will thoroughly convince my reason, and I shall be delighted if so. For at the root of the controversy lies the passion of love. And love must be a very disquieting, troublesome emotion, and has led many heroes and sages into wonderful weaknesses and follies.”

“Gently, gently, Mr. Chillingly; don’t exaggerate. Love, no doubt, is — ahem — a disquieting passion. Still, every emotion that changes life from a stagnant pool into the freshness and play of a running stream is disquieting to the pool. Not only love and its fellow-passions, such as ambition, but the exercise of the reasoning faculty, which is always at work in changing our ideas, is very disquieting. Love, Mr. Chillingly, has its good side as well as its bad. Pass the bottle.”

Kexelm (passing the bottle).—”Yes, yes; you are quite right in putting the adversary’s case strongly, before you demolish it: all good rhetoricians do that. Pardon me if I am up to that trick in argument. Assume that I know all that can be said in favour of the abnegation of common-sense, euphoniously called ‘love,’ and proceed to the demolition of the case.”

The Eev. Decimus Eoach (hesitatingly). — “The demolition of the case? humph! The passions are ingrafted in the human system as part and parcel of it, and are not to be demolished so easily as you seem to think. Love, taken rationally and morally by a man of good education and sound principles, is — is —”

Kenelm. —”Well, is what?”

The Rev. Decimus Roach.—”A — a — a — thing not to be despised. Like the sun, it is the great colourist of life, Mr. Chillingly. And you are so right: the moral system does require daily exercise. What can give that exercise to a solitary man, when he arrives at the practical age in which he cannot sit for six hours at a stretch musing on the divine essence; and rheumatism or other ailments forbid his adventure into the wilds of Africa as a missionary? At that age, Nature, which will be heard, Mr. Chillingly, demands her rights. A sympathizing female companion by one’s side; innocent little children climbing one’s knee,— lovely, bewitching picture! Who can be Goth enough to rub it out, who fanatic enough to paint over it the image of a Saint Simeon sitting alone on a pillar? Take another glass. You don’t drink enough, Mr. Chillingly.”

“I have drunk enough,” replied Kenelm, in a sullen voice, “to think I see double. I imagined that before me sat the austere adversary of the insanity of love and the miseries of wedlock. Now, I fancy I listen to a puling sentimentalist uttering the platitudes which the other Decimus Roach had already refuted. Certainly either I see double, or you amuse yourself with mocking my appeal to your wisdom.”

“Not so, Mr. Chillingly. But the fact is, that when I wrote that book of which you speak I was young, and youth is enthusiastic and one-sided. Now, with the same disdain of the excesses to which love may hurry weak intellects, I recognize its benignant effects when taken, as I before said, rationally,— taken rationally, my young friend. At that pe

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The World’s Crisis
By L. B. Woolfolk

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Still another instance of economy is exhibited by the numerous old maids, in providing subsistence for their pets. In a country like England, marriage is a luxury which many persons of small means— sufficient for one, not enough for two—must forego. Old maids are numerous, and they have the usual number of pet dogs and cats, upon which to lavish their exuberant affections. But to feed a pet with a hearty appetite is an expense which a respectable maiden lady with scanty means, barely sufficient for a respectable subsistence, can ill afford. Where every penny has to be counted and many a comfortable meal foregone, to lay aside the pittance for a rainy day, and the sum necessary for decent burial, the quantity that a lap-dog or pet cat will eat is a serious expense. Milk cannot be obtained in sufficient purity to be made an article of diet; beef, or mutton cannot be afforded. The dilemma has given rise to a distinct business in the large cities. Persons make it their business to prepare the flesh of dead horses, which they sell at a cheap rate, as “cats’ and dogs’ meat.” A stranger beholding the sign of one of these purveyors,—”Cats’ and dogs’ meat for sale here”—is at first impressed with the extreme destitution of the English poor, which reduces them to live on such food; and he is much relieved when he learns that it is horse flesh for sale, as food for the pets of economical families.

The extreme poverty of the better portion of the Working class is not manifest in economy and privation, only. Petty pilfering is universal.

The dairyman mixes lard with his butter, and drugs his milk to make it hold in solution a greater quantity of chalk and water.— The baker mingles alum with his flour, to make it hold more water; and he mixes sawdust with his unbolted flour, and chalk with his white. and increases the weight of his loaf with a liberal sprinkling of sand.—The butcher is so unfortunate as to be unable to adulterate his meat; but, selling it in small quantities, he indemnifies himself by a dextrous manipulation of the scales, which enables him to cheat his customers out of an ounce in the pound.—But the shopkeeper who retails groceries by the pennyworth is the prince of petty thieves. He adulterates his sugar with sand and sawdust, dilutes his molasses with water, and mixes lard with his hutter until hardly a vestige of the lacteal taste remains. He sells his coffee in a ground state to facilitate its adulteration; for which purpose he parches and grinds acorns, and has a standing engagement with all the servant girls in the neighborhood to save coffee-grounds for his shop. Similar engagements are kept for drawn tea leaves. Besides manifold adulterations, he cheats in weight. His coffee, tea, and sugar, are kept made up in small parcels, which are always systematically light.—But of all petty thieves in England, the landladies are the most persistent and annoying. They all steal. Their lodgers’ provisions and supplies of every kind pay systematic toll. They every day steal a little sugar, a little tea or coffee, a slice or two of bread, and, in winter, a few lumps of coal. The minuteness of the theft shows the destitution which prompts it. There are two comforts an Englishman never finds,—a chimney that don’t smoke, and a landlady that do n’t steal.

An English lady was lauding the piety of her countrymen in conversation with the author. “Pious!” he cried in astonishment, “do n’t the tradesmen all cheat, and the landladies all pilfer! are they not members of your churches?” “Oh yes,” she replied, with an ingenuous blush, “but that is the custom of the country, Sir!”

But neither privation, nor every expedient to which Poverty can resort, can always shelter the English mechanic from the fate he dreads. Every branch of industry is overcrowded. Thousands of mechanics, and clerks, and laborers, are continually out of employment. A fit of sickness throws the working man out of employment, and he finds upon his recovery, that his place has been supplied. The other shops and factories are all full. In the hope of obtaining work he remains in the city, subsisting on the sums obtained from pawnbrokers upon his furniture and clothing. These at last are exhausted, and the unfortunate is driven to the alternative of starvation, suicide, or going “on tramp.” Many, weary and disheartened with the sore struggle of life, choose suicide as the shortest way “to make an end on’t.” Others, utterly hopeless, shut themselves and their families up in their lodgings, to perish of hunger. Where life is so beset with hardships it gradually loses its value, and to many of the better class of laboring Englishmen death. has fewer horrors than the life of the wretched thousands who exist immediately below them in the social scale.

The greater number, however, hang on to life with tenacity. They set out on tramp in search of work. England is full of these “tramps.” They beg a lunch at farm-houses, and, by applying to the proper authorities, they are entitled to a loaf of bread at night and shelter in the poor-house. But these houses are frequently full to overflowing, and then the “tramp ” must lie in the street exposed to the inclemency of the elements. If unsuccessful in obtaining employment, a few weeks of such experience eradicate the last remnant of self-respect. He continues mechanically to apply for work, but he soon loses the energy necessary to persistent industry, and his appearance becomes so shabby as to deter any one from offering him employment. He sinks, step by step, until he becomes a “tramp” by profession, wandering from place to place, begging of farm-houses, subsisting on public charity, sleeping under hedges or in the streets when lodging in a station-house cannot be had. He at last becomes merged in the myriads who people the cities, living as they best can, begging, working, stealing, until at last death closes the scene.

If such is the hard experience of the Aristocracy of labor, what is the condition of those below them, whose wages are inadequate to the means of subsistence?

What is the condition of the farm laborer toiling for eight shillings a week ? of the city operatives, engaged in the various avocations of traffic and productive industry, whose wages average only ten shillings a week? Language cannot depict the destitution that exists among the masses of the laboring class in England. Their wages are wretchedly inadequate to their wants. If the mechanic earning thirty shillings per week is under the necessity of exercising pinching economy, how deep the destitution of those who only earn one-third that sum!

And worse still what is the condition of the widows and orphans whose husbands and fathers have fallen in the bitter struggle with life!

There are thousands of sewing girls whose wages average only four shillings a week. How they manage to subsist, is a problem we have never been able to solve. That the solution involves frightful suffering is beyond question. They are fortunate, however, for they endure their privations alone. But when the sempstress is a mother, and the wages insufficient for one must be divided to support famishing children—then ensues a scene of suffering at which humanity shudders. Some of these widows, inspired with maternal affection, resolve to keep their children around them at every sacrifice, and bravely set about the only work open to them,—sewing for shops. The family gradually sinks lower in destitution. Little articles, the purchases of happier years, gradually disappear to the pawnbrokers, whence they are never redeemed. Affection continues bravely to struggle against destiny, but in vain. Those are fortunate whom heart-weariness, and anxiety, and destitution, quickly relieve of the burden of life; though death is embittered with a pang not its own, in the consciousness that the tender ones loved so dearly are left to blight and wither amid the neglect and unkindness of this cold world. Others live on—live to see their children pining round them with cold and hunger—to behold them becoming slowly brutalized by the circumstances of their lot—to perceive the soft beautiful lines of youth changing into the pinched look of want, the gentle eye glassing into the wild stare of famine, the little forms once so lovely begrimed with dirt that poverty has no time to wash away, and clad in rags which industry vainly strives to renew. The heart grows sick at last. Its tender affections, once a source of joy, now only thrill it with anguish. The sight of those beloved ones so changed racks the soul with agony akin to that with which we look upon our dead; and at last Hope dies in the heart, and Despair sits sullenly brooding over its grave. We bury our dead out of our sight; and the despairing, widowed mother slowly reconciles herself to the thought which, day by day, grows more vivid, that she must put these children away from her. Destiny—dark Destiny, against which we all struggle so fiercely, but which conquers us at last—triumphs; and she yields her children to the parish authorities, to be bound to years of harsh slavery—to become the drudges of Poverty, the starved minions of Want.

Henceforth the quiet of her little room becomes unendurable to the bereaved spirit. The floors still echo the patterings of little feet, the walls are vocal with infantile voices. Solitude is peopled with thoughts of her lost children. Memory haunts- her desolation, and she must fly to active life from the specters of the past. But whither? What resource, if the needle, the stay of the destitute, be abandoned? None for respectability; but what is respectability now, when the heart is crushed, the life desolate! Misery has no deeper gulf. For what shall she struggle—what strive to save, who has lost her all! Self-respect has gone down with hope. The world and its opinion are nothing to her, now: it stood by unpitying, and witnessed her hard struggle; it beheld with cold indifference the sacrifice of her children; and now she can scorn its idle blame, and trample its opinions with the defiant hate of a spirit stung by sorrow almost to madness. Henceforth busy life is her place; the bustle of the street may drown the voices of the Past. Hard toil is her choice—for toil is not so bitter as regret. We see these thrice-childless widows abroad on the streets, engaged in every department of labor, with faces from which the light has faded out, replaced by a hopeless aspect of sullen stoicism and defiant endurance. They are milk-women traversing the streets with a wooden beam across their shoulders, from which their milk-cans are suspended. They are peddlers of fruit or vegetables, squatted in the streets, exposed to cold and heat and storm, and seemingly indifferent. to all, while they vociferously cry their wares, and in fierce competition with each other entreat the passing crowd to buy. They are—what are they not! Why trace the thousand ways in which Wretchedness struggles to support a loathed life!

Their condition is not peculiar. There is nothing to distinguish them among the thousands of suffering mortals, all as wretched as they. The myriads of city laborers receiving little better wages than the starving sempstresses have families who shiver and starve as well as theirs. Their lives are as full of misery and debasement.

Why draw a picture of isolated suffering! why single out one object from the millions equally poor, equally wretched!

How these multitudes live none can say. Their wages seem inadequate to subsistence. But poverty has its hard expedients un