"That's a good wish instead of a bad one," said Cæsar, who had just come in at the front−door, triumphantly conducting Phillis.
That day an excellent dinner was served up in the back−parlor: and as all were now in good spirits it would have gone off pleasantly, only that Mr. Stapleford filled his wine−glass too often. But he said, as he poured out the last, "I cannot help it indeed I cannot. It is a dreadful vice easily contracted and hard to cure.
Shame on the woman that brought me to it. Well, well, enough of that, I wish I could forget her always.
Come, I'll not drink any thing more to−day. Only I must have my glass of hot whiskey punch at bed−time."
As soon as the two gentlemen were alone, Woodbridge told his father−in−law that having now the most sanguine hopes of Charlotte's improvement, he thought it best to make no further reference to what had already passed; and that, unless he saw unequivocal symptoms of a relapse, he would gladly consign to oblivion every thing that had hitherto embittered their married life.
"I fear," said Mr. Stapleford, "her goodness will not last. However, even a little of it is better than none at all.
Her mother never had a single fit of goodness not, even for one day. Well, well, I will not trust myself to talk of her."
Next day the old gentleman set out at an early hour for Baltimore; and Woodbridge, (judging from appearances) found that in future the table was to be set always in the back parlor, and supplied in a liberal manner.
PART IV.
34
Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
That morning Mesdames Squanderfield and Pinchington made together a visit to Mrs. Woodbridge. Her intention had been to send them each a concise indicative of her desire that their acquaintance should cease; and she had purposed consulting her husband that very afternoon on the best manner of wording these notes.
But they had seen her as they came past the window, and the moment Cæsar opened the front door they pushed by him, and with their usual familiarity made their entrance into the room. At the first sight of her two perfidous friends, our heroine determined to meet them with calm and dignified resentment; but this wise determination soon gave way to the passion which she felt burning in her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes.
Mrs. Squanderfield began "Dear Mrs. Woodbridge, it seems an age since I have seen you. But I was busy the whole day yesterday, shopping all through Chesnut street, with two ladies from the far west (who with their husbands are staying at our house) and taking them to milliners and mantua−makers. They have travelled more than a thousand miles, each bringing a young baby along; and their sole business is to get fitted out with the Philadelphia fashions. They take this journey twice every year, and carry wagon loads home with them."
"For my part," said Mrs. Pinchington, "I was all day yesterday going about in search of a cheap washerwoman. Mine has raised her price to six dollars a quarter, and rather than give more than five I will wash and iron my own things in my own room. But as Mrs. Squanderfield says, it seems an age since I have seen you. I really believe we have not met since the day of your delightful dinner−party."
"Delightful was it," said Charlotte, unable longer to restrain herself, "you did not think so in the boat coming down the river, when you were telling Mrs. Squanderfield about it: and I am very sure you made it out worse even than it really was."
Mrs. Pinchington changed color, and looked much embarrassed; but rallied in a few moments and said, "My dear Mrs. Woodbridge you must be misinformed. Some vile mischief−maker, some wicked slanderer has been trying to disturb our friendship."
"My informant," replied Charlotte, "is neither a mischief−maker nor a slanderer. It was my own father, Mr.
Stapleford. He happened to be seated near you: and he heard every word. First, you led me on by your own advice to do all sorts of mean paltry things"
"I found you willing enough to be led," interrupted Mrs. Pinchington.
"And now," continued Charlotte, "you have abused me for following your instructions. I should not have been half so bad, had you left me to myself. But my eyes are now opened, and as I intend to act very differently for the future, I shall have the better chance of keeping that resolution by declining all further intercourse with Mrs. Pinchington."
"With all my heart," said Mrs. Pinchington, rising angrily, "I have no occasion to force my acquaintance on any one. And from what I have heard of her, I am very sure your notions of economy came from your own mother far more than from me. I wish you all possible success in your new scheme of reform; which you will find a tough job, take my word for it."
So saying, Mrs. Pinchington flounced out of the room, and scuttled out of the house.
"What a strange woman that is" remarked Mrs. Squanderfield. "I have thought several times of telling you how little she is, in reality, your friend, and how shamefully she talks about you wherever she goes. It is a great pity you asked her to that unlucky dinner−party; the account she gives of it is awful. I own I was a little hurt at your not inviting me. I should then have had it in my power to contradict her ill−natured reports."
PART IV.
35
Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
"Perhaps not" said our heroine "for with shame I acknowledge that there was too much foundation for her statements, however unfavorable they might be. But the next time I prepare for company, things will be found very different. I have had a mortifying lesson."
"I must say" pursued Mrs. Squanderfield "that I greatly approve of liberality. People in genteel life should not mind expense. By the bye, have you heard of the splendid new style shawls that Lev y has just opened. I saw them yesterday, and they are the most divine things I ever beheld. Get ready, and come with me, and secure one before all the best are gone."
"To be plain with you Mrs. Squanderfield" said Charlotte "my intention is, in future, to expend less money on dress, and more on things of greater importance. And I know that both my husband and myself will be happier for the change."
"Really" observed Mrs. Squanderfield "I thought all men were happy to see their wives handsomely drest."
"I begin to think" said Charlotte "that a woman may be drest handsomely without spending enormous sums, and getting five times as many new things as she can possibly want. My husband has not yet made his fortune: and in the mean time, that our housekeeping may be on a more liberal scale, I shall lessen my own personal expenses. But as I am going to reform both ways, I think it best to relinquish my intimacy with Mrs.
Squanderfield as well as with Mrs. Pinchington, for I wish not to be led farther into temptation."
"I declare you are very polite" exclaimed Mrs. Squanderfield, starting up "I cannot think what has got into you to−day. You don't seem at all like yourself."
"So much the better, perhaps" replied Charlotte; "but as my father could not have overheard Mrs.
Pinchington, without also overhearing Mrs. Squanderfield, his report has convinced me that neither of these ladies has any right to call herself my friend."
"Upon my word" said Mrs. Squanderfield, forcing a laugh, "it is really amusing to see how new you are. I thought you were old enough to know that in all circles, even in the highest, every body talks of every body without the least scruple. It is the way of the world: and I do not pretend to be better than my neighbors.
However, as Mrs. Pinchington says, I have no occasion to force my society on any one. I have more friends already than I can possibly visit, even if I were to do nothing else from noon till midnight. I see we don't suit: but you will lose more than I shall. However, let us part decently, and be civil whenever we chance to meet.
So I wish you good morning, and success to your plan of reforming both ways."
"Good morning" said Charlotte, softening her voice; for in truth, she felt rather better disposed toward Mrs.
Squanderfield than to Mrs. Pinchington, whose report of the dinner−party seemed unforgivable. She accompanied her visiter to the door, and ere they parted, our hero
ine found herself asking, "who did you say had just opened these elegant shawls, Levy or Vanharlingen?"
"Aha" replied Mrs. Squanderfield, with a sneer; "still hankering after new shawls, I saw them at Levy's: and I fear the naughty child is not going to get quite good all at once."
"I wish it were more easy to do so" said Charlotte, colorirg highly, and hastily returning to the parlor, where she sat down awhile and pondered. She then went up to her chamber, and looked out some sewing. But her thread knotted and her needle broke, and she found she was not in the humor to sew. So she dressed herself, and went out, and habit directed her steps to Chestnut street. "At least," thought she, "I may as well stop in at Levy's and see the shawls. Tis certainly pleasant to look at things that are new and elegant. But I am determined that nothing shall tempt me to buy one."
PART IV.
36
Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
She went into Levy's, saw the shawls, and was tempted to buy one. But she thought she would not mention it to her husband for some days at least; and, as a salvo, she resolved on paying extra attention to his comforts and wishes.
"My dear Harvey," said she, after helping him at dinner to a second piece of pie, "would you not like to have a carpenter or a cabinet−maker or some such person, to fit up the dining−room with book−shelves or book−cases. You can have it for a library if you wish, as in future we shall use the parlors entirely."
The delighted husband started from his seat, and replied by a kiss: and the same afternoon he bespoke both shelves and cases; and went to a bookseller's to begin his selection of books.
Next morning, shortly after breakfast, Harvey Wooodbridge came home from his store with a look of consternation which much alarmed his wife; and as gently as he could, he broke to her the appalling intelligence of her mother's sudden death. A letter had just arrived from New York, written by her brother James, who stated that on the preceding day while a mantua−maker was fitting her for a new dress, Mrs.
Stapleford had fallen down and instantly expired. Great was the horror of our heroine at this unexpected termination of her mother's mortal existence. And she and her husband set out by the first conveyance for New York, leaving a letter for Mr. Stapleford, who arrived that afternoon from Baltimore, and followed them in the mail.
The old gentleman was excessively shocked at his wife being so suddenly hurried to her last account, unprepared as she was for the awful change into eternity. He grieved exceedingly, and never made any farther allusion to her faults. The day after the funeral he took the temperance pledge.
The fate of her vain, selfish, and heartless mother made a deep impression on our heroine, and soon completed the work of reformation which her father's representations had begun. The old gentleman was prevailed on to return with his daughter and his son−in−law, and to pass a few weeks with them in Philadelphia. Though her father was completely sobered, Charlotte soon perceived that, after the first shock had subsided, the husband of such a woman as Mrs. Stapleford, could not be inconsolable for her loss: and that (though he said nothing) he soon began to feel it a relief. "Ah!" thought she "I must make Harvey happy while I live or he too will regard my death as a deliverance from misery."
On Mr. Stapleford's return to New York, it was arranged that his sister, an excellent woman who had been left a widow with a small income, should take charge of his house: and that his son James should again reside beneath the roof of his father. This change had a most salutary effect on the habits of the young man, and he found it easy to abandon the incipient vice which as yet had not fixed itself upon him.
Mr. Stapleford found an affectionate and intelligent companion in his amiable and considerate sister, (though she had always been his wife's aversion) and now that he had a well−ordered and happy home, he had no inclination to seek for pleasure elsewhere. The entire abandonment of liquor soon restored his good looks and his selfrespect: and his visits to Philadelphia were always anticipated with delight by his son−in−law and daughter.
We will not say that our heroine had not for a while occasional lapses from her good resolutions: but these aberations gradually became slighter and less frequent. Love for her husband once awakened, she no longer took pleasure in wilfully annoying him, either by word or deed: and when she showed any indication of her former waywardness, a gentle remonstrance from Harvey always brought her to reason. Also, having so unceremoniously dismissed her two evil counsellors, she felt the advantage of being released from their blighting influence.
PART IV.
37
Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
She now formed an intimacy with some of the most valuable of her husband's female friends. These ladies set her in every respect an excellent example, particularly in improving her mind, and cultivating a taste for books. Her heart and hand also expanded to the relief of the unfortunate and the indigent. Her reform at length became complete, both with regard to extravagance in dress and parsimony in house−keeping; and there is not, at this day, in Philadelphia, a more happy or a more popular couple than Mr. and Mrs.
Woodbridge.
TO A WITHERED ROSE.
Nature's warm spirit's! from thee fled, As now thon hangst upon thy stem All sapless, withered, wan and dead, Yet fragrant still, sweet gem! So is it with the pure in life; When, from this earth, they pass away; Their deeds, with virtue's sweets are rife, They live beyond decay. R. H.
A SISTER'S LOVE.
Bind on your heart this jewel rare, Oh, ye to whom this prize is given! Nor let rude hands your treasure tear, But hold it as the gift of heaven! Till death its shining worth improve, And angel's crown a sister's love.
MY SISTER'S CHILD.
BY MRS. ANNAN, LATE MISS A. M. F. BUCHANAN.
It had my sister's gentle eyes, Her soft and shining hair; Her cheek, in form and changeful dyes, And placid brow are there. My darling! when with merry laugh I echo back thine own, 'Tis oft that I forget me, half, What cares my way have strown; The partner of my being's spring, Herself, while seemest thou, I scarce can feel the world−worn thing That acts thy mother now. Yet while by yonder turf−bank low Thou hid'st in feigning sleep, Thine eyes, a glance may hardly know From violets, when they peep; While o'er the runlet thou dost lean And from its eddies dip The foam, in cups of oak leaves green, To wet thy smiling lip; Though bounds my heart to meet thy play, 'Tis sometimes chilled with fear; Thus rang her voice but yesterday How long shall thine be here? " My sister's child! " how well that sound Recalls the happy hour, When, looking innocent and fond As thou upon yon flower, A mother's title sweet she heard And on the accents hung, While first thou marred the tender word With thy unpractis'd tongue: How proud I spoke! your beauty rare To me was triumph high; Ye formed a picture strangely fair, Its owner rich was I! "My sister's child!
my sister's child!' With aching heart I said, To watch her stroke thy ringlets wild, Upon her dying bed. She gave thee to my love, her trust Most precious and the last, To guard, when unto silent dust Her worshipped form had passed; I clasped thee from her thin white hand, She faded as she smiled; God helps me in her stead to stand And bless her angel child!
TO ONE BELOVED.
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
Dost thou not turn, Fairest and sweetest, from the flowery way, On which thy feet are treading every day, And seek to learn Tidings, sometimes, of him who loved thee well More than the pen can write or tongue can tell? Gaze not thine eyes (Oh, wild and lustrous eyes, ye were my fate!) Upon the lines he fashioned, not of late, But when the skies Of joy were over him, and he was blessed That he could sing of treasures he possessed? Treasures more dear Than gold in ingots or barbaric piles Of pearls and diamondsthy most precious smiles! Bring, bring me here, Oh ruthless Time, some of those treasures now, And print a hundred wrinkles on my brow. Make me grow old Before my years are manytake away Health, youth, ambitionlet my strength decay, My mind be sold To be the slave of some strange, barren lore Only those treasures to my TO A WITHERED ROSE.
38
&
nbsp; Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
heart restore! Ah, I implore A boon that cannot be, a blessing flown Unto a realm so distant from my own That, could I soar On eagle's wings, it still would be afar As if I strove by flight to reach a star! The future vast Before me lifts majestic steps on high, Which I must stand upon before I die; For, in the past Love buried lies; and nothing lives but Fame To speak unto the coming age, my race and name.
MARK MERIDEN.
BY MRS. H. E. B. STOWE.
"Come, Mark Meriden! don't settle down into an old grandfather before your time a pretty wife's a pretty thing, Mark, and a pretty house is a pretty thing but hang it! one must have a little of life."
Mark Meriden stood at his desk, giving a last look at his books, while Ben Sanford the roguish the merry the song singing the Ben of all Bens, was thus urging on him the claims of a projected frolic that evening.
Now Ben was precisely the messenger for such an embassy there was fun in the twinkle of his blue eye, and a world of waggery in the turn of his head, and in a pair of broad roguish dimples that went merrily dodging in and out of his cheeks every time he spoke, and he had laid hold of Mark's arm to drag him away.
But Mark shook off his hand, and finished summing up a column of figures put the blotting paper into the book, and the book into the place, wiped his pen all with an air of great thoughtfulness, and, at last, turning to Ben, said "I think I won't go this time."