LITTLE CHILDREN.
I am fond of children (says a celebrated author). I think them the poetry of the world—the fresh flowers of our hearths and homes—little conjurors, with their natural magic; evoking by their spells what delights and enriches all ranks, and equalizes the different classes of society. Often as they bring with them anxieties and cares, and live to occasion sorrow and grief, we should get on very badly without them. Only think—if there was never anything anywhere to be seen but great grown-up men and women! How we should long for the sight of a little child! Every infant comes into the world like a delegated prophet, the harbinger and herald of good tidings, whose office it is "to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children," and to draw "the disobedient to the wisdom of the just." A child softens and purifies the heart, warming and melting it by its gentle presence; it enriches the soul by new feelings, and awakens within it what is favorable to virtue. It is a beam of light, a fountain of love, a teacher whose lessons few can resist. Infants recall us from much that engenders and encourages selfishness, that freezes the affections, roughens the manners, indurates the heart, they brighten the home, deepen love, invigorate exertion, infuse courage, and vivify and sustain the charities of life. It would be a terrible world, I do think, if not embellished by little children.
SELLING THE LOVE-TOKEN.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
BY ALICE B. NEAL.
(See Plate.)
"Very well done!" said my grandmother; "very well done, sir—you have succeeded better than I expected."
The foreign-looking gentleman bowed and smiled, showing his white teeth through a dark overhanging moustache, as my grandmother bent forward again from the easy-chair, and raised her double silver-rimmed eye-glass.
Now, Josephine and myself had been sent to her room on some household errand connected with the coming festivities of Christmas, and were not sorry to find the door slightly ajar. We had seen the strange-looking gentleman, with the large square case, arrive, and knew that it was not his first visit to the sitting-room, which we young people never entered without knocking first for admittance. Everybody said Madam Evelyn was peculiar; but everybody loved her, or rather regarded her with that mingling of trust and respect which we call deference, in its warmest and most grateful sense. This was one of her peculiarities, that her room was held free of all intrusion, except from such visitors as she chose to admit. I do not believe papa, her favorite son, ever broke through the rule of asking audience, though she had made his home her home for many a year. Poor mamma used to declare that she envied her this privilege. Her chamber was a perfect thoroughfare. The seamstress always occupied one corner. The servants were coming for orders incessantly. Maude, my oldest sister, who had her grandmother's name, retreated to mamma's lounge if she chanced to disagree with Elizabeth, and at any hour of the day a little horde of Goths, in the shape of us younger children, were liable to overrun and take possession of this neutral territory between the parlor and the nursery.
Poor mamma! no wonder her favorite expressions were—"I'm sure I shall go distracted some day," and "I am just ready to die." I dare say she was at any time; but there seemed to be no refuge. Grandmother often remonstrated with her, and told her that every person needed some time in the day to collect their thoughts, and balance accounts with themselves. After these talks, mamma would sometimes make the attempt to have an undisturbed five minutes, "sitting with closed doors;" but nurse would come with the baby, Charley with his cut finger, Josephine with her torn frock or hard spelling lesson, and I with a mutilated doll that required instant surgical aid. Maude and Elizabeth were sure to have a dispute about the joint occupancy of some desk or closet; the cook was in want of some receipt, or the newspaper carrier insisted on sixty cents for the "Journal," and could not be put off. No wonder that mamma was always "nervous" and delicate, and that those periods of seclusion were few and far between.
But our grandmother's room, as I said before, was sacred from intrusion. It was a large, cheerful apartment, with old-fashioned, heavy mahogany furniture, and chintz curtains lined with colored cambric in the winter season, as you may see in the bedrooms of old-fashioned English houses. Her bed was in an adjoining "light closet," as she called it, for she never yet could conquer a prejudice against sleeping in a room with a fire; and hence we all of us, from oldest to youngest, esteemed it a wonderful favor to visit her.
And now, thought Josephine and myself, stealing in on tiptoe, we should find out what the errand of the strange gentleman is, and what he has brought to grandmother in the square packing-case.
But, alas for our hopes! she very quietly closed the cover as she discovered us in the background, and the only satisfaction we had was seeing her go to the tall cabinet in the corner, and take out five bright gold pieces, which she gave to the stranger, and which seemed to please him quite as much as her commendation had done. I dare say he needed the gold more than the praise, though both were grateful to the friendless foreigner.
We did not mean to betray our unlawful curiosity, but I suppose we must have done so, for grandmother said—
"All in good time, children," and nodded a little towards the mysterious box. I took Josephine to task, as we hastily retreated in the wake of the strange gentleman, while she, on the contrary, was convinced it was me who had drawn forth the implied reprimand.
We always made a great account of Christmas, much more than any of our friends, to whom Thanksgiving Day was the high festival of the year. I suppose it was on account of our English descent; and then our grandmother always took such an active and happy part in the day's household festivities.
On this day she always came down stairs to dinner, carefully dressed in an old-fashioned brocaded silk, the snowy lawn handkerchief crossed on her breast, fastened with a brooch containing my grandfather's hair, in a setting of alternate pearls and garnets. My uncle John and his family were usually of the party, but she leaned on papa's arm, and always called him "my son."
The evening of the coming Christmas we were to pass in grandmother's room, by special invitation. Chester Adams, who was in papa's counting-house, and indeed always treated like one of the family, was the only stranger present. Our grandmother was always especially kind to him, for he was a frank, modest young man; an orphan, with no home circle but our own. Papa thought him possessed of unusual business talents and integrity, but he had no other fortune; while Robert Winthrop, the next most constant visitor at the house, was the son of a rich man, and member of Congress. We used to wonder, Josephine and I, why Maude always sent us to bed the instant either of them came, and why our favorite, Chester Adams, would sometimes take up his hat and go away again, when he heard young Winthrop was in the parlor, without so much as saying good-evening. However, we are older now, and have visitors of our own.
I think Maude was in hopes Robert Winthrop would be asked to stay, for he called in the afternoon, and brought her a bouquet from his mother's conservatory, one of the few kept up through our rigorous Boston winters. But though he paid a very long call, sitting almost until the candles were lighted, no further invitation was given. Maude consoled herself, however, by coming to the dinner-table with a branch of the scarlet geranium in her dark hair, which suited the coral ornaments, papa's gift, and was wonderfully becoming. Chester Adams moved a little, to make way for her, and then spilled the gravy he was helping grandmother to, as she sat down. We children thought he was very dull—he did not tell one amusing story, or eat philopœnas with us, as he generally did.
Our Christmas dinner was the great feast of the year. On other days, the orthodox two o'clock rule of our neighbors was adopted, but there was a lunch after church on Christmas, and the dinner was not served until it was quite dark. The shutters were closed, lights placed along the table, a great dessert-dish of fruit, ornamented with evergreens, occupied the centre, while the roast beef before papa, and the turkey in mamma's vicinity, were the finest the market could afford. We used to wonder how people could eat beef, when there was roast turkey with dressing!
Then, at dessert, the plum-pudding made from our grandmother's receipt came on all in a blaze, which we thought the most curious thing in the world, and used to excite the incredulity of our schoolmates with describing. Then there were raisins and almonds, figs and apples, and a dish of sugar-plums, which mostly fell to our share. There, too, we could not account for the indifference of our elders and betters, though we were so much the gainers by it. There never will be such dinners as those again—never, never, Josephine and I both agree, though we should live to have houses of our own, and be able to order almonds and raisins every day for dessert.
After we young people had disposed of all we could, and much more than was good for us, I dare say, the whole party adjourned to grandmother's room. Chester Adams had never been in it before, and exclaimed at its cheerful air of comfort, which pleased grandmother—and papa, too, for that matter, for he was still an affectionate and dutiful child. The chintz curtains were let down, the round-table drawn up near the blazing grate, and the brass-headed nails that studded the old-fashioned furniture glowed in the light of the wax candles in the high silver candlesticks on the mantle and table. Our grandmother never took kindly to lamps. I don't know what she would have said to gas.
This was the way we sat—papa on one side of the fire, with Joe on his knee, and Charlie nestling up to mamma's side, already half asleep. Then Uncle John opposite, and quiet Aunt Mary, with Cousin Kate and Ellis, their only children. Elizabeth was on that side, for she and Ellis were great friends; and so it happened that Chester Adams was left the place on the sofa between Maude and myself. Maude drew her dress up carefully when he sat down and put his arm around me. I was only ten years old, and we had always looked upon him as our brother. I thought Maude need not have been so careful, though she did have on her best silk, for Chester was very nice. Maude often spoke of how particular he was.
Grandmother had promised us a story that evening. She and papa often talked about England on Christmas evening, and sometimes of our grandfather. Uncle John was too young when they came to this country to remember much that happened before.
"Tell us about the old stone Grange, grandmother, where you were born," pleaded Josephine.
"Yes—about your tumbling into the moat, like pussy in the well and little Johnny Green," Charlie called out, suddenly rising up from mamma's shoulder.
Grandmother pulled up her black silk mitts, and smiled very kindly. I can see her now, sitting up as straight in her high-backed chair as if she had never known any burden of care, or sorrow, or disappointment. Mamma always stooped much more. Just then, Josephine and I discerned the square case standing on the shelf of the cabinet. We both saw it at the same time, and even papa's eyes wandered curiously in that direction.
He certainly had the best right to solve the mystery—it contained his Christmas present from grandmother; a picture in a bright gilt frame, which he brought forward, at her request, and placed in an excellent light. I never saw my father more affected than when he had the first glimpse of that picture. He did not say one word; but the tears rose to his eyes, and he went directly to grandmother, and, stooping down, kissed her forehead, putting back the silvery hair as he would have done to one of us, and holding his hand there a moment as if he said, "God bless you!" in his heart. It was the only affectionate caress I ever saw him give her, for he was usually self-composed, almost stern in manner, which was her own way.
"But what is it about, grandmother—the story?" asked Josephine.
"What a funny little baby!" commented Charlie. "Not half so pretty as ours. And such an ugly old gentleman! What is he doing with that eye-glass, mamma? It isn't double, like grandmother's."
Maude and Elizabeth seemed interested to know whether it was to be hung in the parlor, and said the frame was very handsome. For myself, I saw in the picture a dark room, not at all like any in our house, with an old gentleman, whose long pointed beard reminded me of the Jewish doctors in the Temple—one of the prints in grandmother's large Bible. He seemed to be examining a ring through an eye-glass, and before him stood a lady with a very sad, anxious face. She wore a dark robe, of a quaint, though graceful fashion, and held a little child in her arms. I thought it was as pretty a picture as any in the annual Chester Adams had given Maude that morning, though I felt almost inclined to cry; the lady's face was so very sorrowful.
"Who will read my story for me?" said grandmother, by and by, when papa had moved away from the back of her chair, and stood looking at the picture again with his hand over his eyes, to get a better light, I dare say. "I have written it, because there are some of these little people who would forget if it was only told them, and I should like to have it remembered as long as the picture is kept in the family; when you do not come to pass your Christmas evenings in grandmother's room," she added, after a little pause. It was the first time I heard her allude to her going from us; not that I think she dreaded death—no one was ever better prepared to meet it—but she was naturally reserved.
I wondered papa did not offer to take the manuscript she held out; but he did not change his position; and Aunt Mary, always kind and thoughtful, volunteered her services. Grandmother said she was afraid the children would not be interested, and that it might trouble Aunt Mary to make out an old lady's crabbed handwriting. "It was not very long, to be sure," and then she straightened herself to listen, holding a little Chinese screen to shade her eyes from the fire, while Aunt Mary read:—
"THE TEMPTATION OF ALICE GRAY.
"It was a long time ago," said my grandmother's story, "that Alice Gray left her English country home, to follow the fortunes of her husband, a generous, kind-hearted sailor. It was hard parting with the old place, though her parents were dead, and she was an only child. She was going to foreign countries, where even the language was strange to her, with no one to turn to but Richard Gray, and, though he was very kind and noble-hearted, she knew there would be hours of loneliness when her heart would travel back to the old haunts of her childhood, yearning for the household faces that were familiar in her cradle. Injustice had made her poor, as well as an orphan, though she had never yet felt the lack of abundant means; nor did she know, until she had been long a wife, what a painful dependence the love and protection of Richard Gray had saved her from. The frank-hearted sailor loved her the better that she needed his care; she tried in turn to be cheerful and brave, in looking forward to their long separations, and to welcome him home with a new happiness and trust. For a time, these partings, which shorten the life of every sailor's wife, were not necessary. She had a bold heart, and went with him to many strange countries, seeing more wonderful things than she had ever dreamed of in her old home in Devon. So their first parting was very hard; and while she could scarcely close her eyes to rest, for fear of the hour that was to take him from her, he stole away from her side as she lay asleep. He never trembled at the wildest gale; but he could not bear the agony of parting with one he loved better than life. You can imagine how weary and desolate that waking was to Alice Gray, and how she tried to shut out the daylight, and put away for a time all comfort that was offered to her. It was not as now, when letters can come from those in distant lands almost with the swiftness of a loving thought—it was months, and sometimes years, before any tidings could arrive. The dangers of the sea were little understood, but greatly dreaded, and loss and shipwreck far more frequent. So Alice Gray shut up her sorrows in her own heart from the strangers around her, and listened to the sobbing wind and moaning sea through the long dreary nights, until her child, her first-born son, was given to her arms. There was pain even in that new happiness; for there was no father's blessing for her little one, and no kiss of tenderness for herself, as she pressed her child to her heart.
"But the boy grew so like his father. The same curly rings of hair lying on his broad forehead, though many shades fairer, and the clear blue eyes, haunted her with a well-remembered look. She had need of all comfort, for she passed through many trials, sickness, loss, and at last poverty, still among strangers, though not where her husband had left her. She could not stay so far from the sea, where it would be many days after he landed before he could reach her. So she came to the little seaport from which his vessel had sailed for the far-off Indian Ocean, and there watched for the first glimpse of its white sails. Months passed on in sickening, harassing anxiety; and then came news of disaster, shipwreck, death; an awful certainty for the fear that had haunted her day and night. She and her child were doubly orphaned.
"Midwinter, and death, and pressing poverty! She could not give up all hope at once, but, through the long autumn, paced the rocky line of coast day after day, her child cradled warmly in her arms, and looking out with straining eyes towards the horizon. She thought she must go mad, and almost prayed for it, if forgetfulness came to—but, then there was her child—there would be no one to care for him, and she could not abandon him with the new mother-love growing up in her heart. Many pitied the 'poor English lady,' as they saw the chill sea-breeze tossing her thin garments, she standing on the very verge of the bleak rocks, with the cold, black waves breaking sullenly beneath her. There was one who did more than pity. She welcomed him as a friend first, for he came with sympathizing looks and kind words, and would have relieved the pressure of her poverty. But Alice Gray was still too proud for that, and she parted one by one with the few treasures, costly toys, her husband had gathered in foreign lands, to keep away starvation. She had no idea of toiling for a subsistence, as the poor creatures around her did, and was too much wrapt up in her grief to think or plan any lighter task. He saw it all, rich and prosperous as he was, and patiently waited his time. It came at last, when, with a shudder, she drew off her ring of betrothal, scarcely dearer or more sacred than the wedding-ring itself, and offered it in exchange for gold, to buy bread for herself and child. Heaven help her when that was exhausted! It was all she had. It was very late when she hurried through the narrow street, to offer it, where all her trinkets had gone before. They were celebrating Christmas night in her own land, with its blazing fires, and tables spread with plenty. She hurried as if to put aside such goading memories, past low wine-shops, and groups of fishermen, and common sailors, until she came to the house of the Israelite, who exchanged whatever was brought to him, without questions, so he could get it at half its worth. The dingy shop was closed, but she was admitted for the first time into the inner apartment, which the broker had fitted up with the spoils of his hard trade. Pictures, goblets, and vases, musical instruments, and embroidered cushions, and antique carved chairs, gave it a novel, but curious air, this cold, wintry night. There was no light save the broad glare of the brands on the hearth, and of the lamp that burned still in the outer room, and fell through the casement, by which all visitors were reconnoitred. A heavy curtain of velvet, a little faded, but once the hangings of a palace-like mansion, concealed the rough wall on one side, as she stood there noting all these things with a strange, minute interest she did not feel, and wondered at even then. It seemed as if he would never name the value of the ring. She could not bear to see him handle it so carelessly, when it was so dear to her.
"Outside the gusty wind was sweeping the narrow streets, and coarse songs and jests, hard trampling feet went by, and she had yet to go out and encounter these perils of darkness and storm: she, who had been so tenderly reared as a child, and so closely sheltered as a wife. She had removed the brown braided tress that filled the centre of the ring; but it was of virgin gold, massive and antique in design, as suited the sailor's fancy, with a circlet of precious stones. She knew little of its real value; to her it was beyond all price as the first love-token from her husband, who was gone forever. The careful dealer saw this, and noted the indifference of her manner as she stood before him in her dark robes and linen coif, for she had thrown down the coarse mantle that had wrapped herself and child at the entrance of the outer apartment. He did not anticipate much wrangling as he slowly drew forth the key of his treasury, and as slowly counted out the price at which he valued the token. He was right; for the sacrifice had cost her too much for words, and she went out slowly from his presence with that same fixed, hopeless expression. When that small sum was exhausted, she had no other earthly resource.
"Still pressing his child to her bosom, Alice Gray passed along the dingy street to her miserable home, though it was no home, with its blank walls and fireless hearth; but it served to shelter her when night came, as she was driven from her lonely watch on the beach. But, before she reached it, a roving band of sailors, landed that day from a ship she had seen enter the harbor, filled up the narrow path, shouting and rolling with the wine they had quaffed, and singing a wild bacchanalian song. She shrank aside to let them pass; but the foremost seized her with an oath and rude grasp, and would have torn the mantle from her face in another instant, had not a blow struck him breathless against the wall. The strong arm of her deliverer set aside the assailants, and conducted her safely on her way. It was the one friend who seemed always to mark her movements, and to whom she was indebted for many kindnesses.
"He, too, was a stranger; and, wandering on the cliffs, had first noted the pale, unquiet woman that haunted them. When he had learned her story from the fisherman, his pity grew to sympathy, and ended in love. He was rich and free; and that night, as she clung gratefully to his arm, it was offered to her, with protection from all care and want and contact with the world. He had come out to seek her, he said, and that very night stood ready to make her his. The priest awaited them; his arms should shelter her; he urged and pleaded with her to become once more a wife.
"You must not blame her, children—you must not, at least, judge her too harshly that she listened to the temptation, knowing, as she did, that the new vows would be an empty mockery; that all her love was buried fathoms deep with Richard Gray. She still trembled from the insult of the sailors; the night was black and pitiless; she was alone, and almost starving. It was like one, benumbed with cold and hunger, standing on the threshold of a mansion blazing with light and warmth and costly cheer. Many a young maiden has bartered her hand for gold without Alice Gray's bitter need, now, even in our own day, or for the baubles of rank and position.
"Oh, it was cruel in that kind voice to plead so earnestly, knowing her heart was starved—craving for kindness and care! For her child's sake, he said, and pictured the boy growing up under his fatherly protection, or, skilfully reversing the lines, showed him to her neglected and abandoned among the rude fishermen. No wonder that consent hung on her very utterance, when the child stirred in her bosom, and passed its little hands caressingly over her haggard face as she bent towards it. Richard's child! She could not give another the husband's right he had been proud to claim; no, she would work, ay, starve, if it must be so, but not wrong his memory by falsehood and the endurance of caresses from which she must ever shrink, as the memory of his love came between her and the present.
"Her child saved her from the great sin of going to another home and another love that night, when she had nothing to offer in return.
"So her last friend was repulsed, and deserted her, trying to keep down the bitterness of spirit that pride called up to take the place of rejected love. She sat alone and hopeless with her child through the midnight darkness, and the love-token sparkled beneath the lamp of the grasping broker, who sat counting the day's gains.
"A knock at the outer entrance did not startle him, for he conducted many a shrewd bargain while others slept; but he looked to see that all his treasures were within a sweep of his arm before he admitted the visitor.
"It was a sunburnt, swarthy-looking man, with jewels from the Orient to be exchanged for gold. He knew their full value, and demanded it; but, while the Jew demurred, his quick eyes scanned the whole room at a glance. Travel-worn as he was, something arrested his gaze that made his lips tremble and grow white, and his heart beat fast as he bent forward and clutched, heedless of the old man's remonstrances, the love-token he had given years ago to his wife, Alice Gray.
"You can see it all now, my children, from what a fearful sin the sacrifice of that night saved her, though you are too young and too untried to imagine even the swoon of joy in which she lay clasped to her husband's bosom, till the dim morning light revealed those dear features, and the nut-brown curls threaded with silver from the toil and exposure he had endured. No wonder that she shuddered at the remembrance of her temptation, or that she loved the unconscious child, who had saved her from it, above all that were afterwards given to her arms."
So ended Aunt Mary's reading, while papa still shaded his eyes from the light, and grandmother's hand trembled as she supported the screen. Mamma's eyes were full of tears, and she kissed Charlie, now sleeping on her shoulder, over and over again, as if stooping down over him could hide them: Josephine and myself could not understand the scene till we were much older, and the picture had come to be spoken of as an heirloom in the family. But I saw something else that interested me very much, for I thought she might better have given it to me—Maude pull Robert Winthrop's scarlet geranium from her hair, and finally crush it under her slipper, as the decision of Alice Gray was told. Some one else saw it, too, I fancy, for presently Chester Adams's hand dropped from my shoulder upon Maude's, lying near me, and she did not withdraw it. Maude was crying, too; but a smile, like sunshine, came into her eyes as she stole a timid, wistful look up into his affectionate eyes, as I have seen children ask for pardon.
When we separated for the night, grandmother took a hand of each of them in one of hers, and said, "Good-night, my children; be true to yourselves and to each other!" and it was in this way I noticed a ring, like the love-token in the picture, on my grandmother's wedding-finger.
A CHAPTER ON NECKLACES, OLD AND NEW.
BY MRS. WHITE.
It is curious to trace the first appearance of necklaces amongst the Egyptians, in the same form as they exist at the present day upon the necks of the Patagonians, and the natives of the islands of the Pacific; for the ancient dwellers by the Nile wore necklaces of the seeds of leguminous plants, berries, and feathers (especially those of the poule de Numidie), precisely the same substances which are used in this ornament by the above people, except that the emu supplies the feathers, and that shells are occasionally mingled with the bright-colored berries. But shells were also used in necklaces by the Egyptians, as our readers may perceive in the table-cases of the Egyptian gallery in the British Museum.
Here, we may trace the next appearance of this trinket, when art began to be applied in its composition, and spherical beads of various substances were used; as well as its progression from a simple ornament to its superstitious use as an amulet.
In one of these cases some very interesting specimens of our subject may be seen, tracing, as plainly as more important things might do, the gradual advance of art; there is one of round blue beads capped with silver, another representing deities and symbols, and a third with pendants in the form of the lock of horns, fishes, and cowries, which are well deserving of attention.
The two latter were of course worn as amulets, and, being impressed with sacred images, were supposed to ward off danger and infection, to render the wearer courageous or agreeable, or invest him with the various qualities which their symbolism, or the substances of which they were composed, represented in the mythic language of the East.
Perhaps it might have been with such intentions that we find the necklace so favorite an adornment with the warriors of antiquity. The Medes, Persians, Indians, and Etruscans wore them in the valuable shape of strings of pearls, sometimes enriched with jewels; while the chiefs and great men amongst the northern nations were distinguished by necklaces and collars of gold, called torques, so that, when conquered, the necklaces of both oriental and Celtic nations must have made an important part of the spoils. Hence, probably, the adoption of the monile by the Romans as a reward for military valor, and hence also the surname of Torquatus Manlius, who was so called from his having torn the golden torque from the neck of an enemy on the field of battle.
Necklaces were worn by both Greek and Roman women, but only within doors, and on occasions of domestic festivity, as at weddings and dances; they were especially used as bridal presents, and the learned in mythology will remember that it was upon the occasion of Hermione's marriage that Vulcan, to revenge her mother's infidelity, bestowed upon her the fatal necklace which worked such wondrous evils on her race. Here we perceive that the Eastern superstitions connected with this ornament had accompanied the fashion of wearing it into Greece: the rich and beautiful necklace of Hermione was a talisman—not to counteract evil, but to produce it; so that by-and-by we find this very necklace, which Ovid tells us was of gold, and to the description of which Nomus devotes fifty lines of his Dionysica, bribing Eriphyle, the wife of Amphiaraus, to betray her husband.
At Rome, as with the old Egyptians, the materials of the necklace soon altered from a simple row of berries or small spheres of glass, &c., to pearls and amber, and precious stones; the single chaplet, which primitively encircled the throat, gradually extended to a second, and even a third row: after which we find the original necklace adorned with drops or pendents, which, when worn, fell round the neck like rays from a centre.
For this description of monile, emeralds, and other gems of a greenish hue, were greatly prized; and amongst the treasures which time has restored to the museums and cabinets of the curious, from the buried toilets of Pompeii, a golden necklace is enumerated, which was enriched with twelve small emeralds.
Etruscan graves have also yielded up their treasures, and amongst a variety of other matters affording the most interesting illustrations of the domestic economies of the ancient Tuscan people, have preserved for us the fashion of these ornaments. Those purchased from the Prince of Canino, and deposited in the British Museum, are of gold; one represents a wreath of ivy-leaves in pairs, the stems of the leaves joining; and the ornaments of the others consist of circles, lozenges, rosettes, hippocampi (sea-horses), and a heart depends centrally from one of them.
Necklaces in the shape of serpents were worn by the Greeks and Romans, by whom this emblem was regarded as a charm against witchcraft and the "evil eye;" they were made to coil round the neck of the wearer, and it is remarkable that the necklace so fatal to Hermione and Eriphyle was of this form. Some years back an inscription, found in France, mentioned a torque dedicated to Æsculapius, having been made by twisting together two golden snakes, and offerings of trinkets in this shape were often made in honor of him by persons during illness, or on their recovery from it.
Besides decorating the necks of brides and conquerors with these ornaments, the Romans carried their admiration of the necklace so far as to adorn the statues of their divinities with them; thus, a statue of Fortune, found at Herculaneum, had the representation of a necklace incrusted with silver, and a figure of Mercury, in the gallery of Greek and Roman antiquities in the museum (thought by some to be the most exquisite bronze in Europe), has a gold torquis round its neck; this honor, however, the deities shared in common with favorite domestic animals; and horses were frequently adorned with them.
So much more remains to be said of the use of them by the ancients, that we leave, reluctantly, these classic reminiscences, to trace the history of the necklace at home, where it appears to have an existence coeval with Stonehenge, and to have preserved its memoirs in the funeral barrows of the Britons and Anglo-Saxons. In these tumuli, necklaces of various kinds have been found, and beads of crystal, jet, amber, and colored glass, are quite common in them. In some, necklaces of bone and ivory have been discovered, and the Archæological Society have engraved one in their Journal, which is formed of beads of bone and canel coal.
In the wills of the Anglo-Saxons, we find the neck-bracelet, as its name implied in their language, frequently mentioned: and amongst other articles of jewellery, we read of golden vermiculated necklaces. Boadicea wore a golden necklace, and subsequently the torquis, or collar of honor, commonly of gold, was made the insignia of dukes and earls, both by the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans. The Norman kings wore a collar or necklace of gold, adorned with jewels, and which depended on the breast, like the collar or knighthood, of which, no doubt, these antique ornaments were the prototypes; while such of our Saxon ancestors as could not procure the precious metals, rather than be without this favorite ornament, wore them of brass, and even iron.
Amber appears, from the very earliest period, a favorite material for the necklaces of women, probably on account of its perfume, which Autolycus, the roguish peddler, in the "Winter's Tale," alludes to in his rhyming list of wares—
"Necklace amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber."
In Italy, we learn from an ancient chronicle, that ladies wore them made of bent gold coins, and that whistles, in the shape of a dragon, set with gold and pearls (probably to call servants), sometimes depended from them.
A picture of Joan of Navarre, wife of Henry IV., in whose reign necklaces were much worn by ladies, represents her wearing a collar of Esses.
A necklace on the ancient effigy of Lady Peyton, at Isleham Church, Cambridgeshire, is formed of pear-shaped stones or pearls, attached to a string or narrow band of gold, while another, represented in the Harleian MS., looks like a wreath of small stars, and was, in all probability, of the same precious metal.
In the Middle Ages, we read that the necklaces of women were set with jewels and stones; and that some, called serpents, from the fashion of them, were also in vogue; and in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the necklaces of English ladies were arranged in the same manner as the rayed ones of the Romans.
Queen Elizabeth is always represented wearing strings of pearls, or jewelled carcanets, and the royal example appears to have been very generally followed by the dames of her realm, whose taste for a profusion of such ornaments has been handed down to us by the dramatists and other writers of the period; though in her reign, as in her father's, sumptuary laws were made to prevent persons below a certain rank from appearing in them.
Barclay, in his "Ship of Fools," printed A. D. 1508, speaks of some who had their necks
"Charged with collars and chains,
In golden withes."
And in a curious work called "The Four Pees," of John Heywood, written 1560, he makes the Peddler vaunt, amongst other vanities of women, "of all manner of beads." The penalty for wearing anything of gold or gilt about the neck, in Henry VIII.'s time, unless the wearer was a gentleman, or could prove that he possessed, over all charges, 200l. yearly value, was the forfeiture of the same; a regulation well calculated to maintain the restriction in fact.
All this while certain superstitions existed with regard to the necklace, as well as to all other trinkets of which gold and precious stones made part, occasioned, probably, by the antique use of gems as amulets, and from the pretended occult powers ascribed to them by the alchemists. Even Elizabeth, with all her keenness and masculine strength of mind, save where vanity and its natural craving, the love of admiration, were concerned, appears to have been just as impressible upon such subjects as a peasant girl; and we find the Lord Chancellor Hatton sending her a ring (in all probability of agate), to be worn on her breast, against infectious air. The physicians of those days did much to sustain the "charm" of our subject. Necklaces made of the root of the male peony were worn for the prevention of the falling sickness, while those made of amber were deemed good against infection; and to the doctrine of signatures, which connected the medical properties of substances with their forms and color, we may safely trace the common practice of ornamenting young children with necklaces of coral, as well as the invention of the silver-belled trifle, so called.
With the same purpose (that of assisting their teething), the anodyne necklace, which is made of beads of the white bryony, is sometimes hung around the necks of infants, sustaining, even in our own times, a lingering faith in the medical virtues of the amulet.
But that our space forbids, the necklace worn by nuns might lead us to a dissertation on the religious uses of this ornament; but we must briefly glance at its secular history in modern times, when its most powerful spells have been those of fashion.
Coming down to the seventeenth century, we find the necklace quite as much in vogue as in the reign of Elizabeth: in Massinger's "City Madam," after her husband's knighthood, we find her brother observing to the lady,
"Your borrowed hair,
Powdered and curled, was by your dresser's art
Formed like a coronet—hang'd with diamonds,
And richest orient pearls—your carkanet,
That did adorn your neck, of equal value;"
so that the love of gems and jewellery was by no means on the decline. In the picture of Charles and his queen, in "Heath's Chronicle," (1662), Catherine of Braganza wears two necklaces, one clasping the throat, and the other, to which a pendent is attached, falling low on the shoulders. Planché tells us that in Mary's reign, jewelled necklaces sparkled on the bosom, a fashion continued in that of her sister Anne of Denmark, who is usually drawn wearing one.
With the accession of George III., the maudlin sentimentality of the belles and macaronies of the period gave the name of esclavage to the necklace then in fashion, which consisted of several rows of gold chains, or beads, or jewels, arranged one under the other in successive festoons, so as to cover the entire neck.
This was again displaced by the carcanet, or band of jewels set in gold, and we ourselves remember the négligé, with its tasselled ends falling gracefully beneath the throat; since then the necklace has gradually grown into disuse, so that our friend's information, that short golden ones were again in fashion, sounded pleasantly as news of an old acquaintance.
GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.
LESSON III.
Fig. 23.
The pupil may now proceed to more ambitious attempts in the art of delineation. Fig. 23 is the representation of a box supposed to be standing on a table. It is formed entirely of straight lines. She should draw the front oblong first, then the end, taking care to make the perpendicular boundary line farthest from the eye rather shorter than the first line, in order to give the perspective appearance to the representation. In this section we do not give the rules of perspective delineation, preferring to let the pupil become acquainted therewith after she has acquired the necessary facility for copying objects as they appear presented to her eye; this to us appearing the most natural course, as perspective cannot be taught unless the objects which illustrate the rules, and which are to be found in all perspective delineations, can themselves be sketched with ease. As soon as a pupil can copy an object correctly, so far as her own ideas go, she will at once perceive the utility of an art which, by stated rules, will enable her to test the accuracy of her proceedings.
Fig. 24 is a free outline sketch of a pump; by drawing the lower square first, thereafter the end and top, and next the upright oblong, finally putting in the handle and spout, the delineation will speedily be effected. The pupil at this stage should attempt to delineate the forms presented by placing boxes, square blocks, bricks, &c., in various positions.
Fig. 24.
Fig. 25.
Fig. 25 is the representation of a book lying on its side; it is formed of both straight and curved lines. She should draw the horizontal lines first, then the oblique, taking care to make the two lines forming the top nearly parallel, and the others slightly to approach each other, to give the idea of distance; the under lines may be strengthened as in the figure, which will compensate for the absence of light and shade.
Fig. 26.
Fig. 26 affords a good exemplification of the use of the oval or ellipse in forming leaves, &c. In the first place, a correct ellipse is to be drawn, thereafter the top a and the end b of the leaf, rubbing out the parts c c not required, and, lastly, putting in the fibres, as in the figure. The leaf is finished by putting in the serrated or saw-like edges, as in Fig. 27.
Fig. 27.
Fig. 28 is formed in the same way, the only difference being that the leaf is comprised within the ellipse; the parts a a being rubbed out, and the edges filled as in Fig. 29.
Fig. 28.
Fig. 29.
Fig. 30 exemplifies the use of the circle in delineating natural objects. A pear is drawn by first making the circle, as in Fig. 30, thereafter finishing it, as in Fig. 31. The use of the circle is further demonstrated by Figs. 32 and 33, which show the method adopted in drawing an acorn. The method here indicated, of using ellipses and circles as the foundation of the outlines, is applicable to the formation of a vast variety of objects; thus, vases and other forms can be rapidly delineated, as shown in Figs. 34 and 35.
Fig. 30.
Fig. 31.
Fig. 32. Fig. 33.
Fig. 34. Fig. 35.
THE TRIALS OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
(Continued from page 127.)
CHAPTER III.
On the next morning, at the earliest dawn, Mrs. Gaston arose. She found Ella's fever still very high. The child was restless, and moaned a good deal in her sleep.
"Poor little thing!" murmured the mother, as she bent over her for a moment, and then turned away, and commenced kindling a fire upon the hearth. Fortunately for her, she had saved enough from her earnings during the summer to buy half a cord of wood; but this was gradually melting away, and she was painfully conscious that, by the time the long and severe winter had fairly set in, her stock of fuel would be exhausted; and at the prices which she was receiving for her work, she felt that it would be impossible to buy more. After making the fire, she took her work, and drew near the window, through which the cold faint rays of the morning were stealing. By holding the work close to the light, she could see to set her needle, and in this way she commenced her daily toil. An hour was spent in sewing, when Emma aroused up, and she had to lay by her work to attend to her child. Ella, too, had awakened, and complained that her head ached badly, and that her throat was very sore. Half an hour was spent in dressing, washing, and otherwise attending to her children, and then Mrs. Gaston went out to get something for breakfast. On entering the shop of Mrs. Grubb, she met with rather a more courteous reception than had been given her on the morning previous.
"Ah! good-morning, Mrs. Gaston! Good-morning!" said that personage, with a broad, good-natured smile. "How is Ella?"
"She seems very poorly, Mrs. Grubb. I begin to feel troubled about her. She complains of a sore throat this morning, and you know the scarlet fever is all about now."
"Oh, no! never fear that, Mrs. Gaston. Ella's not down with the scarlet fever, I know."
"I trust not. But I have my fears."
"Never take trouble on interest, Mrs. Gaston. It is bad enough when it comes in the natural way. But what can I do for you?"
"I think I must have a cent's worth of coffee this morning. My head aches so that I am almost blind. A strong cup of coffee I am sure will do me good. And as I have a hard day's work before me, I must prepare for it. And then I must have a pint of milk and a three cent loaf of bread for the children. That must do me for the present. We have some molasses left."
"You'll want a little dried meat, or a herring, or something to give you a relish, Mrs. Gaston. Dry bread is poor eating. And you know you can't touch molasses." Half in sympathy did Mrs. Grubb utter this, and half as a dealer, desirous of selling her goods.
"Nothing more, just now, I believe," the poor woman replied. "I must be prudent, you know, and count over every cent."
"But you'll make yourself sick, if you don't eat something more than you do. So come now; treat yourself to a herring, or to a penny's worth of this sweet butter. You'll feel all the better for it, and do more than enough work to pay the cost twice over."
Mrs. Gaston's appetite was tempted. The hard fresh butter looked inviting to her eyes, and she stooped over and smelled it half involuntarily.
"I believe you are right, Mrs. Grubb," she said. "You may give me a couple of cents' worth of this nice butter."
An ounce of butter was carefully weighed out, and given to the customer.
"Isn't there something else, now, that you want?" said the smiling shop-keeper, leaning her elbows upon the counter, and looking encouragingly into the face of Mrs. Gaston.
"I've indulged myself, and I shall not feel right, unless I indulge the children a little also," was the reply; "so weigh me two cents' worth of your smoked beef. They all like it very much."
The smoked beef was soon ready, and then the mother hurried home to her children.
After the morning meal had been prepared, Mrs. Gaston sat down and ate her bread and butter, tasting a little of the children's meat, and drinking her coffee with a keen relish. She felt braced up on rising from the table, and, but for the illness of Ella, would have felt an unusual degree of cheerfulness.
Henry attended the common school of the district, and, soon after breakfast, prepared himself to go. As he was leaving, his mother told him to call at Doctor R——'s, and ask him if he would be kind enough to stop and see Ella, She then seated herself once more beside her little work-table. The two foreparts of the jacket had been finished, except the button-holes; and the sleeves were ready to put in as soon as the body of the garment was ready for them. As the button-holes tried the sight of Mrs. Gaston severely, she chose that part of the day, when her eyes were fresh, to work them. The jacket was double-breasted, and there were five holes to be worked on each side. She had nearly completed one-half of them, when Doctor R—— came in. He looked serious upon examining his patient. Said she was very ill, and required immediate attention.
"But you don't think it the scarlet fever, doctor?" the mother said, in a low, alarmed voice.
"Your child is very sick, madam; and, to tell you the truth, her symptoms resemble too closely those of the fever you have named," was the undisguised reply.
"Surely, my cup is full and running over!" sobbed Mrs. Gaston, clasping her hands together, as this sudden announcement broke down, for a moment, her self-control, while the tears gushed from her eyes.
Doctor R—— was a man of true feeling. He had attended, in two or three cases of illness, the children of Mrs. Gaston, and had observed that she was a woman who had become, from some cause, greatly reduced in circumstances. His sympathies were strongly awakened at seeing her emotion, and he said, in a kind but firm voice—
"A mother, the safety of whose child depends upon her calm and intelligent performance of duty, should never lose her self-control."
"I know that, doctor," the mother answered, rallying herself with a strong effort. "But I was over-tried already, and your sudden confirmation of my worst fears completely broke me down."
"In any event, however," the doctor replied, "you must not permit yourself to forget that your child is in the hands of Him who regards its good in a far higher sense than you can possibly. He never permits sickness of any kind without a good end."
"I know that, doctor, but I have a mother's heart. I love my children, and the thought of losing them touches me to the quick."
"And yet you know that, in passing from this to another state of existence, their condition must be bettered beyond comparison."
"Oh yes. Beyond comparison!" replied the mother, half abstractedly, but with touching pathos. "And yet, doctor, I cannot spare them. They are everything to me."
"Do not suffer yourself to indulge needless alarm. I will leave you medicine now, and call again to-morrow. If she should be decidedly worse, send for me towards evening."
After the doctor went away, Mrs. Gaston gave the medicine he had left, as directed, and then forced herself from the bedside, and resumed her work. By the time the button-holes of the garment she was engaged upon were all completed, and the back and shoulder seams sewed up, it was time to see about something for dinner. She put aside the jacket, and went to the bed. Ella lay as if asleep. Her face was flushed, and her skin dry and hot. The mother looked upon her for a few moments with a yearning heart; then, turning away, she took from a closet her bonnet and shawl, and a little basket. Passing quickly down stairs, after telling Emma to keep very still and be a good girl until she came back, she took her way towards the market-house. At a butcher's she obtained, for three cents, some bones, and then at one of the stalls bought a few herbs, a head of cabbage, and three turnips; the whole at a cost of sixpence. With these she returned home, renewed her fire, and, after preparing the bones and vegetables she had procured, put them into an iron pot with some water, and hung this upon the crane. She then sat down again to her work.
At twelve o'clock Henry came in from school, and brought up an armful of wood, and some water, and then, by direction of his mother, saw that the fire was kept burning briskly. At one, Mrs. Gaston laid by her work again, and set the table for dinner. Henry went for a loaf of bread while she was doing this, and upon his return found all ready. The meal, palatable to all, was a well-made soup; the mother and her two children ate of it with keen appetites. When it was over, Henry went away again to school, and Mrs. Gaston, after administering to Ella another dose of medicine, sat down once more to her work. One sleeve remained to be sewed in, when the garment would only require to have the collar put on, and be pressed off. This occupied her until late in the afternoon.
"Thirty cents for all that!" she sighed to herself, as she laid the finished garment upon the bed. "Too bad! Too bad! How can a widow and three children subsist on twenty cents a day!"
A deep moan from Ella caused her to look at her child more intently than she had done for half an hour. She was alarmed to find that her face had become like scarlet, and was considerably swollen. On speaking to her, she seemed quite stupid, and answered incoherently, frequently putting her hand to her throat, as if in pain there. This confirmed the mother's worst fears for her child, especially as she was in a raging fever. Soon after, Henry came in from school, and she dispatched him for Doctor R——, who returned with the boy. He seemed uneasy at the manner in which the symptoms were developing themselves. A long and silent examination ended in his asking for a basin. He bled her freely, as there appeared to be much visceral congestion, and an active inflammation of the tonsils, larynx, and air passages, with a most violent fever. After this she lay very still, and seemed much relieved. But, half an hour after the doctor had left, the fever rallied again, with burning intensity. Her face swelled rapidly, and the soreness of her throat increased. About nine o'clock the doctor came in again, and upon examining the child's throat, found it black and deeply ulcerated.
"What do you think of her, doctor?" asked the poor mother, eagerly.
"I think her very ill, madam—and, I regret to say, dangerously so."
"Is it scarlet fever, doctor?"
"It is, madam. A very bad case of it. But do not give way to feelings of despondency. I have seen worse cases recover."
More active medicines than any that had yet been administered were given by the doctor, who again retired, with but little hope of seeing his patient alive in the morning.
From the time Mrs. Gaston finished the garment upon which she had been working, she had not even unrolled the other roundabout, and it was now nine o'clock at night. A sense of her destitute condition, and of the pressing necessity there was for her to let every minute leave behind some visible impression, made her, after Henry and Emma were in bed, leave the side of her sick child, though with painful reluctance, and resume her toil. But, ever and anon, as Ella moaned, or tossed restlessly upon her pillow, would the mother lay by her work, and go and stand beside her in silent anguish of spirit, or inquire where she suffered pain, or what she could do to relieve her.
Thus passed the hours until twelve, one, and two o'clock, the mother feeling that her child was too sick for her to seek repose, and yet, as she could do nothing to relieve her sufferings, she could not sit idly by and look upon her. For fifteen or twenty minutes at a time she would ply her needle, and then get up and bend over the bed for a minute or two. A thought of duty would again call her back to her position by the work-table, where she would again devote herself to her task, in spite of an aching head, and a reluctant, over-wearied body. Thus she continued until near daylight, when there was an apparent subsidence of Ella's most painful symptoms. The child ceased to moan and throw herself about, and finally sunk into slumber. In some relief of mind, Mrs. Gaston laid down beside her upon the bed, and in a little while was fast asleep. When she awoke, the sun had been up some time, and was shining brightly into the room. Quickly rising, her first glance was towards her sick child. She could scarcely suppress a cry of agony as she perceived that her face and neck had swollen so as to appear puffed up, while her skin was covered with livid spots. An examination of the chest and stomach showed that these spots were extending themselves over her whole body. Besides these signs of danger, the breathing of the child was more like gasping, as she lay with her mouth half opened.
The mother laid her hand upon her arm, and spoke to her. But she did not seem to hear the voice.
"Ella, dear! how do you feel this morning?" repeated Mrs. Gaston in louder and more earnest tones.
But the child heeded her not. She was already past consciousness! At an early hour Doctor R—— came in. The moment he looked at his patient his countenance fell. Still, he proceeded to examine her carefully. But every symptom was alarming, and indicated a speedy fatal termination; this was especially the case with the upper part of the throat, which was black. Nothing deeper could be seen, as the tonsils were so swollen as to threaten suffocation.
"Is there any hope, doctor?" asked Mrs. Gaston eagerly, laying her hand upon his arm as he turned from the bed.
"There is always hope where there is life, madam," he replied abstractedly, and then in a thoughtful mood took two or three turns across the narrow apartment.
"I will come again in an hour," he at length said, "and see if there is any change. I would rather not give her any more medicine for the present. Let her remain perfectly quiet."
True to his promise, Doctor R—— entered the room just an hour from the time he left it. The scene that met his eye moved his heart deeply, all used as he was to the daily exhibition of misery in its many distressing forms. The child was dead! He was prepared for that—but not for the abandoned grief to which the mother gave way. The chords of feeling had been drawn in her heart too tightly. Mind and body were both out of tune, and discordant. In suffering, in abject want and destitution, her heart still clung to her children, and threw around them a sphere of intenser affection, as all that was external grew darker, colder, and more dreary. They were her jewels, and she could not part with them. They were hidden away in her heart of hearts so deeply, that not a single one of them could be taken without leaving it lacerated and bleeding.
When the doctor entered, he found her lying upon the bed, with the body of her child hugged tightly to her bosom. Little Emma had crept away into a corner of the room, and looked frightened. Henry was crouching in a chair, with the tears running down his cheeks in streams.
"You are too late, doctor," said the mother, in a tone so calm, so clear, and yet to his ear so thrilling, that he started, and felt a chill pass through his frame. There was something in the sound of that voice in ill accordance with the scene.
As she spoke, she glanced at the physician with bright, tearless eyes for a moment; and then, turning away her head, she laid her cheek against that of the corpse, and drew the lifeless body with trembling eagerness to her heart.
"This is all vain, my dear madam!" urged Dr. R——, approaching the bedside, and laying his hand upon her. "Come! Be a woman. To bear is to conquer our fate. No sorrow of yours can call back the happy spirit of your child. And, surely, you would not call her back, if you could, to live over the days of anguish and pain that were meted out to her?"
"I cannot give up my child, doctor. Oh, I cannot give up my child! It will break my heart!" she replied, her voice rising and trembling more and more at each sentence, until it gave way, and the hot tears came raining over her face, and falling upon the insensible cheek of her child.
"'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,' Mrs. Gaston. Can you not look up, even in this sore affliction, and say, 'Blessed be the name of the Lord?' It is your only hope. An arm of flesh cannot support you now. You must look to the Strong for strength."
As Doctor R—— thus urged her to reason and duty, the tears of the bereaved mother gradually ceased to flow. She grew calmer, and regained, in some degree, her self-possession. As she did so, she slowly disengaged her arm from the body of her child, placed its head as carefully as if it had been asleep, upon the pillow, and then arose, and stood with her hands tightly clasped across her forehead.
"I am but a weak woman, doctor, and you must bear with me," said she, in a changed voice. "I used to have fortitude; but I feel that I am breaking fast. I am not what I was."
The last two sentences were spoken in a tone so sad and mournful, that the doctor could scarcely keep back the tears.
"You have friends here, I suppose," he remarked, "who will be with you on this afflicting occasion?"
"I have no friends," she replied, in the same sad voice. "I and my children are alone in this hard world. Would to Heaven we were all with Ella!" Her tears again gushed forth, and flowed freely.
"Then I must send some one who will assist you in your present need," said Doctor R——; and turning away he left the room, and, getting into his chaise, rode off at a brisk pace. In about a quarter of an hour, he returned with a woman who took charge of the body of the child, and performed for it the last sad offices that the dead require.
Upon close inquiry, he ascertained from Mrs. Gaston that she was in a state of extreme destitution; that, so far from having the means to bury her dead child, she was nearly without food to give to her living ones. To meet this pressing need, he went to a few benevolent friends, and procured money sufficient to inter the corpse, and about ten dollars over. This he gave to her after the funeral, at which there were only three mourners, the mother and her two children.
CHAPTER IV.
Berlaps was leaning over his counter late in the afternoon of the second day from that on which the person calling herself Lizzy Glenn had applied for and obtained work, when a young man entered and asked for some article of dress. While the tailor was still engaged in waiting upon him, the young woman came in, carrying a small bundle in her hand. Her veil was drawn over her face as she entered; but was thrown partly aside as she retired to the back part of the store, where she stood awaiting the leisure of the man from whom she had obtained work. As she passed him, the customer turned and looked at her earnestly for a moment or two, and then asked in a whisper—
"Who is that?"
"Only one of our sewing-girls," replied Berlaps, indifferently.
"What is her name?"
"I forget. She's a girl to whom we gave out work day before yesterday."
This caused the man to look at her more attentively. The young woman, becoming conscious that she was an object of close scrutiny by a stranger, turned partly away, so that her face could not be seen.
"There is something singularly familiar about her," mused the young man as he left the store. "Who can she be? I have certainly seen her before."
"Ah, good-afternoon, Perkins!" said a familiar voice, while a friendly hand was laid upon his arm. "You seem to be in a browner mood than usual!"
"I am a little thoughtful, or abstracted, just as you please," replied the individual addressed.
"Are you, indeed? May I ask the reason?"
"The reason hardly seems to be a sufficient one—and, therefore, I will not jeopardize your good opinion of me by mentioning it."
"Oh, very well! I am content to have my friends conceal from me their weaknesses."
The two young men then walked on arm and arm for some distance. They seemed to be walking more for the sake of a little conversation than for anything else, for they went slowly, and after winding about among the labyrinthine streets for ten or twenty minutes, took their way back again.
"There she is again, as I live!" Perkins exclaimed, half pausing as the young woman he had seen at the tailor's passed quickly by them on their turning a corner.
"You've noticed her before, then?" remarked the friend, whose name was Milford.
"I saw her a little while ago in a clothing-store; and her appearance instantly arrested my attention. Do you know who she is?"
"I do not. But I'd give something to know. You saw her in a clothing-store?"
"Yes. In the shop of that close-fisted Berlaps. She is one of his seamstresses—a new one, by the way—to whom he has just given work. So he informed me."
"Indeed! She must be in great extremity to work for his pay. It is only the next remove, I am told, from actual starvation."
"But tell me what you know of her, Milford. She seems to have attracted your notice, as well as mine."
"I know nothing of her whatever," replied the young man, "except that I have met her five or six times during the last two weeks, upon the Warren bridge, on her way to Charlestown. Something in her appearance arrested my attention the first time I saw her. But I have never been able to catch more than a glimpse of her face. Her veil is usually drawn."
"Who can she visit in Charlestown?"
"No one, I have good reason to think."
"Why so?"
"I had once the curiosity to follow her as far as I deemed it prudent and courteous. She kept on entirely through the town—at least through the thickly settled portion of it. Her step was too quick for the step of one who was merely going to pay a friendly visit."
"You have had, if I understand you, at least a glimpse of her countenance?"
"Yes. Once, in passing her, her veil was half drawn aside, as if to get a freer draught of air."
"And her face?"
"Was thin and pale."
"And beautiful?"
"So I should call it. Not pretty—not a mere doll's face—but intellectually beautiful; yet full of softness. In fact, the face of a woman with a mind and heart. But sorrow has touched her—and pain. And, above all, the marks of crushed affection were too plainly visible upon her young countenance. All this could be seen at the single glance I obtained, before her veil was drawn hurriedly down."
"Strange that she should seek so to hide her face from every eye. Can it be that she is some one we have known, who has fallen so low?"
"No, I think not," replied Milford. "I am certain that I have never seen her before. Her face is a strange one to me. At least the glance I had revealed no familiar feature."
"Well, I, for one, am resolved to know more about her," remarked Perkins, as the two friends paused before separating. "Since she has awakened so sudden, and yet so strong an interest in my mind, I should feel that I was not doing right if I made no effort to learn something of her true position in our city, where, I am much inclined to think, she is a stranger."
The young men, after a few more words, separated, Perkins getting into an "hourly" and going over to Charlestown to see a man on some business who could not be at his house until late in the day. The transaction of this business took more time than he had expected, and it was nearly an hour after nightfall before he returned to Boston. After passing the "draw," as he crossed the old bridge, he perceived by the light of a lamp, some distance ahead, a female figure hurrying on with rapid steps.
"It's the strange girl I saw at Berlaps', as I live!" he mentally ejaculated, quickening his pace. "I must see where she hides herself away."
The night was very dark, and the form of the stranger, as she hurried forward, was soon buried in obscurity. In a little while, she emerged into the little circle of light that diffused itself around the lamp that stood at the termination of the bridge, and in the next moment was again invisible. Perkins now pressed forward, and was soon clear of the bridge, and moving along the dark, lonely avenue that led up to the more busy part of the city. He had advanced here but a few paces, when a faint scream caused him to bound onward at full speed. In a moment after, he came to the corner of a narrow, dark street, down which he perceived two forms hurrying; one, a female, evidently struggling against the superior force of the other.
His warning cry, and the sound of his rapidly advancing footsteps, caused the man to relax his hold, when the female figure glided away with wind-like fleetness. The man hesitated an instant; but, before Perkins reached the spot where he stood, ran off in an opposite direction to that taken by the woman.
Here was an adventure calculated to give to the mind of Perkins a new and keener interest in the young seamstress. He paused but a moment, and then ran at the height of his speed in the direction the female form, which he had good reason to believe was hers, had taken. But she was nowhere to be seen. Either she had sought a shelter in one of the houses, or had hurried forward with a fleetness that carried her far beyond his reach.
Thoughtful and uneasy in mind, he could hardly tell why, he sought his lodgings; and, retiring at once to his chamber, seated himself by a table upon which were books and papers, and soon became lost in sad memories of the past that strongly linked themselves, why he could not tell, for they had no visible connection with the present. For a long time he sat in this abstract mood, his hand shading his face from the light. At last he arose slowly and went to a drawer, from which he took a small morocco case, and, returning with it to the table, seated himself again near the lamp. He opened the case, and let the light fall strongly upon the miniature of a most beautiful female. Her light brown hair, that fell in rich and glossy ringlets to her neck, relieved tastefully her broad white forehead, and the gentle roundness of her pure cheeks, that were just tinged with the flush of health and beauty. But these took not away from the instant attraction of her dark hazel eyes, that beamed tenderly upon the gazer's face. Perkins bent for many minutes over this sweet image; then pressing it to his lips, he murmured, as he leaned back, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling:—
"Where, where in the spirit-land dost thou dwell, dear angel? In what dark and undiscovered cave of the ocean rests in dreamless sleep thy beautiful but unconscious body? Snatched from me in the bloom of youth, when fresh flowers blossomed in thy young heart to bless me with their fragrance, how hast thou left me in loneliness and desolation of spirit! And yet thou seemest near to me, and, of late, nearer and dearer than ever. Oh, that I could hear thy real voice, even if spoken to the ear of my spirit, and see once more thy real face, were it only a spiritual presence!"
The young man then fell into a dreamy state of mind, in which we will leave him for the present.
CHAPTER V.
The prompt assistance rendered by Dr. R—— to Mrs. Gaston came just in time. It enabled her to pay her month's rent, due for several days, to settle the amount owed to Mrs. Grubb, and lay in more wood for the coming winter. This consumed all her money, and left her once more dependent upon the meagre reward of her hard labor to supply food and clothing for herself and her two remaining children. From a state of almost complete paralysis of mind, consequent upon the death of Ella, her necessities aroused her. On the second day after the child had been taken, she again resumed her suspended toil. The sight of the unfinished garment, which had been laid aside after bending over it nearly the whole night previous to the morning upon which Ella died, awakened a fresh emotion of grief in her bosom. As this gradually subsided, she applied herself with patient assiduity to her task, which was not finished before twelve o'clock that night, when she laid herself down with little Emma in her arms, and soon lost all care and trouble in profound sleep.
Hasty pudding and molasses composed the morning meal for all. After breakfast, Mrs. Gaston took the two jackets, which had been out now five days, to the shop.
"Why, bless me, Mrs. Gaston, I thought you had run off with them jackets!" was Michael's coarse salutation as she came in.
The poor, heart-oppressed seamstress could not trust herself to reply, but laid her work upon the counter in silence. Berlaps, seeing her, came forward.
"These kind of doings will never answer, madam!" he said, angrily. "I could have sold both jackets ten times over, if they'd been here three days ago, as by rights they ought to have been. I can't give you work, if you are not more punctual. You needn't think to get along at our tack, unless you plug it in a little faster than all this comes to."
"I'll try and do better after this," said Mrs. Gaston, faintly.
"You'll have to, let me tell you, or we'll cry 'quits.' All my women must have nimble fingers."
"These jackets are not much to brag of," broke in Michael, as he tossed them aside. "I think we had better not trust her with any more cloth roundabouts. She has botched the button-holes awfully; and the jackets are not more than half pressed. Just look how she has held on the back seam of this one, and drawn the edges of the lappels until they set seven ways for Sunday! They're murdered outright, and ought to be hung up with a basin under them to catch the blood."
"What was she to have for them?" asked Berlaps.
"Thirty cents a-piece, I believe," replied the salesman.
"Don't give her but a quarter, then. I'm not going to pay full price to have my work botched up after that style!" And, so saying, Berlaps turned away and walked back to his desk.
Lizzy Glenn, as she had called herself, entered at the moment, and heard the remark of the tailor. She glided noiselessly by Mrs. Gaston, and stood farther down the store, with both her body and face turned partly from her, where she waited patiently for the interview between her and Michael to terminate.
The poor, heart-crushed creature did not offer the slightest remonstrance to this act of cruel oppression, but took the half dollar thrown her by Michael for the two jackets with an air of meek resignation. She half turned to go away after doing so, but a thought of her two remaining children caused her to hesitate.
"Haven't you some more trowsers to give out?" she asked, turning again towards Michael.
The sound of her voice reached the ear of the young female who had just entered, causing her to start and look for an instant towards the speaker. But she slowly resumed her former position with a sigh, after satisfying herself by a single glance at the woman, whose voice had fallen upon her ear with a strange familiarity.
"We haven't any more ready, ma'am, just now."
"What have you to give out? Anything?"
"Yes. Here are some unbleached cotton shirts, at seven cents. You can have some of them, if you choose."
"I will take half a dozen," said Mrs. Gaston, in a desponding tone. "Anything is better than nothing."
"Well, Miss Lizzy Glenn," said Michael, with repulsive familiarity, as Mrs. Gaston turned from the counter and left the store, "what can I do for you this morning?"
The young seamstress made no reply, but laid her bundle upon the counter and unrolled it. It contained three fine shirts, with linen bosoms and collars, very neatly made.
"Very well done, Lizzy," said Michael, approvingly, as he inspected the two rows of stitching on the bosoms and other parts of the garments that required to be sewed neatly.
"Have you any more ready?" she asked, shrinking back as she spoke, with a feeling of disgust, from the bold, familiar attendant.
"Have you any more fine shirts for Lizzy Glenn?" called Michael, back to Berlaps, in a loud voice.
"I don't know. How has she made them?"
"First rate."
"Then let her have some more, and pay her for those just brought in."
"That's your sorts!" responded Michael, as he took seventy-five cents from the drawer and threw the money upon the counter. "Good work, good pay, and prompt at that. Will you take three more?"
"I will," was the somewhat haughty and dignified reply, intended to repulse the low-bred fellow's offensive familiarity.
"Highty-tighty!" broke in Michael, in an under-tone, meant only for the maiden's ear. "Tip-top airs don't pass for much in these 'ere parts. Do you know that, Miss Lizzy Glenn, or whatever your name may be? We're all on the same level here. Girls that make slop shirts and trowsers haven't much cause to stand on their dignity. Ha! ha!"
The seamstress turned away quickly, and walked back to the desk where Berlaps stood writing.
"Be kind enough, sir, if you please, to hand me three more of your fine shirts," she said, in a firm, but respectful tone.
Berlaps understood the reason of this application to him, and it caused him to call out to his salesman something after this homely fashion—
"Why, in thunder, Michael, don't you let the girls that come to the store, alone? Give Lizzy three shirts, and be done with your confounded tom-fooleries! The store is no place for them."
The young woman remained quietly beside the desk of Berlaps until Michael came up and handed her the shirts. She then walked quickly towards the door, but did not reach it before Michael, who had glided along behind one of the counters.
"You're a fool! And don't know which side your bread's buttered," he said, with a half leer, half scowl.
She neither paused nor replied, but, stepping quickly out, walked hurriedly away. Young Perkins, before alluded to, entered at the moment, and heard Michael's grossly insulting language.
"Is that the way to talk to a lady, Michael?" he asked, looking at him somewhat sternly.
"But you don't call her a lady, I hope, Mr. Perkins?" the salesman retorted, seeming, however, a little confused as he spoke.
"Do you know anything to the contrary?" the young man asked, still looking Michael in the face.
"I can't say that I know much about her, any way, either good or bad."
"Then why did you use such language as I heard just now?"
"Oh, well! Never mind, Mr. Perkins," said Michael, his whole manner changing as a new idea arose in his thoughts; "if she's your game, I'll lie low and shut my eyes."
This bold assurance of the fellow at first confounded Perkins, and then made him very indignant.
"Remember, sir," said he, in a resolute voice, and with a determined expression on his face, "that I never suffer any one to trifle with me in that style, much less a fellow like you; so govern yourself, hereafter, accordingly. As to this young lady whom you have just insulted, I give you fair warning now, that another such an act will bring with it merited punishment."
Perkins then turned from the somewhat crestfallen salesman, and walked back to where Berlaps was standing at his desk.
"Do you know anything about that young woman I just now saw leave here, Mr. Berlaps?" he asked.
"I do not, Mr. Perkins," was the respectful answer. "She is a stranger, who came in some days ago for work."
"What is her name?"
"Lizzy Glenn, I believe."
"Where does she live?"
"Somewhere at the north end. Michael, there, knows."
"Get from him her street and number for me, if you please."
Berlaps asked Michael for the street and number where she lived, which the fellow took good care to give wrong. Perkins made a memorandum of the name and residence, as furnished, in his note-book, and, bowing to the man of shears, departed.
With her half dozen shirts, at seven cents, Mrs. Gaston returned home, feeling as if she must give up the struggle. The loss of Ella, after having striven so long and so hard for the sake of her children, made her feel more discouraged than she had ever yet felt. It seemed to her as if even Heaven had ceased to regard her—or that she was one doomed to be the sport of cruel and malignant powers. She had been home for only a short time, when Dr. R—— came in. After inquiring about her health, and if the children were still free from any symptoms of the terrible disease that had carried off their sister, he said—
"I've been thinking about you a good deal in the last day or two, Mrs. Gaston, and have now called to have some talk with you. You work for the stores, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"What kind of work do you do?"
"Here are some common shirts, which I have just brought home."
"Well, how much do you get for them?"
"Seven cents, sir."
"Seven cents! How many of them can you make in a day?"
"Two are as many as I shall be able to get through with, and attend to my children; and even then I must work half the night. If I had nothing to do but sit down and sew all the while, I might make three of them."
"Shameful! Shameful! And is that the price paid for such work?"
"It is all I get."
"At this rate, then, you can only make fourteen cents a day?"
"That is all, sir. And, even on the best of work, I can never get beyond a quarter of a dollar a day."
"How in the world, then, have you managed to keep yourself and three children from actual want?"
"I have not been able, doctor," she replied, with some bitterness. "We have wanted almost everything."
"So I should suppose. What rent do you pay for this poor place?"
"Three dollars a month."
"What! seventy-five cents a week! and not able to earn upon an average more than a dollar a week?"
"Yes, sir. But I had better work through the summer, and sometimes earned two dollars, and even a little more, in a week."
The doctor paused some time, and then said—
"Well, Mrs. Gaston, it's no use for you to struggle on at this rate, even with your two remaining children. You cannot keep a home for them, and cover their nakedness from the cold. Now let me advise you."
"I am ready to hear anything, doctor."
"What I would propose, in the first place—and that, in fact, is what has brought me in this morning—is that you put Henry out to a trade. He is young, it is true; but necessity, you know, knows no law. He will be just as well off, and better, too, under the care of a good master than he can be with you. And, then, such an arrangement will greatly relieve you. The care of little Emma will be light in comparison to what you have had to endure."
"You are no doubt right, doctor," the poor woman said, while the tears came to her eyes as she glanced towards Henry, who, for want of a pair of shoes, was compelled to stay home from school. "But I cannot bear the thought of parting with him. He is a delicate child, and only ten years old this winter. He is too young to go from home and have a master."
"He is young, I know, Mrs. Gaston. But, then, it is vain to think of being able to keep him with you. It is a cruel necessity, I know. But it cannot be avoided."
"Perhaps not. But, even if I should consent to put him out, I know of no one who would take him. And, above all, I dread the consequences of vicious association in a city like this."
"That matter, I think, can all be arranged to your satisfaction. I saw a man yesterday from Lexington, who asked me if I knew any one who had a lad ten or twelve years old, and who would like to get him a good place. I thought of you at once. He said a friend of his there, who carried on the hatting business, wanted a boy. I inquired his character and standing, and learned that they were good. Now, I think this an excellent chance for you. I have already mentioned your little boy to the man, and promised to speak to you on the subject."
"But think, doctor," said Mrs. Gaston, in a trembling voice, "Henry is but ten. To put a child out for eleven years is a long, long time."
"I know it is, madam. But he has to live the eleven years somewhere, and I am sure he will be as comfortable in this place as you can make him, and, indeed, even more so."
"In some respects he may, no doubt. But a child like him is never happy away from his mother."
"But suppose it is out of his mother's power to get him food and comfortable clothing?"
"True—true, doctor. It is a hard fate. But I feel that I have only one way before me—that of submission."
And submit she did, though with a most painful struggle. On the following day, the friend of the hatter called upon Mrs. Gaston, and it was settled between them that little Henry should be called for by the man who was to become his master on the morning of the next day but one. The best that the mother could do for her son, about to leave his home and go out among strangers, was to get him a pair of shoes, upon which she paid forty cents, promising to settle the balance in a couple of weeks. His thin, scanty clothes she mended and washed clean—darned his old and much worn stockings, and sewed on the torn front of his seal-skin cap. With his little bundle of clothes tied up, Henry sat awaiting on the morning of the day appointed for the arrival of his master, his young heart sorrowful at the thought of leaving his mother and sister. But he seemed to feel that he was the subject of a stern necessity, and therefore strove to act a manly part, and keep back the tears that were ready to flow forth. Mrs. Gaston, after preparing her boy to pass from under her roof and enter alone upon life's hard pilgrimage, sat down to her work with an overburdened heart. At one moment she would repent of what she had done, and half resolve to say "No," when the man came for her child. But an unanswerable argument against this were the coarse shirts in her hands, for which she was to receive only seven cents a piece!
At last a rough voice was heard below, and then a heavy foot upon the stairs, every tread of which seemed to the mother to be upon her heart. Little Henry arose and looked frightened as a man entered, saying as he came in—
"Ah, yes! This is the place, I see. Well, ma'am, is your little boy ready?"
"He is, sir," replied Mrs. Gaston almost inaudibly, rising and handing the stranger a chair. "You see he is a very small boy, sir."
"Yes, so I see. But some small boys are worth a dozen large ones. Come here, my little fellow! What is your name?"
The child went up to the man, telling him his name as he did so.
"That's a fine little fellow! Well, Henry! do you think you and I can agree? Oh, yes. We'll get along together very well, I have no doubt. I suppose, ma'am," he continued, addressing Mrs. Gaston, "that the better way will be for him to stay this winter on trial. If we like each other, you can come out to Lexington in the spring and have him regularly bound."
"That will be as well, I suppose," the mother replied. Then, after a pause, she said—
"How long will it be, Mr. Sharp, before I can see Henry?"
"I don't know, ma'am. How long before you think you can come out to Lexington?"
"Indeed, sir, I don't know that I shall be able to get out there this winter. Couldn't you send him in sometimes?"
"Perhaps I will, about New Year's, and let him spend a few days with you."
"It is a good while to New Year's day, sir. He has never been from home in his life."
"Oh no, ma'am. It's only a few weeks off. And I don't believe he'll be homesick for a day."
"But I shall, Mr. Sharp."
"You?"
"Yes, sir. It is hard to let my child go, and not see him again before New Year's day."
"But you must act the woman's part, Mrs. Gaston. We cannot get through life without some sacrifice of feeling. My mother had to let me go before I was even as old as your boy."
As Mr. Sharp said this, he arose, adding as he did so—
"Come, my little man. I see you are all ready."
Holding back her feelings with a strong effort, Mrs. Gaston took hold of Henry's small, thin hand, bent over him, and kissed his fair young cheek, murmuring in an under tone—
"God be with you, and keep you, my boy!"
Then, speaking aloud, she said—
"Be a good and obedient child, and Mr. Sharp will be kind to you, and let you come home to see me at New Year's."
"Oh, yes. He shall come home then," said the man half indifferently, as he moved towards the door.
Henry paused only to kiss his sister, and then followed after, with his little bundle in his hand. As he was about descending the steps, he turned a last look upon his mother. She saw that his eyes were filled with tears. A moment more, and he was gone!
Little Emma had stood looking wonderingly on while this scene was passing. Turning to her mother with a serious face, as the door closed upon Henry, she said—
"Brother gone, mamma?"
"Yes, dear! Brother is gone," sobbed the mother, taking the last child that remained to her, and hugging it passionately to her bosom. It was a long time before she could resume her work, and then so deep was her feeling of desolation, that she could not keep back from her eyelids the blinding tear drops.
(To be continued.)