| New York, October 1st, 1853. | |
| Mr. Thaddeus Theophilus Stubbs, | |
| To Juan Fumigo, | Dr. |
| To Cigars for Sept., 1853. | Dols. Cents. |
| Sept. 1—To 20 Trabucos, at 5c. | 1 00 |
| „ To 12 Riohondas, at 6d. | 75 |
| „ 3—To 12 Los Tres Castillos, at 6d. | 75 |
| „ To 12 La Nicotiana, at 6d. | 75 |
| „ 4—(Sunday—for Cigars for a party) 10 Palmettoes, 10 Esculapios, 12 La Sultanos, 12 El Crusados, 20 Norriegos, 16 L’Alhambros, at 4c. | 3 20 |
| „ 6—To 50 L’Ambrosias, at 4c. | 2 00 |
| „ 10—To 30 Cubanos, at 8c. | 2 40 |
| „ 12—To 50 Londres, at 4c. | 2 00 |
| „ 15—To 30 Jenny Linds (for concert party), at 8c. | 2 40 |
| „ 24—To 50 Figaros (for party to see Uncle Tom, at the National), at 8c. | 4 00 |
| „ 26—To 100 Mencegaros (for party of country relations and friends), at 2c. | 2 00 |
| „ 30—To 40 Imperial Regalias, at 1s. | 5 00 |
| 26 25 | |
| Received Payment—— | |
| (Mr. Stubbs is earnestly requested to call and settle the above at his earliest convenience. J. F.) | |
Consistent Stubbs! But, then, his cigar bill is not receipted!
SOLILOQUY OF A HOUSEMAID.
Oh, dear, dear! Wonder if my mistress ever thinks I am made of flesh and blood? Five times, within half an hour, I have trotted up stairs, to hand her things, that were only four feet from her rocking-chair. Then, there’s her son, Mr. George—it does seem to me, that a great able-bodied man like him, need n’t call a poor tired woman up four pair of stairs to ask “what’s the time of day?” Heigho!—its “Sally do this,” and “Sally do that,” till I wish I never had been baptized at all; and I might as well go farther back, while I am about it, and wish I had never been born.
Now, instead of ordering me round so like a dray horse, if they would only look up smiling-like, now and then; or ask me how my “rheumatiz” did; or say “Good morning, Sally;” or show some sort of interest in a fellow-cretur, I could pluck up a hit of heart to work for them. A kind word would ease the wheels of my treadmill amazingly, and would n’t cost them anything, either.
Look at my clothes, all at sixes and sevens. I can’t get a minute to sew on a string or button, except at night; and then I’m so sleepy it is as much as ever I can find the way to bed; and what a bed it is, to be sure! Why, even the pigs are now and then allowed clean straw to sleep on; and as to bed-clothes, the less said about them the better; my old cloak serves for a blanket, and the sheets are as thin as a charity school soup, Well, well; one would n’t think it, to see all the fine glittering things down in the drawing-room. Master’s stud of horses, and Miss Clara’s diamond ear-rings, and mistresses rich dresses. I try to think it is all right, but it is no use.
To-morrow is Sunday—“day of rest,” I believe they call it. H-u-m-p-h!—more cooking to be done—more company—more confusion than on any other day in the week. If I own a soul I have not heard how to take care of it for many a long day. Wonder if my master and mistress calculate to pay me for that, if I lose it? It is a question in my mind. Land of Goshen! I aint sure I’ve got a mind—there’s the bell again!
CRITICS.
“Bilious wretches, who abuse you because you write better than they.”
Slander and detraction! Even I, Fanny, know better than that. I never knew an editor to nib his pen with a knife as sharp as his temper, and write a scathing criticism on a book, because the authoress had declined contributing to his paper. I never knew a man who had fitted himself to a promiscuous coat, cut out in merry mood by taper fingers, to seize his porcupine quill, under the agony of too tight a self-inflicted fit, to annihilate the offender. I never saw the bottled-up hatred of years concentrated in a single venomous paragraph. I never heard of an unsuccessful masculine author, whose books were drugs in the literary market, speak with a sneer of successful literary feminity, and insinuate that it was by accident, not genius, that they hit the popular favour!