[¹] Copyright, Jas. R. Osgood.
HE drowsy hours of afternoon were devoted to the museum, collected and exhibited by the public-spirited widow of a sea-captain named McCleve. An upper room to her comfortable house is devoted to the curios, although, like attar of roses, or some penetrating oils, they seem to have saturated the entire mansion,—the good-natured proprietress occasionally haling a favored guest away from the rest to look at some quaint picture, piece of china, or bit of furniture in her own private apartments. The party of twelve or fourteen collected on this special afternoon were taken to the upper room and seated around a small table, as if for a spiritual séance, the hostess arranging precedence and proximity with an autocratic good-humor to which everybody yielded except the señor, who, standing looking in at the door, was presently accosted with—
“That gentleman at the door—why—I’ve seen that face before! Don’t you tell me it’s Sam!”
“No, I won’t, Aunty McCleve, for you’d be sure to contradict me if I did,” replied the señor, coolly; whereupon Aunty shook him affectionately by the hand, assuring him he was the same “saucy boy” he used to be, and dragged him most reluctantly to a seat in the magical circle.
“At what period of the entertainment do we pay?” inquired one of the persons one meets everywhere, and who may be called the whit-leather of society. Mrs. McCleve looked at him with an appreciative eye for a moment, and then quietly replied:
“Well, it isn’t often people bring it out quite so plain as that, but I guess you’d better pay now before you forget it.” Whit-leather does not suffer from sarcasm, and the practical man, producing a quarter of a dollar, held it tight while asking—
“Have you got ten cents change?”
“No, brother; but you can keep your quarter till I have,” replied Aunty, with the quiet gleam still in her eye, and the business was soon adjusted. This over, she placed upon the table a tray containing some really exquisite carvings in whale’s-tooth ivory, comprising a set of napkin-rings, thread-winders, spoons of various sizes, knife-handles, and several specimens of a utensil peculiar to Nantucket, called a jagging-knife, used for carving ornamental patterns in pastry,—a species of embroidery for which Nantucket housewives were once famous, although, “pity ’tis, ’tis true,” they have now largely emancipated themselves from such arts.
As the guests examined these really wonderful products of talent almost unaided by implements or training, one of the ladies naturally inquired: “Who did these?” The hostess assumed a sibylline attitude and tone: “Perhaps, my dear, you can tell us that; and if so, you’ll be the first one I ever met that could.” This obscure intimation of course awakened an interest far deeper than the carvings, in every mind; and in reply to a shower of questioning the sibyl gave a long and intricate narration, beginning with the presence on board of her husband’s whale-ship of a mystic youth with the manners and bearing of Porphyrogenitus, and the rating of a common sailor; the delicate suggestion of a disguised lady was also dimly introduced. What succeeds is yet more wonderful, as Scheherezade always said when obliged to cut short the story that the Sultan might get up and say his prayers; but we will not evade Mrs. McCleve’s copyright by telling it, simply advising everyone to go and listen to it.