The Young Woman's Guide

by William A. Alcott

How painful it is, in a thousand instances of life, to be but one minute too late; and how much evil it may, indeed, often does occasion, both to ourselves and others!

"Think of the difference," says a spirited writer, "between arriving with a letter one minute before the post-office is closed, and arriving one minute after; between being at the stage-office a quarter of an hour too soon, and reaching there a quarter of an hour too late; between shaking a friend heartily by the hand as he steps on board his vessel bound to the Indies, and arriving at the pier when the vessel is under weigh, and stretching her wide canvass to the winds! Think of this, and a thousand such instances, and be determined, through life, to be in time."

Allow me to illustrate the important subject of which I am now treating, by the case of a young mother. She wishes to go from Boston to Lowell. She leaves Boston in the cars which go at eleven, and reach Lowell soon after twelve. She goes to spend the afternoon with a sick friend there, resolving to return at five—the hour when the last cars leave Lowell for Boston. Her infant is left, for the time, in the hands of a maiden sister—the husband being engaged in his shop, and hardly knowing of her departure.

She spends the afternoon with her friend, and her services are very acceptable. But ere she is aware, the bell at the railroad depot rings for passengers to Boston. A few moments are spent in getting ready and in exchanging the parting salutation with those friends who, though aware of the danger of her being left, have not the honest plainness to urge her to make speed. She is, at length, under way; but on arriving at the depot, lo! the cars have started, and are twenty or thirty rods distant.

What can she do? "Time and tide," and railroad cars, "wait for none." It is in vain that she waves her handkerchief; the swift-footed vehicles move on, and are soon out of sight! She returns, much distressed, to the house of her sick friend, unfit to render her any further service-to say nothing of the mischief she is likely to do by exciting her painful sympathies.

But how and when is she to get home? There are no public means of conveyance back to the city till to-morrow morning, and the expense of a private conveyance seems to her quite beyond her means.

How could I be so late? she says to herself. How could I run the risk of being thus left? Why was I not in season? What will my husband think—especially as I came off without saying any thing to him about coming? But this, though much to distress her, is not all, nor the most. Her poor bade! what will become of that? Her friends endeavor to soothe her by diverting her mind—but to no purpose, or nearly none: she is half distracted, and can do nothing but mourn over her folly in being so late.

But the weather is mild, and all is propitious without, except that it is likely to be rather dark; and by means of the efforts of thoughtful friends, a coach is fitted out with a careful driver, to carry her home this very evening. It will take five hours in all; and as it is now six, she will reach home at about eleven. The infant will not greatly suffer before that time.

Finding herself fairly on the road, her feelings are somewhat composed, and she just now begins to think what her husband will do, when he comes from the shop at seven, and finds she has not arrived. She is afraid he will be at the extra pains and expense to come after her; and perhaps in the darkness pass by her, and go on to Lowell.

And her fears are partly realized. After much anxiety and some complaining—which, however, I will not undertake to justify—the husband is on the road with a vehicle, going to Lowell to assist her in getting home. They meet about half way from place to place, and the drivers recognize each other—though rather more than, in the darkness, could have been expected. The coach from Lowell returns, and that from Boston, taking in both passengers, wheels them back in haste to their home. In their joy to find matters no worse, they forget to recriminate each other, and think only of the timid sister with whom the infant was left in charge: for in the hurry of getting off, the husband had made no provision for quieting her fears of being alone. She passes the time, however, in much less mental agitation than might have been expected, and takes as good care as she can, of a fretful, crying, half-starved babe. As the clock strikes one, the family are all quiet in bed, and endeavoring to sleep.