Shillaber, B. P. (Benjamin Penhallow), 1814-1890 [1854], Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others of the family. (J. C. Derby, New York) [word count] [eaf677T].
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A SOLEMN FACT.
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YOUR plants are most flagrantly
odious,” said
Mrs. Partington, as she
stooped over a small oval
red table in a neighbor's
house, which table was covered
with cracked pots filled
with luxuriant geraniums, and
a monthly rose, and a cactus,
and other bright creations,
that shed their sweetness upon
the almost tropical atmosphere
of a southerly room in April, while a fragrant
vine, hung in chains, graced the window with a curtain
more gorgeous than any other not exactly like it. Mrs.
Partington stood gazing upon them in admiration.
“How beautiful they are!” she continued. “Do you
profligate your plants by slips, mem?”
She was told that such was the case; they were propagated
by slips.
“So was mine,” said Mrs. P. “I was always more
lucky with my slips than with anything else.”
Bless thy kind old heart, Mrs. Partington! it may
be so with you, but it is not so with all; for the way
of the world is hard, and many slips are made, and
for the unfortunates whose feet or tongues slip on the
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treacherous path, a sentence generally awaits which
admits small chance of reversal, — a soiled coat or a
soiled character sticking to them until both are worn out.
Dear old lady! your humble chronicler remembers that
many of the young and beautiful are profligated by
slips, — slips so gradual that propriety could hardly call
them such at first, — which end, heaven and earth and
perdition know how deep.
NEW REMEDY FOR A DROUGHT.
Mrs. Partington was in the country one August,
and for a whole month not one drop of rain had fallen.
One day she was slowly walking along the road, with
her umbrella over her head, when an old man, who was
mending up a little gap of wall, accosted her, at the
same time depositing a large stone on the top of the
pile.
“Mrs. Partington, what do you think can help this
'ere drought?”
The old lady looked at him through her spectacles, at
the same time smelling a fern leaf.
“I think,” said she, in a tone of oracular wisdom, “I
think a little rain would help it as much as anything.”
It was a great thought. The old gentleman took off
his straw hat, and wiped his head with his cotton handkerchief,
at the same time saying that he thought so
too.
-- 059 -- p677-072
“HEAR THAT VOICE. ”
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Did the reader ever know a man grown, and big at
that, with a very small voice, that almost squealed in
uttering itself, and gave a most ridiculous aspect to what
was perhaps of great importance, as matters of life and
death, the reading of a will, an exhortation to virtue, or
an anxious inquiry concerning the health of friends? Of
course he has, for there are many such voices about.
An agent of a large manufacturing establishment in New
Hampshire possessed this peculiarity of voice to a remarkable
degree, which once was the cause of a most
mortifying and ludicrous mistake. A man came to the
factory to get employment, — a great burly fellow, with
a voice like young thunder, — and saluted the agent,
who was a small man, by the way, with the question,
“Do you want to hire?” in a tone that seemed to shake
the room in which they stood. Starting at the sound,
and with a face expressive of nervous irritability, he
drawled out, in his squeaking, querulous manner, as if
looking at each word before he uttered it,
“No — I — don't — know — as — I — do.”
The man, not understanding his peculiarity, attributed
the strange tones to another cause, and kindly extending
his huge hand, as one might suppose a friendly bear would
under like circumstances, patted the little agent on the
head, and soothingly uttered,
“Well, well, my little fellow, don't cry about it;
don't take on so, if you can't hire me!”
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The contact of crude humanity with his delicate nead
operated as magically upon the agent as did the touch
of Captain Cuttle's hook upon the refined flesh of Dombey,
and frightful was the yell with which he met the
mechanic's sympathy in a command to leave the room,
and awfully vehement was the manner in which he
slammed the door to as the good-humored fellow passed
into the street.
MRS. PARTINGTON PENNED.
A friend, returned from a visit to New York, presented
to Mrs. Partington a gold pen which had been
entrusted to him for her. The present was duly examined
and admired, and turned round, and pulled out,
and held up to the light, and a receipt for pew-rent was
brought out from the black bureau, on the back of which
to test its quality, and she made a straight mark to the
right, and then crossed it with another straight mark of
equal length, and then said it was charming.
“But who are they?” said she, speculatively. “I
don't know them, I'm shore.”
The friend blandly explained that they knew her
very well, and that this present was a tribute of regard
for her many virtues, which, like the odor of ten thousand
flowers, is borne across the entire land. The giver was
eloquent — touching.
“Ah,” said she, “it is very kind to remember a poor
widowless body like me! What friends I have got!
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I hope that Heaven will be rewarded for their kindness
to me!”
It was a fervent aspiration, and though the letter of her
prayer might seem to divert the reward from its true
object, still its spirit conferred it rightly. She opened
the old black bureau-desk in the corner, and placed
the gold pen carefully by the side of the paste shoebuckles,
and hoop earrings, — valuable relics of bygone
times, — and then securely locked the desk, as she saw
Ike looking curiously into the window, with his nose
flattened close against the glass.
THE SODA FOUNTAIN.
“There it goes again!” said Mrs. Partington, as she
became conscious of the sublimity of a soda fountain one
warm day. “There it goes again, I declare, fizzin
away like a blessed old locomoco on the railroad. Don't
say anything about Nigary now, — that is n't nothin in
caparison to this, — and it a'n't bad beer nuther; but
how in natur they can draw so many kinds out of one
fassit, that 's the wonderment to me!” and she readjusted
her specs, and took a new survey of the mystery,
while Ike, unwatched, was weighing his knife and five
jackstones in the bright brass scale on the other
counter.
-- 062 -- p677-075
GIVING REASONS.
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The various reasons which some folks always have
ready for their accidents and misfortunes, or as palliatives
for their faults and follies, are very amusing.
Many stories are told of such: one we remember of a
boy who had played truant, and gave, as the reason for
his absence, that his father kept him at home to help
grind the handsaw. A toper, accounting for a bad cold
he had, said he had slept on the common, and forgot to
shut the gate. Another soaker, who was found in the
gutter, with the water making a free passage over him,
when asked how he came there, replied that he had agreed
to meet a man there.
In our printing-office days, when we had to work for
a living, it was our luck to work with a queer old fellow,
who bore the name of Smith, or some such odd title.
He was a very unhappy man, and never smiled unless
he had the whole office in a snarl, and then he would
chuckle right gladly. He was always fancying that his
office-mates were imposing upon him, and a perfect flood
of bile would he throw off at times for imagined wrongs.
His position was by a window, fronting the east, and
over this window he claimed absolute dominion, to shut
it up or have it open, as he just pleased, maugre the
fretting of those who were annoyed by his obstinacy.
He assumed the office of a thermometer for the men, and
graduated the heat according to his own feelings. If the
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wind was east he would as surely have the window open
as that he would have it shut if it blew pleasantly from
the west.
One day, with the wind blue east, the window was
open all day, and much audible complaint was made by
all hands, but without any effect. It was with a feeling
nearly akin to exultation they saw him enter the office
next day with indubitable signs of having a cold upon
him; — his nose looked “red and raw,” and his voice
sounded as if he had two tight-fitting cork stoppers in his
nostrils. The window that day was not opened, you may
depend. One of the men undertook to remind him that
his cold was in consequence of the wind blowing upon
him.
“Do it aidt,” said Smith, “but I hug by hat up by
the widnder, ad last dight whed I put it od, it was brib
full of east wid.”
A SMALL TRADE.
“Cold day, Mr. Smith,” said old Roger, in the Dock
Square omnibus to his neighbor, who assented very
politely. “And yet,” continued Roger, “cold as it is,
I have just seen a man in State-street, who does not
wear gloves.”
“Ah!” responded Smith, struck with the singularity
of the statement, “why not, pray?”
“Why,” chuckled the old man, “because he has n't
any hands.”
Mr. Smith smiled.
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ON LOCOMOTION.
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“So they 've got you on the stage, Mrs. Partington,”
said we to the old lady, after seeing her name, on a
theatre bill, as one of the characters in a new burletta.
“On the stage!” replied she, and a gleam of memory
passed over her face like a ray of sunshine over a faded
landscape, and she looked out of the window, and down
the street, until her eye rested on an omnibus moving
quickly along, in the pride of paint and gold, and she
took passage in it, in fancy, and went along with it.
“Yes,” said she, “they did get me on the stage, because
it caused a nonsense in my stomach to ride inside; and
what a queer figure I did make on it, to be sure! But
that, dear, was five and twenty years ago, and it is so
queer they should remember it. O, them stages! I 've
heerd of people riding by easy stages, but I never saw
one. The easiest way that I ever rid was on a pillory
behind Paul, there. Easy stages, indeed! why, it shook
me as if it would shake the sensuality all out of me, and
I never got over it for a week. How different it is
now!” — and she looked at the omnibus just passing her
door, — “all you 've to do is to get into an ominous, all
cushioned nicely, with a whole picture-gallery round it,
to see for nothing, and afore you know it you are where
you want to go. Stages —”
“But it is the National stage,” we said.
“Well, well,” replied she, hastily, “'taint no difference;
only the national stage carried the mail, and
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t'other the female passengers; one was jest as bad as
t'other, and I don't know but worse.”
“But they 've got you in the theatre, the National
Theatre,” we persisted, and showed her the bill.
She looked at it a moment, and wiped her specs, and
looked at it again in silence, as if her mind had n't got
back from the hard journey it had just taken. At that
moment a crash of glass called her hastily to the kitchen.
The floor was covered with fragments of that brittle
article, and a large ball hopped under a chair, as if
ashamed of itself; while Ike was seen, through the
broken window, making tracks speedily for the shed.
We left her picking up the glass, so that he might not
get it into his bare feet when he came in. Depend upon
it, he had to take a severe “talkin to” when she caught
him.
THE LARGEST LIBERTY.
“Now go to meeting, dear,” said Mrs. Partington, as
Isaac stood smoothing his hair preparatory to going out
on Sunday. He looked down at his new shoes, and a
thought of the green fields made him sigh. A fishing-line
hung out of one pocket, which Mrs. Partington
did n't see.
“Where shall I go to?” asked Ike.
Since the old lady had given up her seat in the Old
North church, she had no stated place of worship.
“Go,” replied she sublimely, as she pulled down his
jacket behind, “go anywheres where the gospel is dispensed
with.”
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Such liberality is rare. Bigotry finds no place in her
composition, and the truth, in her view, throws its light
into every apartment of the Christian edifice, like an
oysterman's chandelier into his many booths. The simile
is not the very best, but the best to be had at present.
MRS. PARTINGTON IN COURT.
“I took my knitting-work and went up into the
gallery,” said Mrs. Partington, the day after visiting
one of the city courts; “I went up into the gallery,
and, after I had digested my specs, I looked down
into the room, but I could n't see any courting going on.
An old gentleman seemed to be asking a good many
impertinent questions, — just like some old folks, — and
people were setting round making minuets of the
conversation. I don't see how they made out what was
said, for they all told different stories. How much
easier it would be to get along if they were all made to
tell the same story! What a sight of trouble it would
save the lawyers! The case, as they called it, was
given to the jury, but I could n't see it, and a gentleman
with a long pole was made to swear that he 'd
keep an eye on 'em, and see that they did n't run away
with it. Bimeby in they come agin, and then they said
somebody was guilty of something, who had just said he
was innocent, and did n't know nothing about it no more
than the little baby that never had subsistence. I come
away soon afterwards; but I could n't help thinking how
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trying it must be to sit there all day, shut out from the
blessed air!”
This experience is a beautiful exhibit of judicial
life. True enough, Mrs. Partington; how easy might
be the determining of cases, were but one side of the
story told! But, alas for perplexed jurymen! there are
unfortunately two sides, and the brain is racked to judge
between them — Conscience holding the light tremblingly,
lest Honor be compromised, and Mercy pointing with
raised finger to its fountain, as if endeavoring to draw
attention from Justice, who stands, sword in hand, to
urge her claim. “To well and truly try” is the solemn
duty fastened by an oath, and the Commonwealth reposes
in blessed security upon the broad responsibility of twelve
honest men. God save the Commonwealth!
“RIGHT” AND “LEFT. ”
“There never was a time when the divine right of
kings could be better shown,” said old Roger, emphasizing
the word “right” significantly.
“Why?” asked the little man from the provinces,
looking up.
“Because,” replied he, “there will soon be none
of them left.”
An audible “Whew!” whistled along the table, and
one distinct knock from each boarder, denoted equivocal
approbation. The dessert was dispensed with.
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A LITTLE TRUTH WELL PUT.
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SO you 've come down to attend
the adversary meetings,” said
Mrs. Partington, as she surveyed
the three trunks and two valises
and a basket that the cab had
just left, and the owner of them all, a gentleman in
black, with a ghostly-looking neckcloth.
“Ah!” said he, humoring her conceit and smiling, for
he expected to stay some days, “the adversary we meet
we subdue with the weapons of the spirit.”
“That is just what dear Deacon Sprig said when he
captivated the crazy Ingen with New England rum, and
then put him in bride'll. Says he, `I 'll subdue him
with the sword of the spirit' — he was sich a queer man!
These meetings are excellent for converting heathens and
saving the lost, and I do hope, after they have saved
everybody else, that they will try and save a few more of
their own that need teaching. There is a great many
round here that want looking after more than the heathen
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do; and we must look after our own first, or be worse
than the infiddles.”
A pair of yarn stockings and a box of butter stopped
her mouth for the time, and the old silver spoons marked
“P. P.” and the antique china were brought out — articles
that were only used on state occasions.
MUSICAL CRITICISM.
“How did you like the concert?” asked Frank, of
Mrs. Partington, at the Ontario. “Very much, indeed,”
said she; “I liked everything about the Ontario but the
consecutives; the corrosives I thought were sublimated,
but the consecutives I thought was dreadfully out of
tune.” Frank explained to her the object of the recitative,
and smiled a little at the queer mistake she had
made in musical terms. Bless thee, Mrs. Partington!
thy genius in its extravagance is never retarded by
terms.
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LIFE ON THE ROAD.
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One summer, during the very hot weather, our Ellen,
whose life could number seventeen happy summers, and
nearly the same number of winters, took it into her
little roguish head that she would like to go to Hampton
Beach. And when such a whim had once got into her
head, the question might well be asked how could it be
got out. It would be hopeless to attempt it, provided
any one were so inclined; but no one said a word, and
Ellen did go. She and her little friend Charlotte, who
was on a visit to Ellen, started for the Beach, with
lots of precautions and dough-nuts from Ellen's mother,
for there is not a better soul between here and Great
Hill than that same mother of Ellen's.
The horse and the wagon, bearing its charming freight
of two pretty girls, moved swiftly and safely over the
road to the Beach, and many a musical echo reverberated
through the woods, and along the meadows, and by the
hill-sides, and from the hill-tops, as they passed along.
The day was very pleasantly spent by the sea-shore,
and when wearied with rambling over the fine, smooth
beach, and sporting in the breakers like naiads, they
started on their return home, with hearts as light and
eyes as bright as when they set out in the morning.
Their horse was a spirited animal, which could ill
brook a whip, and was also emulative to a great degree
in competing with other horses for mastery on the road.
In fact, he would allow no horse to go by him, and made
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it a matter of principle — if horses are ever governed
by principle — to go by all on the road. They had
got perhaps half way home, when they overtook an
oldish sort of a man who was driving a fast horse.
“Billy,” Ellen's horse, stuck up his ears, and “put
her,” with an evident determination of going by. The
old 'un stirred his beast up to the strife, and away they
went over the road as swift as the swallows — neither
having the advantage. Ellen laughed at the sport, and
held the ribbons with the tact of a veteran Jehu. The
contest was soon decided, for the old chap raised his
whip and slightly touched “Billy” with the lash.
Billy impetuously kicked at the insult, but darted
like lightning along the road, distancing his competitor
in a twinkling. The old man was seen no more by the
victors; but over the road they still flew, Billy heeding
neither rein nor word. The remembrance of the insult
put him to his speed, and he dashed along with terrific
velocity.
Men rushed out, and threw up their hands, and cried
“Whoa!”
Women screamed, and prophesied woe to them.
Dogs barked as they skimmed along.
But no fear was felt by our Ellen in her peril. Her
pulse was quick with the excitement, but no fear mingled
with it. Her cheek was red as the rose, and her eyes
laughed, as her ringing voice told the people to get out
of the way. She wound the ribbons round her hands,
and to keep the middle of the road was her only care.
Bravo! Ellen — bravo! and the brave heart and
strong arm gave her the victory. A two-mile heat, the
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quickest ever ran in our county, stands recorded to her
fame.
This is n't much of a story, but it shows what a true
woman can do and should do in an emergency. It will
not do for Ellen's husband to treat her badly, we can tell
him, when he gets her. His bones would n't be entirely
safe.
FANCY DISEASES.
“Diseases is very various,” said Mrs. Partington, as
she returned from a street-door conversation with Dr.
Bolus. “The Doctor tells me that poor old Mrs. Haze
has got two buckles on her lungs! It is dreadful to
think of, I declare. The diseases is so various! One way
we hear of people's dying of hermitage of the lungs;
another way of the brown creatures; here they tell us
of the elementary canal being out of order, and there
about tonsors of the throat; here we hear of neurology
in the head, there of an embargo; one side of us we hear
of men being killed by getting a pound of tough beef in
the sarcofagus, and there another kills himself by discovering
his jocular vein. Things change so, that I
declare I don't know how to subscribe for any disease
now-a-days. New names and new nostrils takes the
place of the old, and I might as well throw my old herb-bag
away.”
Fifteen minutes afterwards Isaac had that herb-bag for
a target, and broke three squares of glass in the cellar
window in trying to hit it, before the old lady knew what
he was about. She did n't mean exactly what she said.
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DAGUERREOTYPES.
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“What artfulness!” said Mrs. Partington, as she
held her miniature in her hand, done in the highest style
of the daguerrean art. The features were radiant with
benevolence; the cap, close-fitted about her venerable
face, bore upon it the faded black ribbon, the memento
of ancient woe; the close-folded kerchief about her neck
was pinned with mathematical exactness, while from
beneath the cap border struggled a dark gray lock of
hair, like a withered branch in winter waving amid accumulated
snows. The specs and box were represented
upon the table by her side. The picture was like her,
and admiration marked every line of her countenance as
she spoke.
“What artfulness here is, and how nat'rally every liniment
is brought out! How nicely the dress is digested!”
She was talking to herself all the while.
“Why, this old black lutestring, that I have worn twenty
year for Paul, looks as good as new, only it is a little
too short-waisted by a great deal. O, Paul, Paul!”
sighed she, as she sat back in her chair and gazed, with
a tear in her eye, upon an old smoke-stained profile, cut
in black, that had hung for many a year above the
mantel-piece. “O, Paul! what a blessed thing this is,
where Art helps Natur, and Natur helps Art, and they
both help one another! How I wish I had your dear old
phismahogany done like this! I 'd prize it more than
gold or silver.”
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She sat still, and looked alternately at the daguerreotype
and the profile, as if she hoped the profile would
speak to her; but it still looked rigidly forward, thrusting
out its huge outline of nose as if proud of it, and
then with a sigh she reclasped the case and deposited the
picture in the upper drawer of the old black bureau in
the corner. Ike was all the while burning holes through
a pine shingle with one of Mrs. Partington's best knitting-needles.
THAT AND THAT.
“You do make that child look like a fool, wife, with
all that toggery on him,” said Mr. Fog angrily, as they
were starting out for a walk. “Dear me,” says Mrs.
Partington, meeting them at the door, “what a doll of a
baby, and how much he resembles his papa!” Mr. Fog
coughed, and they passed along.
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ON POLITICS.
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“As regards these electrical matters,” said Mrs.
Partington, just before election, — she lived on a main
street, and the cheering and noise of parties passing her
door kept her awake o' nights, — “I don't see the use
of making so much fuss about it. Why don't they take
some one and give him their sufferings, if he has n't got
any of his own, and let him be governor till he dies,
just as they do the judges, and arterwards too, as they
sometimes do them, for they might as well be dead, a
good many of 'em? O, this confusion of noise and
hubbub! My poor head aches o' hearing of it, and Isaac
has got sich a cold, looking out of the window at the
possessions without nothing on the head. And then
what critters they all be, to be sure! — their newspapers
are brim full of good resolutions, but ne'eraone of
'em did I ever know 'em to keep. They are always
resolving, like the showman's resolving views, and one
resolution fades away jest as quick as another comes.
If I could have my way, I would” —
“Hooray! here they come!” cried Ike, breaking in
upon the old lady's remarks, and banging his slate on
the floor, and throwing up the window with a vehemence
that broke two squares of glass.
“Hooray!” came up in a big chorus from the street,
filling Mrs. Partington's little chamber, to its utmost
capacity, with “hooray,” the great element of political
life.
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“There they go agin,” cried she, “with their drums
and lanterns, like crazy critters, and keeping folks awake
when they ought to be in the arms of Murphy!”
Ike pulled in his head and dropped the window, and
the good old lady mended the fracture of the glass by a
hat and a pair of pants of Ike's, with the threat of severe
punishment if he ever did so again. But do you suppose
she would have kept it? Ike knew better. When
the glazier came in the next day to mend the window, she
had to tell him the story of how it was broke, but all the
blame was on the politicians.
“Don't crowd so, good woman,” said old Roger, at
the Lowell Institute, as he was waiting his turn to give
his name. “Don't crowd so!” and, looking over his
shoulder, he met the reproachful glance of Mrs. Partington
herself, who was there for the same purpose. He
immediately gave way to her, and the next morning
found himself not divisible by 7, nor anything like it.
“So much for politeness!” growled old Roger; “she 'll
get all the Natural Religion now; and much good may
it do her!” You would have smiled to see the spiteful
manner in which the little man said this.
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BEAUTIFUL REFLECTION INTERRUPTED.
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“Dear me!” said Mrs. Partington; and so she is
dear, — not that she meant so, — because under that black
bonnet is humility, and self-praise forms no part of her
reflection. It was a simple ejaculation, that was all;
our word for it. “Dear me! here they are going to have
war again over the sea, and only for a Turkey, and it
don't say how much it weighed either, nor whether it
was tender; and Prince Knockemstiff has gone off in a
miff, and the Rushin bears and Austriches are all to be
let loose to devour the people, and Heaven knows where
the end of it will leave off. War is a dreadful thing —
so destroying to temper and good clo'es, and men shoot
at each other jest as if they was gutter purchase, and
cheap at that.”
How sorrowfully the cover of the snuff-box shut, as
she ceased speaking! and the spectacles looked dewy,
like a tumbler in summer-heat filled with ice-water, as
she looked at the profile of the corporal, with the sprig
of sweet fern above it, and the old sword behind the
door.
What did Ike mean as he stole in, and deposited some
red article under the cricket upon which her feet rested,
and then stole out again?
A hissing sound followed — crack! snap! bang!
whiz! went a bunch of crackers — and Mrs. Partington,
in consternation and cloth slippers, danced about the
room, forgetful of distant war in her present alarm.
Ah, Ike!
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APPOINTING INSPECTORS.
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“Inspectors of customs!” said Mrs. Partington,
energetically, as she laid down the paper chronicling
some new appointment. Here was a new idea, that
broke upon her mind like a ray of sunshine through a
corn barn.
“Inspectors of customs!” and she looked up at the
rigid profile of the old corporal, as if she would ask what
he had to say about it; but that warrior had hung there
too long to be now disturbed by trifles, and he took no
notice of her.
“Inspectors of customs!” continued she, as she
turned her attention to the old black teapot, and then
turned out the tea, which celestial beverage gurgled
through the spout, in harmony with her reflections, not
too strong; “that 's a new idea to me. But, thank
Providence, I ha'n't got no customs that I had n't as
lives they 'd inspect as not; only I 'd a little rather
they would n't. I wish everybody could say so, but
I 'm afeard there are many customs that won't bear
looking into. Well, let every tub stand on its own bottom,
I say — I won't cast no speciousness on nobody.
But I don't see what they wanted to appoint any more
for, and be to so much suspense when every place has so
many in it that will inspect customs for nothing. If
they 'd only make my next-door neighbor, Miss Juniper,
now, an inspector of customs, they would n't need
another for a long ways, that 's mortally sartin.”
-- 079 -- p677-092
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She stirred her souchong as she ruminated, untasting,
and Ike helped himself, unheeded, to the last preserved
pear there was in the dish.
MRS. PARTINGTON AT TEA.
“Adulterated tea!” said Mrs. Partington, as she
read in the Transcript an account of the adulteration of
teas in England, at which she was much shocked. “I
wonder if this is adulterated?” and she bowed her head
over the steaming and fragrant decoction in the cup before
her, whose genial odors mingled with the silvery
vapor, and encircled her venerable poll like a halo.
“It smells virtuous,” continued she, smiling with satisfaction,
“and I know this Shoo-shon tea must be good,
because I bought it of Mr. Shoo-shon himself, at Redding's.
Adulterated!” she meandered on, pensively
as a brook in June, “and it 's agin the commandment,
too, which says — don't break that, Isaac!” as
she saw that interesting juvenile amusing himself with
making refracted sunbeams dance upon the wall, and
around the dark profile, and among the leaves of the
sweet fern, like yellow butterflies or fugitive chips of
new June butter. The alarm for her crockery dispelled
all disquietude about the tea, and she sipped her beverage,
all oblivious of dele-tea-rious infusions.
-- 080 -- p677-093
SIR, YOU OWE ME A CENT.
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OTHER things may be great,”
said old Roger with a nod,
“besides what 's called so;
some very little thing, if 't is
done well, can be a great one;
in impudence, say, for instance.
Yesterday a boy
asked me pitifully for a four-pence;
I gave him what I
thought to be one, and passed
on. Presently I felt a twitch
at my coat-tail, and looked
round, and there stood the boy.
`Sir,' says he, `you owe me a cent — this 'ere won't
pass for but five cents — it 's crossed!' I gave the
little rascal a shilling at once; I could n't help it. The
thing was sublime, — admirable; hang me if it was n't.”
And the little man struck his cane violently on the
ground, and laughed happily at the supreme impudence
displayed in the affair.
-- 081 -- p677-094
GUESSING AT A NAME.
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“Drive him out!” screamed Mrs. Partington, as
Ike whistled in an immense house-dog, who perambulated
the kitchen, dotting the newly-washed floor with
flowers of mud, and audaciously smelling Mrs. Partington's
toes, as the old lady stood up in a chair to avoid
him.
“Drive him out. What is his name, Isaac?”
“Guess,” replied Ike.
“I can't, I know. Perhaps it 's Watch, or Ponto, or
Cæsar — what is it?”
“Why, Guess.”
“I tell you I can't guess. Perhaps it 's Hector, or
Tiger, or Rover — what is his name?”
“Guess.”
“O, you provoking creatur! I'll be tempered to whip
you within an inch of your skin if you provoke me so.
Why don't you tell me?”
“I did tell you the first time,” whined Ike, pulling
the dog's ear with one hand while he wiped his dry eyes
with the other, “his name is Guess.”
The old lady was melted by his emotion, and, as soon
as the dog was sent out, some nice quince jelly settled
the difficulty.
“He is sich a queer child!” murmured she; “so
bright! I suppose 't was because he was weaned on
pickles.”
Ike ate his preserves in silence, but his eye was on the
-- 082 -- p677-095
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acorn on the post of the old lady's high-backed chair,
and he thought what a nice top it would make if he
could saw it off some day.
BURNING WATER.
“Well, this is a discovery!” exclaimed Mrs. Partington
smilingly, as she stood with a small picture in her
right hand, her left resting upon the pine table, and her
eyes fixed upon the flame of a glass lamp, that sputtered
for a moment and then shot out a gleam of cheerful
light that irradiated every part of the little kitchen,
revealing the portrait of Paul upon the wall and Ike
asleep by the fire. She spoke to herself — it was a way
she had — and she met with no contradiction from that
quarter. “This is a discovery. This lamp was almost
burnt out, and I 've filled it up with water, and it burns
like the real ile.” The experiment was perfectly
triumphant; the problem of light from water was
demonstrated; and yet, with this vast fact revealed
to her, Mrs. Partington, with a modesty equal to that of
the great philosopher who picked up a pocket-full of
rocks on the shore of the vast ocean of Truth, smiled
with delight at her discovery, nor once thought of putting
out a patent or selling rights — was entirely willing all
might burn water that could.
-- 083 -- p677-096
A STRIKING MANIFESTATION.
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“I can't believe in sperituous knockings,” said Mrs.
Partington, solemnly, as some things were related to her
which had been seen, that appeared very mysterious.
“I can't believe about it; for I know, if Paul could come
back, he would revulge himself to me here, and
would n't make me run a mile only to get a few dry
knocks. Strange that the world should be so superstitional
as to believe sich a rapsody, or think a sperrit can
go knocking about like a boy in vexation. I can't
believe it, and I don't know 's I could if that teapot
there was to jump off the table right afore my eyes!” She
paused, and through the gloom of approaching darkness
could be seen the determined expression of her mouth.
A slight movement was heard upon the table, and the
little black teapot moved from its position, crawled
slowly up the wall, and then hung passively by the side
of the profile of the ancient corporal! The old lady
could not speak, but held up her hands in wild amazement,
while her snuff-box fell from her nerveless grasp
and rolled along upon the sanded floor. She left the
room to procure a light, and, as soon as she had gone,
the teapot was lowered by the invisible hand to its
original station, and Ike stepped out from beneath the
table, stowing a long string away in his pocket, and
grinning prodigiously.
-- 084 -- p677-097
IKE AND THE ELEPHANT.
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“Well,” said Ike, looking the elephant directly in
the eye, at the same time doubling up his huge fist, as
big as a half-cent bun, and putting on an air of defiance,
after the animal had stolen his gingerbread; “well, you
got it, did n't you, you old thief, you! I s'pose you
think you 've done thunderin' great things, don't you?
For my part, I don't call it no better 'n stealing. O,
you may stand there and swing that ridic'lous-looking
trunk o' your'n just as much as you 're a mind to; you
can't skeer a fellow, I tell you! This is a free country,
old club-feet; and you an't agoing to take any more
liberties here like that. I can tell you it won't be safe for
that Ingee-rubber hide o' yourn, if you do! You take
my gingerbread away agin, if you dare, that 's all! You
just try it, you ongainly reptile, you! O, you may look
saucy, and pretend you don't keer, but you just say two
words, — just knock that chip off my head, — and if I don't
give you fits my name an't Ike Partington, that 's all!
Just put down that big Ingee-rubber bludgeon, and I 'll
black your eyes for you, you old tough-leather! You
darsn't say a word, you ill-mannered old hunch! I 'd
knock your eye-teeth out, if you did. O, take it up, if
you 're a mind to; you need n't think to bully it over
me, because you 're a little bigger'n I am, I can tell you.
We don't stand no such nonsense as that, round here.
If 't warn't for that p'leceman looking here, I 'd pitch
into you like a thousand o' bricks. I would n't get out
-- 085 -- p677-098
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o' your way as people do when you come along, and I
should like to see you just step on my toes — why can't
you just try it now, will you? I guess I 'd make you
hear thunder with them leather-apron ears o' your'n,
you big overgrown vagabond, you! 'T a'n't no use o'
talking to you, but I shall be here, and, if you don't mind
your eye, I 'll lick you like blazes afore I go out.”
Here Isaac undoubled his hands, and, shaking his head
threateningly at the huge animal, he went over to get a
look at the monkeys; while the elephant lazily swung
his trunk from side to side, and good-naturedly fanned
himself with his big ears, as if he had n't minded a word
the little fellow had said.
A SUBSTITUTE.
“I have n't got any money,” said Mrs. Partington,
as the box came round at the close of a charity lecture;
“but here 's a couple of elegant sausages I have brought
that you can give the poor creturs!” The box-holder
looked confounded — the people smiled. With her view
of charity, she saw nothing wrong in the act. Bless
thee, Mrs. Partington! angels shall record the deed on
the credit side of thy account, and where hearts are
judged shall thy simple gift weigh like gold in the day
of award.
-- 086 -- p677-099
WHOLESOME ADVICE.
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“Isaac,” said Mrs. Partington, as that interesting
juvenile was playing a game of “knuckle up” against
the kitchen wall, to the imminent danger of the old
clock which ticked near by, “this is a marvellous age,
as Deacon Babson says, and perhaps there 's no harm in
'em, but I 'm afeard no good 'll come out of it — no good
at all — for you to keep playing marvels all the time,
as you do. I am afeard you will learn how to gambol,
and become a bad boy, and forget all the good device I
have given you. Ah! it would break my soul, Isaac, to
have you given to naughty tricks, like some wicked boys
that I know, who will be rakeshames in the airth if they
don't die before their time comes. So, don't gambol,
dear, and always play as if you had just as lieves the
minister would see you as not.” She handed him a
little bag she had made for him to keep his marbles in,
and patted his head kindly as he went again to play.
Ike was fortified, for the next five minutes, against
temptation to do evil; but
“Chase span, in the ring,
Knuckle up, or anything,”
are potent when arrayed against out-of-sight solicitude,
and we fear that the boy forgot. There is much reason
in the old lady's fear.
-- 087 -- p677-100
A GHOST STORY.
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In the vicinity of a town not many miles from Boston
was a dark glen, by the roadside, reputed to be haunted.
A traveller had been found here, many years before,
frozen to death, and his troubled spirit, with a disposition
to trouble everybody else, was said nightly to visit
the scene of his mortal termination, to have a “melancholy
satisfaction” all alone by himself, or with but such
auditors as he could press in to participate in the “services
of the evening.” An old fellow, who resided in
the town, and was fully imbued with the superstition,
had been one night to a husking, where the milk-punch
had circulated with more than common generosity, and
though “na fou,” he had enough on board to make him
comfortable and happy and
— “glorious,
O'er all the ills of life victorious.”
Towards the hour of breaking up, the conversation
turned upon the ghost, by whose dark hunting-ground
our friend had to pass, over a road raised up amid an
alder swamp, whose sad gloom could hardly be dispelled
by a noon-day sun, and where nothing but a ghost of the
most simple sort would wish to abide.
“Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil,
Wi' usquebae we 'll face the devil,”
Burns said; and milk-punch we suppose to be about the
same in its courage-inspiring properties. Our hero
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
snapped his fingers at danger from ghosts and unholy
angels, and cared for neither a “bodle.” It was a milewalk,
good, to the spiritual precinct, and, thinking on
his way that it would be the part of prudence to prepare
for emergency, before he came to the dark gulf he was
to pass, he gathered a small artillery from a stone wall,
determined, if assaulted, to do battle manfully, for the
credit of the punch.
He had crossed a little brook that murmured beneath
the rude bridge above it, and had fairly got through
the dangerous part, as he considered it, of his journey,
and muttered to himself, in rather a tone of disappointment,
“I guess he must be sick; fog is n't good for
him,” when, lo! almost directly in the path before him
was an object that made him come to a stand at once.
It was all ghostly white, and he had barely time to look
at it, when a hideous groan came towards him on the
night air, which the milk-punch could hardly counteract
in its effect on his nervous system. Rallying however,
he selected a missile and let fly at his ghostly obstructor;
another groan, like the last bellow of expiring nature,
answered this assault. He hurled another huge stone,
and, gathering courage from the excitement, he blazed
away in a manner that would astonish either human or
superhuman antagonists, but without any apparent effect
upon the adversary, who stood his ground manfully,
or, perhaps we should say, ghostfully. As the last
stone of his ammunition was expended, however, with a
cry that echoed fearfully through the alders, the ghost
rushed towards him, and a violent shock laid him senseless
upon the ground, a vanquished man. He was found
-- 089 -- p677-102
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the next morning pensively sitting by the road-side,
contemplating the scene of his night's exploit, with his
head in his hand.
He told his story, and pointed to the scattered missiles
for proof of what he had done; and he was believed, for
“to give up the ghost” was out of the question. But,
on going home, a small white two-year-old bull was seen
grazing by the road-side, and suspicion for a moment
crossed their minds that this might have been the ghost,
after all, seen through the medium of the punch; but this
would have been voted rank heresy against the ancient
institution of ghosts, and they held their peace.
A DANGEROUS POSITION.
“Don't lay in that postur, dear,” said Mrs. Partington
to Ike, who was stretched upon a settle, with his heels
a foot or two higher than his head. “Don't lay so; raise
yourself up, and put this pillow under you. I knew a
young man once who had a suggestion of the brain in
consequence of laying so — his brains all run down into
his head!” and with this admonition she left him, to
practise, soon after, the hazardous experiment of tying
his legs in a bow knot round his neck, as he had seen
Professor Baldwin do.
-- 090 -- p677-103
A LESSON ON SYMPATHY.
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“What a to-do they are making about this Cosset!”
said Mrs. Partington, smilingly. The news had reached
her ear of the triumphs of Kossuth, and the name had
assumed a form, and that form recalled a train of peculiar
and characteristic associations, and she went on
like an eight-day clock: “A cosset is a pretty thing in
a family where there 's children, and they are dear
critters for girls that has n't got sweethearts to invent
their young affectations on; but what 's the use of making
sich a fuss about it?”
“But this is Kos-suth, aunt, the great Hungarian,”
said Ike, tremendously, who was well posted up in passing
matters; “who has come over here to ask our sympathy,
and enlist us in behalf of his country.”
“Well,” said she, as the new light dawned upon
her, “they may have our sympathy in welcome, 'cause
it don't cost anything; but we must n't 'list and give
'em money, — that would be agin our constitutions!”
And the prudent dame drummed thoughtfully on her
snuff-box cover, with her eyes fixed upon the vane of
the Old South, while Ike amused himself by scratching
“KOSSuTH,” with a fork, on the end of the new
japanned waiter.
-- 091 -- p677-104
HOW IKE DROPPED THE CAT.
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
NOW, Isaac,” said Mrs. Partington,
as she came into the
room with a basket snugly
covered over, “take our
Tabby, and drop her somewhere,
and see that she don't
come back again, for I am
sick and tired of driving her
out of the butter. She is the
thievinest creatur! But don't
hurt her, Isaac; only take care
that she don't come back.”
Ike smiled as he received his charge, and the old lady
felt happy in getting rid of her trouble without resorting
to violence. She would rather have endured the evil of
the cat, great as that evil was, than that the poor quadruped
should be inhumanly dealt with. She saw Ike
depart, in the dusk of the evening, and watched him
until he became lost to view in the shadow of a tree. It
was a full half hour before he returned with his empty
basket, and an unusual glee marked his appearance, — it
sparkled in his eye, it glowed in his cheek, it sported in
his hair, — and Ike looked really handsome, as he stood
before the dame, and proclaimed the success of his
mission.
“Did she drop easy, Isaac?” asked the old lady,
-- 092 --
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looking upon him kindly, “and won't she come
back?”
“She dropt just as easy!” said Ike, letting his basket
fall on the floor, and shying his cap upon the table, somewhat
endangering a glass lamp with a wooden bottom
that stood thereon; “she dropt just as easy! and she
won't come back — you may bet high on that.”
“But you did n't beat and mangle her, Isaac, did
you? If you did I should be afraid she would come back
and haunt us — I have heard of such things;” and she
looked anxiously in his face; but, detecting there no trace
of guilt, she patted him on the head, and parted his hair,
and told him to sit down and eat his supper, which the
young gentleman did with considerable unction.
“Isaac! Isaac!” screamed Mrs. Partington, at the
foot of the little stairway that led to the attic where the
boy slept, the next morning after the above occurrence.
“Isaac!” — and he came down stairs slowly, rubbing
his eyes as he came. She had disturbed his morning
nap.
“Isaac,” said she, “what is that hanging yender to a
limb of our apple-tree?” One scattering tree, as she
said, constituted her whole orchard, unless she counted
the poplar by the corner.
“I can't see so fur off,” said Ike, still rubbing his
eyes.
“Well, I should think it was a cat; and it looks to
me like our Tabby. O, Isaac! if you have done this!”
and a tone akin to horror trembled in her voice.
“I 'll go and see if it 's her,” said Ike, as if not hearing
the last part of her remark; and he dashed out of
-- 093 --
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the door, but soon came back, with wonder depicted on
every feature of his expressive countenance. “O, it 's
her! sure enough, it 's her!” cried he, “but I did drop
her!”
“Well, how could she come there then?” and the
good old lady looked puzzled.
“I 'll tell you how I guess it was,” said Ike, looking
demurely up. “I guess that she committed suicide,
because we was going to drop her; they are dreadful
knowing critters, you know.”
“True enough,” replied the old lady, while something
like a tear glistened in her eye — her pity was excited;
“true enough, Isaac, and I dare say she thought hard of
us for doing it; but she had n't ought to if she 'd have
considered a minute.”
Ike said no more, but went out and cut down the supposed
suicide, with a serious manner, and buried her
beneath her gallows, deep down among the roots of the
old tree, and she never came back.
The old lady told the story to the minister, and Ike
vouched for it, but the good man shook his head incredulously
at the idea of the suicide, and looked at the boy.
He very evidently understood how the cat was dropped.
-- 094 -- p677-107
STOPPING A 'BUS.
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Mrs. Partington had watched three quarters of an
hour for an omnibus, and she swung her umbrella as one
drove up, and the driver stopped his horses near where
she stood.
“Now, Isaac,” says she, feeling in her reticule
for a copper, away down under the handkerchief, and
snuff-box, and knitting-work, and thread-case, and
needle-book, “be a good boy, dear, while I am gone,
and don't cause a constellation among the neighbors, as
some boys do, and there 's a cent for you; and be sure
you don't lay it out extravagantly, now; and be keerful
you don't break the windows; and if anybody rings at
the door, be sure and see who it is before you open it,
because there is so many dishonest rogues about; if any
porpoises come a begging give 'em what was left of the
dinner, Heaven bless 'em, and much good may it do
'em! and — why, bless me! if the omnibus has n't
gone off, and left me standing here in the middle of the
street. Such impudence is without a parable.”
Her spectacles gleamed indignantly down the street,
after the disappearing 'bus, and, for a moment, anger had
the mastery; but equanimity, like twilight, came over her
mind, and she waited for the next 'bus, with calmness on
her face, and her green cotton umbrella under her arm.
-- 095 -- p677-108
AFTER A WEDDING.
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
“I like to tend weddings,” said Mrs. Partington, as
she came back from a neighboring church, where one had
been celebrated, and hung up her shawl, and replaced
the black bonnet in the long-preserved bandbox. “I
like to see young people come together with the promise
to love, cherish, and nourish each other. But it is a
solemn thing, is matrimony, — a very solemn thing, —
where the pasture comes into the chancery, with his surplus
on, and goes through with the cerement of making
'em man and wife. It ought to be husband and wife;
for it a'n't every husband that turns out a man. I
declare I shall never forget how I felt when I had the
nuptual ring put on to my finger, when Paul said,
`With my goods I thee endow.' He used to keep a drygoods
store then, and I thought he was going to give
me all there was in it. I was young and simple, and
did n't know till arterwards that it only meant one
calico gound in a year. It is a lovely sight to see the
young people plighting their trough, and coming up to
consume their vows.”
She bustled about and got tea ready, but abstractedly
she put on the broken teapot, that had lain away
unused since Paul was alive, and the teacups, mended
with putty, and dark with age, as if the idea had conjured
the ghost of past enjoyment to dwell for the moment in
the home of present widowhood.
-- 096 -- p677-109
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
A young lady, who expected to be married on Thanksgiving
night, wept copiously at her remarks, but kept
on hemming the veil that was to adorn her brideship,
and Ike sat pulling bristles out of the hearth-brush in
expressive silence.
MRS. PARTINGTON IN THE MARKET.
“I wonder what they mean by a better feeling in the
market?” said Mrs. Partington, looking up from the
newspaper which she was reading, and the problem
deeply agitated her mind, revealed in the vibration of
her cap-border. Her address was directed to nobody in
particular. It was a little private wonder, got up for
her own amusement. The market, and the deaths and
marriages, were Mrs. P.'s favorite study in the Weekly
Chronicle, but some of the mercantile phrases were at
times imperfectly understood. “I wonder what they
mean? I 'm shore I don't feel any better there, and
I don't believe anybody does but the butchers, and
that 's when they are pocketing the money, — things is
so dear! But,” continued she, brightening up, “I
should like to see the trade embracing ten hogsheads of
tobacco, that I see here printed about. That must have
been a real tetching sight.” She thought of Paul, and
the association brought out the cotton handkerchief with
the Constitution and Guerriere upon it, and she discontinued.
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-- 097 -- p677-114
PARTINGTON PHILOSOPHY.
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Before the railroad company bought and tore down
the Partington mansion, and uprooted and overturned the
old family shrines without regard to their sacredness,—
the Vandals! — turning the good old heart that worshipped
there out upon the world to seek new ties amid new
scenes, it was Mrs. Partington's delight to gather friends
about her at Thanksgiving time, and the time-honored
season passed very happily. Amid the festivities her
benignity would beam with such a radiance, that the red
seed peppers upon the wall looked ruddier in its genial
glow, and the bright tin pans upon the shelf seemed
brimful of sunshine, and smiled out upon all who looked
at them.
There were fine times at the Partington mansion at
Thanksgiving, you may depend. She did n't keep Christmas, —
she was puritanical in her religious notions, and
'tended the Old North meeting-house for a third of a
century, and took pride in saying that she had never been
to church; a nice distinction which we leave the old
folks to make, — Christmas was a church holiday, unsanctioned
by a governor's proclamation, and she would
none of it; she scented in it the garment of the disreputable
Babylonish female, mentioned in the Apocalypse,
and avoided it. But it is Thanksgiving that we are
speaking about now — Well, well, what has all this to
do with patience? — Have patience, darling, and we 'll
tell you an instance of patient resignation under
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
disappointment, not surpassed since Newton's dog Diamond
committed an incendiary act, and his master gravely informed
the quadruped that he was not probably aware of
the extent of the damage he had committed; which was
doubtless the fact.
It was the custom with Mrs. P. to shut up a turkey
previous to Thanksgiving, in order that he might be nice
and fat for the generous season. One year the gobbler
had thus been penned, like a sonnet, with reference to
Thanksgiving, and anticipations were indulged of the
“good time coming;” but, alas! the brightest hopes must
fade. The turkey, when looked for, was not to be found.
It had been stolen away! Upon discovering her great
loss, Mrs. P. was for a moment overcome with surprise—
disconcerted; but the sun of her benevolence soon
broke the clouds away, and spread over her features like
new butter upon hot biscuit, and with a smile, warm with
the feeling of her heart, she said — “I hope they will
find it tender! — I guess we can be thankful on pork
and cabbage!”
“Say, ye severest, what would ye have done”
under such circumstances? You would, perhaps, have
raved, and stamped, and swore, and made yourself generally
ridiculous, besides perilling your soul in the excess
of your anger. But Mrs. P. did n't, and there is where
you and she differ. She stood calmly and tranquilly —
a living lesson of philosophical patience under extreme
difficulty. We cite this example that the world may
profit by it.
-- 099 -- p677-116
FILIAL DUTY vs. WASHING-POWDER.
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
“Children of the present day,” sighed the Rev.
Adoniram Spaid, as he was visiting Mrs. Partington
during the spring anniversaries — “children of the
present day, ma'am, sadly ruffle the bosoms of their
parents.”
He crossed his legs as he spoke, and tied his handkerchief
in a hard knot over his knee, at the same
time looking at Ike through the back window, as that
young gentleman was performing a slack-rope exercise
upon the clothes-line, endangering the caps and handkerchiefs
that swung like banners in the breeze. Mrs.
Partington suspended washing, and looked round at her
visitor, at the same time wiping her hands to take a
pinch of snuff.
“Yes, sir,” she said, “I think so; but it is n't so
bad, either, as it used to be before the soap-powder was
found out.”
Mr. Spaid quietly protested that he could not see the
relevancy of the remark.
“Why,” continued she, inhaling the rappee, and handing
the box to the minister, “then it was a great labor
to wash and do 'em up; but now the washing-powder
makes it so easy, that the children can rumple bosoms
or anything else with perfect impurity. We don't make
nothing of it. I consider washing-powder” — holding
up a pair of Ike's galligaskins that had just gone through
-- 100 -- p677-117
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
a course of purification — “as a great blessing to mothers.”
The minister smiled, and thought what a curious
proposition it would be, in the “Society for the Mitigation
of Everything,” to recommend washing-powder as
an auxiliary to other operative blessings, and thanked
Mrs. Partington for the hint.
A SERIOUS QUESTION.
Old Roger came down stairs, one Sunday morning,
with a face unusually animated, and stood, with his
hands behind his back, playing nervously with the tails
of his coat. The breakfast was waiting for him, the fishballs
were getting cold, the coffee was evaporating; but
he did n't seem to care. He leaned over the back of the
landlady's chair, and asked her, in a whisper, if she
could tell him why a dyspeptic was out of immediate
danger when his disease was most distressing. She
looked earnestly at the top of the teapot a few moments,
and then said that for the life of her she could n't tell.
A curiosity was evinced by the boarders, and they asked
what it was. They all gave it up, too. “Why,” said
he, looking very red, “it is because he can't di-gest
then.” Drawing his chin within his stock, the old fellow
laughed lustily, and in his paroxysm threw his arms
around the landlady's neck for support; but she threw
them off very indignantly, for the boarders were all looking
at her. He then sat down to breakfast with a good
appetite.
-- 101 -- p677-118
RATHER A RASCAL.
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
“Mrs. Partington, your neighbor, Mr. Gruff, is
rather irascible, I think,” said the new minister on his
first visit to the old lady, as he heard Gruff scolding Ike
for throwing snow-balls at his new martin-house. Gruff
kept a grocery over the way, and was in a constant
quarrel with every boy in the neighborhood. Mrs. Partington
looked at the minister through her spectacles
inquiringly before she answered.
“Rather a rascal!” said she, slightly misapprehending
his question, and patting her box affectionately; “yes,
indeed, I think he is, a great rascal! He sold me burnt
peas for the best coffee, once, and it was n't weight,
nuther. When they built our new church, somebody
said there was a nave in it, and I know'd in a minute
who they meant. Why” —
“I mean,” interrupted the minister, blandly, laying
his white hand gently on his arm, “I mean that he is
quick-tempered.”
“O, that 's quite another thing — yes, he is very,”
and she changed the subject. But that word “irascible”
ran in her head for an hour after he was gone, and
when Ike came in she told him to take down the old
Johnson's Decency and find the defamation of it.
-- 102 -- p677-119
THE SENSITIVE MAN SEES A BLOOMER.
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
The Sensitive Man came in, one day, just after dinner,
threw himself into a chair, and fainted. After a mug
or two of Cochituate water had been dashed in his interesting
face, he came to a little, gazed wildly upon the
circle that surrounded him, and said, in a sort of unearthly
whisper, “Where is she?” Nobody knew what he
meant. The fog, a moment later, rolled from his soul,
and he was enabled to explain, with the aid of some slight
stimulant.
A crowd in the street had obstructed his path, as
he walked pensively along with his eyes cast down.
Looking up, a vision of beauty burst upon his ravished
sight, and he stood entranced as he gazed upon it; and
when it passed away with the crowd, he climbed upon an
omnibus and watched that object, through his tunneled
hand, until it became indistinct and lost in the distance.
That object was a Bloomer! He had long ardently
wished for this opportunity. In visions of the night had
angels in short dresses and trousers thrust themselves
among his sleeping fancies, to the bewilderment of his
waking thoughts. It had become the great idea of his
mind, and all his other thoughts bowed to this, as did
the sheaves of the Israelitish brethren to the sheaf of
Joseph of old. He had at last seen a Bloomer. The
climax of his earthly desire was attained. The driver of
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
the 'bus, callous to the emotion of his bosom, asked him
“what 'n thunder he was a-looking at, up there?”
The Sensitive Man made but one step to the ground, so
buoyant was he, and he bounded like cork. He could
have leaped over the State-House. Little boys and
sedate passengers stepped back dismayed, and a gentleman
in a black coat and white neckcloth looked around
anxiously after a policeman. What were policemen to
the Sensitive Man? Those terrific functionaries were
nothing! Even the cold reality of a watch-house floor
would be soft as down, could he carry with him the
consciousness that he had seen a Bloomer. He looked
to see if her passing figure had not left its impression, in
aerial portraiture, upon the impalpable atmosphere. He
looked upon the pave to detect the print of her charming
foot upon the insensate bricks. But she had fled, like
some bright exhalation of the morning, and he turned
back sorrowing. A coach came nigh running over him.
The tension of his spirit relaxed, — enduring only to
bring him within the precinct of his vocation, when his
too sensitive nature gave out, and the result was as
explained above.
And hourly, since, has he longingly gazed from the
window, in ardent hope of seeing again the beauteous
vision which had enthralled him, and disappointment,
— “like a worm in the mud,
Feeds on his damaged cheek.”
-- 104 -- p677-121
POWER OF ATTORNEY.
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
When the widow Ames had been notified that her
share of the Paul Jones prize-money would be paid her
upon presenting herself at the Dummer Bank, she debated
in her own mind, — though the debate never was
reported, — whether she should go herself or give a
power of attorney to some one else to receive the eleven
dollars and sixty-two cents that was her share. In this
strait she called on Mrs. Partington, who she knew
had authorized a person to settle the Beanville estate for
her when the Beanville Railroad had driven her from
the homestead.
“Go yourself, dear,” said the old lady, bringing the
poker down emphatically upon the bail of the tea-kettle,
as she was clearing out the ashes from the stove;
“don't trust to nobody but yourself, for,” — raising
the poker, — “if you give anybody power of eternity,
depend upon it you won't never see the final conclusion
of it.”
The poker fell again upon the harmless tea-kettle,
which seemed to sing out with reproach for the outrage,
and Ike, who was looking slyly into the back window,
wondered if Mrs. Ames was n't sitting on a favorite piece
of spruce gum of his, and whether it would n't stick her
to the chair so that she could n't get up. It showed
that the boy had a reflective turn of mind.
-- 105 -- p677-122
THE NEW DRESS FOR LADIES.
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
“A new custom for ladies!” said Mrs. Partington,
when a friend spoke to her about the proposed innovation
in dress. The sound of “costume” came to her ear indistinctly,
and she slightly misapprehended the word.
“A new custom for ladies! I should think they had
better reform many of their old customs before they try
to get new ones. We 're none of us better than we ought
to be, and” —
“Costume, ma'am, I said,” cried her informant, interrupting
her; “they are thinking of changing their
dress.”
“Well, for my part I don't see what they want to
make a public thing of it for; changing the dress used
to be a private matter; but folks do so alter! They are
always a changing dresses now, like the caterpillar in
the morning that turns into a butterfly at night, or the
butterfly at night that turns to a caterpillar in the morning,
I don't know which” —
“But,” again interrupted her informant, “I mean
they are a going to have a new dress.”
“O, they are, are they?” replied the old lady; “well,
I 'm sure I 'm glad on it, if they can afford it; but they
don't always think enough of this. A good many can't
afford it — they can't! But did you hear of the new
apperil for wimmin that somebody is talking about?”
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
“Why, my dear Mrs. P.,” said he, smiling, “that is
just what I was trying to get your opinion about.”
“Then,” returned she, “why did n't you say so in the
first place? Well, I don't know why a woman can't be
as vertuous in a short dress as in a long one; and it will
save some trouble in wet weather to people who have to
lift their dresses and show their ankles. It may do for
young critters, as sportive as lambs in a pasture; but
only think how I should look in short coats and trousers,
should n't I? And old Mrs. Jones, who weighs three
hundred pounds, would n't look well in 'em neither.
But I say let 'em do just what they please as long as
they don't touch my dress. I like the old way best, and
that 's the long and the short of it.”
She here cast a glance at the profile on the wall, as
if for its approval of her resolution; and an idea for a
moment seemed to cross her mind that he, the ancient
corporal, would not know her, were he to visit sublunar
scenes and find her arrayed in the new dress; and her
compressed lips showed the determination of her heart to
abide by the old costume, and she solemnly and slowly
took an energetic pinch of snuff, as if to confirm it.
-- 107 -- p677-124
PSYCHOLOGY.
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
Sensitive people talk about feeling, in the presence
or atmosphere of a man, the peculiar disposition that
governs him, — whether a gentle or a stern one,
whether a hypocritical or a knavish one. We have
realized, in some degree, what the feeling must be, as
we have, at times, elbowed our way among the gentlemen
who throng about State or Wall street. The
atmosphere was so hard that we shrank at once into our
empty pocket, — a thing which finds no sympathy in
those diggings, — and escaped as fast as possible. We
could read every disposition that we rubbed against, like
a book, or as well as the most subtle magician could do
it. The dollar was the idea that every brain was working
and struggling to coin itself into; the dollar gleamed
in every eager glance of the eye, and was heard in every
word; the dollar was the sun that shone and the air
that blew; and though celestial choirs had been at hand,
chanting the music of the spheres, unless it had the right
chink to it, it would not have been regarded. Let
sensitive ones who have no money go down upon 'change
and try the experiment. It will not make them any
poorer, though most certainly they will not be any richer
by it.
-- 108 -- p677-125
Shillaber, B. P. (Benjamin Penhallow), 1814-1890 [1854], Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others of the family. (J. C. Derby, New York) [word count] [eaf677T].
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