Chapter VII: Part 7

Those words were a charm. That solemn promise broken, and again the poorhouse, the penitentiary, the bloated father, the ragged child, the long procession of woes rose in her mind, and she was true to herself.

But she really improved her disposition. The habit was radically cured. The home of Thomas Butler is no more a “world of trouble;” it is “home, sweet home”--the abode of the angel of contentment, the dwelling-place of truth and love, and the most effectual preventive of the curse of drunkenness.

Our story is not all a story--it is true to the letter. We beg the complaining wife to ask herself if she is not making for her husband a path to the drunkard’s grave--for herself and her children a bed of thorns.

“SEND FOR THE DOCTOR.”

_CHAPTER I._

My excellent old uncle Jesse--peace to his ashes!--used to tell me that every thing depended on the “bringing up;” and a little experience in this world of strange men and things--but a very good world, for all that--has convinced me that he was considerably more than half right.

Some people have learned to depend upon themselves in the hour of peril. The energy, firmness, and decision of their own characters are their sword, shield, and steed when

“Giant danger threatening stands.”

Their fortress is within themselves. They have been taught by their instructors or by their circumstances to rely upon their own strength.

Others are weak, nervous and vacillating in the presence of danger, throwing the burden of their salvation on the shoulders of the first “Good Samaritan” who approaches them. Their tower of strength is the doctor, the minister, the lawyer, or some sympathizing friend. They have never been taught, either by their instructors or their circumstances, to depend upon their own resources, moral, mental, and physical, for guidance and support.

If the house takes fire, one puts it out; but another runs to the church and rings the bell for his neighbors. If Tommy wheezes, papa, who has no confidence in himself, sends for the doctor; while mamma, who has been taught from childhood to think and act for herself, is in favor of giving the little fellow “an onion and a little goose oil.”

But extremes are always silly or dangerous, as the case may be. People laugh at papa, because he is so ridiculously timid; and mamma delays sending for the physician till Tommy is almost dead with the croup. One lets his house burn down while he is summoning his friends to help him put it out; and another’s is destroyed because he attempted to put it out alone, when he actually needed the assistance of his neighbors. After all, it requires considerable judgment to get along in the world.

We have no intention of writing a homily on the proper conduct of men and women in connection with the casualties of life. Whether or not it be expedient to send for the doctor when the baby sneezes, we leave to the judgment of the parties immediately interested. We have a story to tell, which illustrates both sides of the question; and either disputant in the important controversy is at liberty to appropriate the moral to sustain his or her cherished theory.

Millbrook is a manufacturing village, and the most important person there, at the time of which we write, was Mr. Milton Barrington, who, to use the metaphorical language of the villagers, “run” the principal mill. Though quite a young man, he had amassed a handsome fortune, and by his enterprise, public spirit, and general character as a person of integrity and fairness, had attained the most influential position in the village. People looked to him for advice and assistance in their extremity, and no one ever thought of making a motion in town meeting to build a new school house, lay out a road, or of making any important movement, until he had been consulted. The people were mainly on his side in politics, religion, and philosophy. Whatever he did, he was pretty sure to have plenty of imitators.

Mr. Barrington had spent the flower of his manhood in the pursuit of wealth; and the idea of getting married did not occur to him till he had reached his thirtieth year. Probably he would not have thought of such a thing then, if a pretty and otherwise eligible young lady had not at that time crossed his path, reminding him of his duty in the premises.

Three years after, we find him in the full enjoyment of all the blessings of the connubial state, and the father of a pretty little boy just eighteen months old. Mr. Barrington was the happiest of fathers, and to use grandma’s enthusiastic expression, “he set his life by that boy.”

It was a cold night in December. Mr. Barrington was reading Mrs. Stowe’s Sunny Memories to his wife, while little Charley lay asleep in his crib beside them.

The clock struck ten, and as the father laid aside the book, Charley coughed rather hoarsely, and waking up, began to scream most lustily. Mrs. Barrington took him up and tried to quiet him; but he obstinately refused to be quieted.

Mr. Barrington was alarmed. Charley was not accustomed to have such freaks.

“What do you think ails him?” asked he of his wife.

“He has got a little cold, probably.”

“Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?” continued Mr. Barrington, nervously.

“Not the least need of it.”

“But the croup, my dear?”

“That cough was nothing like the croup.”

Mr. Barrington was comforted by this assurance, and in a little while, Charley got tired of crying, and went to sleep again.

The child was carried up stairs, and they retired. But Mr. Barrington was not wholly satisfied. The croup was so sudden and so fatal that the cough he had heard seemed to haunt his imagination. He could not go to sleep for thinking of it. He trembled at the thought of losing the darling little one. He had passed almost into a confirmed old bachelor before his marriage, and the diseases of children had never received much consideration from him. He had heard people tell how dreadful the croup was, and only a week before the only child of one of his overseers had died with it, after an illness of scarcely twelve hours.

The clock on the village church struck one, and he was still awake. His wife slept soundly. She was better acquainted with the nature of the dreadful disease, and had felt no alarm when the child coughed.

While he was thus thinking of what might possibly happen, Charley coughed again, and jumping up in the bed, began to scream as he had in the evening.

Mrs. Barrington took him in her arms.

“Did you hear him cough?” asked the trembling father.

“I did not. His screams awoke me.”

“Don’t he breathe hard? Are you sure he has not got the croup?”

“I do not think he has. He seems to breathe freely,” replied Mrs. Barrington. “He is a little hoarse, but I do not think it is any thing serious.”

“I am afraid it is. Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?”

“There is no occasion to do so.”

“I am really alarmed about him.”

“Do as you wish; though I think it is only a little cold.”

Mr. Barrington was satisfied it was the croup, and the consent of his wife, thus doubtfully given, was all he required. The “man of all work” was called up and despatched for Dr. Broadbeam, with a request that the physician would come with all possible haste.

_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Barrington used all her maternal arts to quiet the little patient. He did not appear to suffer any pain, and his respiration was apparently as free as ever. In a short time, her efforts were successful, and Charley sunk away into a peaceful slumber.

It was half an hour before Dr. Broadbeam arrived. It was possible he had used all convenient despatch in waiting upon his influential patron; but being a man of two hundred pounds, his swiftest movements were necessarily slow.

Dr. Broadbeam had the reputation of being a very skilful physician; but unfortunately he had such a “grouty” way of dealing with his patients and patrons, that his popularity in Millbrook was on the decline. People did not like to be “snapped up” when they were sick; and the only circumstance that enabled Dr. Broadbeam to retain even a moiety of the practice of the village, was the fact that Mr. Barrington still employed him.

At the suggestion of a small portion of the population, who had the hardihood to break away from Mr. Barrington’s lead, a young physician of good parts, and with an easy and pleasing address, had been induced to locate himself in the village. Dr. Broadbeam raved like a madman at the advent of the interloper, stigmatized him as a quack, and obstinately refused even to be civil to him. But when a year in the young doctor’s professional experience had passed away without sensibly augmenting his practice, he condescended to laugh at him, and call him a fool. The crusty old leech felt that he could have every thing his own way; that his skill and experience were amply sufficient to offset his morose address and sour temper.

To get out of a warm bed in the middle of a cold December night, is never agreeable to any body, unless perchance the house be on fire; and young gentlemen who aspire to the honors of the medical craft ought to think of this before they choose the profession.

To Dr. Broadbeam night duty was especially unpleasant. He was rather indolent and luxurious in his habits, and always made it a rule to believe that poor folks could wait till morning before they had the doctor. But when Mr. Barrington summoned him, why, it was quite another affair.

“What’s the matter with the child?” growled Dr. Broadbeam, as he entered the apartment.

“I don’t know, doctor, but I am very much afraid of the croup,” replied Mr. Barrington, handing the physician a chair.

“Humph!”

“The croup prevails to some extent in the village, you are aware,” added the nervous father.

“Always does at this season of the year,” replied the doctor, bending over the child to listen to his respiration.

“Does he breathe naturally, doctor?” asked Mrs. Barrington, to whom her husband’s alarm had to some extent communicated itself.

“Naturally?” sneered the physician. “Nothing under the sun ails the child.”

“What made him cry so, doctor?” inquired Mrs. Barrington.

“Cry so, madam? cry so! You gave him too much supper, madam; and I am tumbled out of my bed to see a child that has the stomach ache!” growled the doctor, enraged when he thought of the comfortable bed which he had been so unceremoniously compelled to leave.

“But his cough, doctor?” said Mr. Barrington, controlling his indignation at the rudeness of the physician.

“Mr. Barrington, you are a fool!” exclaimed Dr. Broadbeam, as he violently jammed his hat upon his head. “Do you think I am to leave my bed on a cold night like this, whenever your baby sneezes? Humph!”

“You are a physician, are you not?” asked Mr. Barrington.

He was angry; but keeping down his indignation, he put the question with tolerable calmness.

“A physician! Of course I am; but is that any reason why I should be turned out in the dead of the night for nothing at all?” replied the enraged leech.

“You chose your own profession.”

“What if I did?”

“What is your charge for a night visit?”

“Five dollars, sir! Five dollars!” answered the doctor, maliciously.

“And you believe that I am able to pay it?”

“I do, or I would not have come.”

“That is enough, sir; if I am content to pay five dollars for the assurance of a physician that nothing ails my child, I take it that I am at liberty to do so.”

“Humph!”

“When I send for a physician, I consider it a business transaction. He gives me his advice for the money I pay him. If his conduct entitles him to be cherished as a friend--as an angel sent with healing balm for the soul as well as the body,”--and Mr. Barrington looked sternly at the doctor,--“I cheerfully accord him his due.”

“Well, sir!”

“If I send for my millwright, I do not leave it optional with him to determine whether I need him or not. If he does not choose to come, there are other millwrights in the state.”

“Do you compare a physician to a millwright?” sneered the doctor.

“If I send for my millwright to come and tell me whether my water wheel needs repairs, he comes; he examines it; perhaps he decides that nothing is the matter with it, and that I ought to have known that it was perfectly sound. If he should reproach me for sending for him, I should call him no business man. I pay him for his time, though he lift not an axe.”

“Humph!”

“It is a great satisfaction to me to know that nothing ails my child. I am able and willing to pay for that assurance.”

“Pay! Do you take me for a hireling?” exclaimed the doctor, with a fresh outbreak of anger, as he abruptly turned on his heel and left the chamber.

_CHAPTER III._

On the 1st of January, Dr. Broadbeam’s bill for professional services, amounting to over two hundred dollars, was presented to Mr. Barrington, and was promptly paid. He was not one of that numerous and highly respectable class of people who make it a point to grumble at doctor’s bills.

The manufacturer was a peaceful, prudent man, not disposed to stir up strife in the neighborhood; so he kept silent in regard to his unpleasant interview with the physician.

About a month after, Mr. Barrington was roused from his slumbers at midnight by the sound of an ominous cough from Charley. But this time it did not awake the little fellow. The fond father was still fearful of the croup; yet the child slept so soundly that his fears subsided, and he was just dropping asleep again when the cough was repeated.

In a few minutes the child awoke, and his respiration began to grow difficult.

“What do you think?” asked he of his wife.

“He is a little croupy; but I do not think there is any occasion to be alarmed. I will give him the ‘Hive Sirup,’ which I doubt not will immediately relieve him.”

Mr. Barrington got up and brought the sirup. A dose was given, and the parents waited with anxiety the effect.

An hour elapsed, and the child was no better.

“Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?” said Mr. Barrington.

“No, I can get along very well.”

“But the croup; hasn’t he got it?”

“He has a croupy cough, which may lead to croup, if it is not attended to,” replied Mrs. Barrington, giving the little sufferer another spoonful of the sirup.

Two hours more passed away, and instead of getting better, the child grew worse every minute. But Mrs. Barrington did not like to send for the doctor. In the family of her father, a physician had rarely ever been called, and she had come to regard the faculty with something like contempt.

“He grows worse,” said Mr. Barrington, beginning to lose confidence in the efficacy of his wife’s treatment.

“The medicine has not had time to produce its effect yet,” replied Mrs. Barrington. “He will begin to grow better soon.”

“I think we had better send for the doctor,” added the anxious father. “It may be too late in the morning.”

“I do not want any more fuss with the doctor. The last time he came, he made me so nervous that it took me a week to get over it.”

“We will not have Dr. Broadbeam, then.”

“He will be better soon.”

“Do not delay it too long.”

Another hour elapsed, and still the little sufferer was no better. His breathing was extremely difficult, and the cough was more frequent and hard. The mother’s remedy had apparently produced no effect whatever, and she began to be alarmed herself.

“Perhaps you had better send for the doctor,” said she.

“Dr. Broadbeam?”

“I don’t know.”

“I determined, when I paid his last bill, never to employ him again.”

“Dr. Slender has been very successful in croup,” added Mrs. Barrington, “and I should feel just as much confidence in him as in Dr. Broadbeam.”

“I will send for him.”

In less than fifteen minutes after the messenger left the house, the young physician arrived. Of course he was not a little astonished to be roused from his bed by a summons from the “leading man of the village;” but he had chosen his profession, and considered it a duty to go whenever and wherever he was called.

Dr. Slender examined the child.

“You should have procured a physician before,” said he, shaking his head ominously.

Mr. Barrington’s heart rose to his throat. His frame trembled, and he was so nervous that he was forced to cling to the bedpost for support.

“Is he dangerous, doctor?” asked he.

“Three hours ago, it would not have been a bad case. I doubt if he can be saved now. But there is no time to be lost. Bring me some cold water and some linen cloths.”

Dr. Slender gave the child a portion of medicine, and applied himself with so much energy to the means of effecting a cure, that the parents were inspired with hope, and felt entire confidence in his skill.

Morning dawned upon the little patient, and he was apparently in the last stages of the fell disease. Dr. Slender still remained by him, and was now adopting the last resort known to the physician. The agony of the parents can be conceived by those who have watched over the death bed of a cherished little one, but it cannot be described.

Providence smiled upon the young physician, and he had the inexpressible satisfaction, before noon, of declaring that the child would recover. A pæan of praise rose from the grateful hearts of the devoted parents. In a few days little Charley was as well as ever, and the reputation of Dr. Slender was made.

The star of Dr. Broadbeam had set. The young physician in a few months secured the entire practice of the place. The potent influence of Mr. Barrington was all he needed to insure his success. He was polite and affable in his professional intercourse with his patients, and the contrast between him and his crusty rival was so striking, that every body wondered how they had been able to endure the latter.

Dr. Broadbeam was compelled to “leave town.” Whether or not he has learned that a decent deportment towards his patients is expedient, we are unable to say. But we infer that he has, from the fact that, unable to establish himself again in practice, he turned his attention to the manufacture and sale of patent medicine; and “Broadbeam’s Celebrated Chinese Antibilious Pill” are as popular as advertising and false certificates can make them.

Mr. Barrington has decided that it is best to send for the doctor when the baby sneezes. Dr. Slender is always willing to come when he is sent for, and laughingly maintains that he is just as well satisfied to pocket his fee for saying nothing ails the baby, as for giving it an emetic.

“FOUR KINDS OF CAKE.”

_CHAPTER I._

“It is folly, wife!” exclaimed Mr. Jotham Somes, a matter-of-fact, plain-spoken sort of man, to his better half. “There you have got no less than four kinds of cake, three kinds of pies, two kinds of preserves, to say nothing of knicknacks and gimcracks.”

The fact was, that Mrs. Somes was having the minister and his wife and two grown-up daughters to take tea with her. She had been engaged for three days in the preparations, and such a display of nice things was calculated to astonish the minister and his family--to give them a two-fold surprise--first, at the variety and extent of her culinary resources, and, secondly, at her folly in attempting to make a display far beyond her means.

The Someses were in comfortable circumstances. Mr. Somes was a farmer, and probably his income might have amounted to four hundred dollars per annum.

Mrs. Somes was a prudent, careful housewife, who wasted no more of her culinary skill upon her own family than was absolutely necessary; but she delighted in making a grand appearance when she had company. Mr. Somes and the boys were sometimes so ill-natured as to growl at her careful catering when the house contained no company, and it cut them to the bone to see such extraordinary preparations for the neighbors. It was “kiss the cook” when they were alone; but the board groaned with plenty when there were guests present.

Mr. Jotham Somes had just come from the sitting room where the table, with all its tempting array of viands was spread. He did not like it a bit, and after passing the time of day with the parson and his family, he proceeded to the kitchen, where his wife was just taking the hot biscuits out of the oven.

“What do you mean by folly, I should like to know?” replied Mrs. Jotham Somes, somewhat tartly.

She was a second wife, and having been redeemed from one of the advance stages of maidenhood, her temper had grown a little sour before she became a wife.

“The folly of setting a table as you have yours,” replied the husband. “I should think you were going to have the president and the royal family to take tea with you.”

“I am going to have the Rev. Mr. Meeklie and his family.”

“But I can’t afford such extravagance as this. You will ruin me.”

“I will take care of my business, if you will of yours,” returned the lady, slamming the oven door.

“Perhaps this is not my business.”

“No, I’m sure it is not.”

“Who pays for all them gewgaws and gimcracks?”

“You do, of course.”

“But it is none of my business?”

“No; I never thought before you were so confounded mean,” said the lady, her face reddening with anger.

“Mean! I’m not mean. But when you get victuals for your own family, you think almost any thing is good enough for them. We never see any pies, and cakes, and knicknacks.”

“Do you think I’m going to make pies and cakes for the men folks to eat every day?” retorted the indignant housekeeper.

“Then don’t do it for company. What is good enough for me is as good as I can afford to give my visitors.”

“I really believe if you had your way, you would have me as mean with company as the Smiths.”

“The Smiths are as good folks and as liberal as any in town; and I’ll warrant Parson Meeklie thinks a heap more of them than he does of you, with all your four kinds of cake.”

“You’re a fool, Mr. Somes!”

“I am fool enough to know that folks are not judged by the quantity of sweet cakes they put upon the table when they have company. I repeat it--there is no better folks in town than the Smiths.”

“I s’pose not; but they had nothing but cold biscuit and molasses gingerbread when we took tea there.”

“That’s as good as they can afford; but it is no better than they have every day, and I admire their independence.”

“They’re contemptible, mean folks, there!”

“Why? Because they don’t attempt to make folks believe they live better than they do? For my part, I don’t think it is any better than hypocrisy to make such a parade as you do, especially when it is hard work for me and the boys to get a decent meal of victuals.”

“Did any body ever hear the like?” groaned the lady, who had by this time arrived at that pitch of excitement when tears are more effective than words.

“Perhaps they never did; but if ever I see any thing of this sort again, they will be pretty likely to hear of it,” replied Mr. Somes, throwing off his blue frock, and commencing his preparations for taking tea with the minister.

_CHAPTER II._

The plate of hot biscuit was placed in the midst of the profusion of fancy eatables with which the table was crowded. The minister and his family were duly seated, and the ceremony was proceeding decently and in order.

Mrs. Somes had not wholly recovered from the excitement of the interview in the kitchen, and her hand trembled slightly as she handed Mrs. Meeklie her tea. Mr. Somes had donned his best blue coat, with brass buttons, which had done duty as a Sunday garment for the past fifteen years.

He seemed to be somewhat uneasy; and though he and the minister had always been on the best of terms, his answers were too short and crusty for a courteous host.

“Won’t you pass the biscuit to Mrs. Meeklie, husband?” said Mrs. Somes, with her sweetest smile, albeit not very sweet at that.

Mr. Somes did pass the biscuit to Mrs. Meeklie, and she took one; but when he passed them to Mr. Meeklie, he smilingly declined.

“No, I thank you, Mr. Somes; I never eat hot bread. It does not agree with me,” said he.

Mrs. Somes passed the cold bread, thinking all the time how very uncivil it was in the parson to refuse the hot biscuit she had taken so much pains to prepare.

But Mr. Meeklie was very respectful to his stomach; for he found, when insulted and imposed upon, that it was tyrannical and disagreeable; and he paid more deference to his digestive organs than he did to the feelings of his vain parishioners.

“My biscuit are not very nice; I did not have as good luck as I generally do,” suggested Mrs. Somes, as Mrs. Meeklie took a second cake.

“Better,” interposed Mr. Somes.

The lady looked at him with very evident marks of displeasure.

“They are very nice,” said the parson’s wife.

“Take a little more of this quince preserve, Miss Meeklie. I dare say it is not so nice as your mother makes; but the truth is----”

“It has stood too long,” interrupted Mr. Somes. “The jar has not been opened since you were here last fall.”

Mrs. Somes looked daggers; but the parson very considerately asked Mr. Somes whether he had done planting just at that moment, and her anger evaporated without any unpleasant effects.

“Husband, won’t you pass that cake to Mr. Meeklie?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Somes; I never eat cake. Your bread is very good; I will thank you for some more.”

“Really, Mr. Meeklie, you will take some of this cake? It is not very rich; there is very little butter in it.”

“Not any, I thank you; I never eat cake, unless it be something very simple, such as gingerbread or molasses cake.”

What a calamity! Four kinds of cake and the parson wouldn’t touch one of them!

“But you will take some of these jumbles; I made them on purpose for you.”

“That’s a fact, Mr. Meeklie,” added Mr. Somes, maliciously.

He would further have added that his wife never made pies and cakes for her own family; but he was afraid of frightening the parson.

“You must excuse me. I doubt not they are very nice; but I have to be careful.”

Mrs. Meeklie and her two grown-up daughters were more courteous, and each nibbled a small bit of the rich pound cake; but they seemed to do it against their consciences, and against their better judgment.

The truth was, they felt embarrassed by the extraordinary display Mrs. Somes had made. They did not feel at home. The whole affair was too set and artificial to be enjoyed, and at an early hour the whole party withdrew, mentally determining to make it a long time before they took tea with Mrs. Somes again.

_CHAPTER III._

“Wife, where is the piece of meat I sent home for dinner?” asked Farmer Somes, as he and the boys came in for their noonday meal, on the day following the tea party.

The farmer glanced inquiringly at the table which was spread before him. Involuntarily his nasal organ contracted longitudinally; it would not be polite to say he “turned up his nose,” though such was the fact beyond the possibility of denial.

Farmer Somes was not, in any sense, an epicure. He liked a plain, substantial diet, that “which was good, and enough of it,” as he forcibly expressed his ideas of table economy.

Lest the reader should suppose he was one of those grouty, ill-natured “feeders,” who would grumble at the ambrosia and nectar of the gods, we deem it necessary to particularize the articles on the board of the lady who placed four kinds of cake before company.

Certainly there was variety enough to satisfy the most fickle taste. On a broken plate--the best dishes were religiously reserved to the use of company--was the half of one sausage and two thirds of another, making one sausage and one sixth, all told. They were partially embedded in a petrified sea of suspicious-looking fat, and altogether, the aspect of the dish was singularly forbidding.

On a white plate, with a long black fracture extending quite across it, lay, in an aggregated mass, three dozen baked beans, and an infinitesimal fragment of a pork rind. This was an antiquity. Farmer Somes and the boys had a very distinct remembrance of having seen this dish every day during the previous fortnight, proving that Mrs. Somes was not only one of the most economical, but one of the most persevering dames in the world. The farmer and the boys had virtually said they would not eat those same beans, and Mrs. Somes virtually said they should.

On a worn-out blue plate, superannuated, and “nicked” in a thousand places, were four pork bones, looking as though they had been preyed upon by that army of mice which Whittington’s cat destroyed. These bones had seen service during the last twelve days; the joint, of which they were the disintegrated members, had graced the table just a fortnight before.

There were sundry other articles, antique, old fashioned “titbits,” which might have been set before Noah and his friends in the ark. Six long red potatoes, unpeeled, even unsprouted, completed the array of edibles, ornamental and substantial.

The farmer’s nose contracted as before related.

“Where is the meat I sent home?”

“Hanging in the well.”

“Hadn’t we better eat it?”

“I want it for company next Sunday.”

“The ---- ahem! Company again?”

“I expect my brother will dine with us then, and I want something fit to set before him.”

Mr. Somes looked sulky.

“And you mean to starve me and the boys in the mean time?”

“I should like to know if there is not enough for you?” said the dame, pointing at the table.

Farmer Somes turned up his nose.

“Did I ever refuse to buy victuals when you wanted it?” said he, rather sternly.

“Not that I know of; but I didn’t suppose you wanted to buy fresh meat _every_ day,” returned the wife, sourly. “I am sure I try to be as economical as I can.”

“Four kinds of cake, which nobody would touch, I suppose is prudent, ain’t it?”

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Somes; I am glad to find you at home,” said Mr. Meeklie, walking into the room unannounced.

Good gracious! the minister, and with such a table as that spread before the family! What a commentary on four kinds of cake for company!

Mrs. Somes was all confusion. Though the parson intended to look right at the farmer, she could see that more than once his eyes wandered over the table.

“Glad to see you, parson; sit down and take some dinner with us,” said Mr. Somes, shaking the minister’s offered hand.

“Thank you; I don’t care if I do,” replied Mr. Meeklie. “I have a long walk to take before I return home.”

Farmer Somes was pointing him to a chair, when the lady interposed.

“We have got a picked-up dinner to-day. Husband sent home a joint of veal; but it didn’t get here till half after eleven; so I had no time to cook it.”

“Got here by eight o’clock,” said Farmer Somes; “no fibs to the parson.”

“But if you will wait only a few moments, I will fry some of the veal.”

“Sit down, parson; it is every day fare; but then, what is good enough for me is good enough for my friends.”

“Right, Mr. Somes,” replied the minister, drawing up his chair. “My business relates to the new bell for the meeting house. I am carrying round the subscription paper.”

“I am with you, parson.”

Farmer Somes was in most malicious good humor, and, with a broad laugh on his honest phiz, he opened the paper the minister gave him.

“Smith, twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars!” exclaimed Mrs. Somes; “I should not think he could afford it.”

“He gives his friends nothing but gingerbread,” said the farmer. “Put me down for thirty; we have four kinds of cake.”

The parson consumed one “long red,” and one of the vulgar fractions of a cold sausage. He preferred brown bread to white, and wouldn’t touch any of the pies which the prudent housekeeper set before him.

Mrs. Somes was awfully mortified. Her reputation was sacrificed, and Farmer Somes never again had occasion to find fault with her for making a vain show of three kinds of pies, two kinds of preserves, and four kinds of cake.

EXTREMES MEET;

OR,

FACT AND FICTION.

_CHAPTER I._

“What are you reading, sis?”

“Hard Times.”

“A novel!”

“Yes; why not? Dickens’s last new novel, and a capital thing it is, too.”

The two ladies, between whom this conversation passed, were sisters, and nieces of one of the better class of New England farmers, with whom they resided. ’Squire Fairbank, without being a very brilliant man, had acquired considerable distinction in the village where he lived, probably because, besides being “worth money,” he was a straightforward, conservative, reliable man, and had frequently served the town in an acceptable manner, both in the legislature, and as moderator in town meeting. He was the most notable man in the village, and won the title of ’Squire, which was universally accorded to him, simply by being a very respectable person and a man of influence.

Susan and Mary Fairbank were orphans, inheriting from their father the very pretty little sum of five thousand dollars each. Both had attained their majority, and consequently were in full possession of their portions, untrammelled even by the authority of as indulgent a guardian as ’Squire Fairbank had proved to be.

They had been well educated at a celebrated female seminary in the vicinity of Boston, and as a matter of course, had brought home to the quiet village of Poppleton many strange notions and remarkable peculiarities. But they were sensible girls in the main, and though their habits and education elevated them above the reigning _ton_ of the place, it was generally conceded that they knew “what was what,” and were not “a mite more stuck up” than would naturally have been expected.

Mary and Susan were essentially different in temperament and disposition. The former was exceedingly open and free-hearted, while the latter was rather disposed to truckle to the formality of the world, or to the circumstances in which she happened to be placed. Mary never asked what the world would say or think, and while her notions of duty were very clearly defined, she chose to be independent and straightforward. People said she “took after” her father.

Susan, on the contrary, was nicely sensitive to the good opinion of others. She had not the energy to do any thing in opposition to popular sentiment. Indeed, she was very much like some of the distinguished public servants at Washington, who do every thing with an eye to a reëlection or to government patronage.

A short time before our story opens, a young minister had been settled in Poppleton, and being a single man, ’Squire Fairbank had consented, as a special favor, to receive him into his house. The Rev. Mr. Carlisle was universally allowed to be a very promising young man. He was talented, had a graceful elocution, and, what pleased the young ladies better still, was decidedly a handsome person. Those who were not much influenced by talent, elocution, and personal beauty, thought he was rather bigoted for one so young, and hoped that time would wear off the rough corners of his repulsive theology.

Susan Fairbank was deeply interested in the young clergyman, and as a natural consequence to one of her vacillating temperament, became deeply interested in spiritual things. We do not believe she had any intention of playing the hypocrite; but her devotion to the young minister involuntarily led her to assume an interest, which, if Mr. Carlisle had been old, ugly, or married, she would not have felt.

“A novel, sis! only think of it!” exclaimed Susan, holding up both hands with pious horror.

“Pray, Susan, how long is it since you have possessed this holy repugnance to novels? It was only last winter that I saw you reading The Children of the Abbey,” returned Mary, laughing heartily.

“I have not read one since, and I never mean to again.”

“Fudge!”

“What do you think Mr. Carlisle would say if he should see you reading a novel?”

“I shouldn’t care what he said.”

“Why, Mary!”

“I shouldn’t; if he does not like it, he may whistle for all me.”

“Don’t talk so, Mary.”

“Why will you make a fool of yourself, Susan? Mr. Carlisle cares no more for you than he does for the fifth wheel of a coach; I would not stand in such fear of him for the world.”

“Fear of him! I do not fear him; I only respect him as a very good man.”

“You have set your cap for him; but let me tell you to be more independent, or you never will catch him,” said Mary, laughing.

“How absurd you talk!”

“Do I?”

Susan fell to biting her finger nail--a very vulgar habit, by the way--and to think of something which her sister had no difficulty in discerning.

“Do you really love him, Susan?” asked Mary.

“Love him! No; I never thought of such a thing.”

Perhaps she never did.

“What makes you go to all the prayer meetings, and mope round the house like a sick owl, then?”

“I think I am under conviction,” replied Susan, demurely.

“Conviction of what?”

“Conviction of sin.”

“Conviction that Mr. Carlisle is a very handsome fellow, more like.”

“How absurd you are!”

“And I have heard a report round town, that you were going to join the church.”

“I have spoken to Mr. Carlisle about it.”

Mary looked serious for a moment.

“If you really feel so, I commend your conduct; but I advise you not to be too hasty. Examine your heart attentively, and do not bring scandal upon the church by having side motives. But here comes Mr. Carlisle,” said Mary, as she again turned her attention to the fascinating pages of Hard Times.

_CHAPTER II._

The young minister entered the room. Susan had taken up Saints’ Rest, which lay by her, and commenced reading where she had left off, when she saw Mr. Carlisle coming up the yard. As he came into the room she laid down the book, and looked, for all the world, as though she had not a friend in the world. The assuming of this appearance was involuntary on her part; it was in accordance with her nature.

Mr. Carlisle seated himself by her side, and commenced catechising her in regard to the impression the contents of the book produced upon her mind--whether it afforded her consolation in her troubled mind--and finally whether she really thought she had a hope. To all these queries Susan replied in a satisfactory manner, assuring the handsome young shepherd that she had been much edified by her reading.

There was a smile of mischief playing upon the pretty and expressive face of Mary, as she peered over the top of Hard Times, to observe the ghostly interview. She could see that Mr. Carlisle engaged in the conversation with her sister merely as a matter of professional interest--sincerely, it is true, but with no unusual interest in the penitent. He regarded her as a wandering sheep, whom it was his duty to bring into the fold.

But she compassionated her sister, who had deluded herself into the belief that she could win the heart of the shepherd by becoming one of his sheep; and she was provoking enough to tell her that instead of making a sheep, she had made a calf of herself.

When the minister had finished his professional counsel, he turned to Mary. As he did so, an involuntary smile came upon his lips. It was not the smile of a ghostly father, but of a young man who has flesh in his heart and blood in his veins.

Mary laid down her book as she noticed his intention to address her.

“What are you reading, Miss Fairbank?” asked he.

“Hard Times,” promptly replied Mary.

“A novel?”

“Yes, sir.”

The jaw of the young minister dropped down two inches.

“Do you like it?”

“O, very much, indeed!” replied Mary, with wicked enthusiasm; “I admire Dickens’s of all the novels I ever read.”

“Do you make a practice of reading novels?”

“I seldom read anything else. I did read Reveries of a Bachelor and Dream Life.”

The minister shook his head.

“I take the newspapers, and I always read them through--stories, poetry, sentiment, editorials, and all.”

“Will you allow me to suggest some reading for you? and I should take the greatest pleasure in lending you the books.”

“Thank you.”

“Baxter’s Call to the Unconverted is an excellent book for----.”

“It is _so_ stupid!”

Mr. Carlisle was horrified.

“I would not be hired to read it.”

“Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, perhaps, would suit your taste better.”

“I have read it; but don’t you call that a novel?”

“An allegory.”

“If I mistake not, I saw you reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I’m sure that is a novel, and no better novel either than any of Dickens’s.”

“It is a moral and philanthropic work.”

“So are Dickens’s works. Indeed, I have never read a novel from which a great deal of good might not be obtained, though I know there are such.”

“Mere fictions generally have a debasing tendency.”

“I judge novels as I do anything else--by their own merits. If I understand you, Mr. Carlisle, you object to works of fiction, as such, and not on account of any evil they may contain.”

“Certainly.”

“You insist that the book must be true in its narrative in order to be good.”

“I do.”

“Then you despise the teachings of Him you profess to serve. He spoke in parables--in fiction. I do not understand the Prodigal Son to be a narrative of facts.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Then why may not Scott, Dickens, Irving, Miss Bremer, and Miss Leslie teach us love and charity through the same medium?”

“Such works vitiate the taste.”

“O, it is the taste, and not the heart, that is damaged.”

“Both; the latter through the former. Let me induce you to read Baxter’s Call, and you will then allow that you have obtained more real good from it than from all the novels you ever read in your life.”

“It is too dull and insipid for me. I must draw my inspiration from more sparkling fountains.”

“You misjudge the book.”

“Perhaps I do. I am not a saint, I am willing to acknowledge; therefore it does not suit me. And I fancy it is so with half the world, who, rejecting the counsels of the church, get their wisdom and their goodness from works of fiction. They are readable to those whose taste, like mine, has not become sanctified; without them they would read nothing, and thus the world is better for novels.”

Mr. Carlisle could not but grant that there was some truth in what Mary had said; and though he did not, in so many words, yield the point, an impression was produced upon his mind which could not fail to soften down the bigotry of his views.

But the merry, fearless, independent tones of the eloquent advocate of works of fiction, went deeper down than the mind, and touched a weak spot in his theological heart. Her pretty, sparkling eye, roused and animated by her earnest thought, were irresistible; and the Rev. Mr. Carlisle, maugre the carnal nature of the fair debater, actually fell in love with the contemner of Baxter’s immortal works.

Mary was undoubtedly a great sinner, but she was a beautiful and spirited girl for all that. We will not trouble the reader with the ingenious plans which the enamoured minister laid that night to reclaim the erring beauty; it is only necessary to say that, within a week, he popped the question to her; and that she, out of consideration for her sister, refused to consider the proposal.

_CHAPTER III._

Susan was a docile lamb, and her conversion progressed to the entire satisfaction of her spiritual adviser. It was rumored that she was to be “propounded” on the following Sabbath.

Mary had quite as strong a veneration for spiritual things as her sister; but she was too straightforward to assume what she did not possess, and too sensible to be led into imaginary raptures by any extraneous influence. She knew Susan too well to believe her holy aspirations were real; she knew that the poor girl had involuntarily deluded herself. She was not surprised to hear that she had concluded to join the church.

“Susan, you are deceiving yourself. You love the fold for the sake of the shepherd,” said she.

“Nay, sister, you wrong me. Can you think me a hypocrite?”

“Not a hypocrite; you have misled yourself.”

“I have carefully examined my heart, and I am confident that I am not deluded.”

“What would you say if I should tell you that Mr. Carlisle can never love you?”

“I should say that you knew nothing about it,” replied Susan, unthinkingly; but in an instant she corrected the mistake. “But that has nothing to do with it.”

“I fear it has. Tell me honestly, Susan, do you not love Mr. Carlisle? I will not laugh at you.”

Susan hesitated.

“Be candid sister.”

“I do not love him; but if he loved me, I feel that I could return his affection.”

“He does not love you, Susan.”

The ambitious “sheep” looked earnestly into the face of her sister.

“How do you know?”

“I _do_ know.”

Susan looked pensive and sad.

“What do you know?”

“That he has even offered his hand and heart to another.”

“The hypocrite!” exclaimed Susan, with a flushed face.

“Why, sis!” and Mary was filled with astonishment, for it appeared from Susan’s violent ebullition of feeling that the matter had passed much farther than she had suspected. “Why do you use that pointed word? Did he ever speak to you of love?”

“Never; but he has led me to believe by his constant attentions that he was interested in me.”

“That was professional, sis; you have mistaken his zeal to bring you into the fold for love. I warned you of this.”

“You did; I am a fool. But to whom has he offered himself.”

“It is a secret.”

“Tell _me_!”

“Will you be discreet?”

“I will.”

“To me!”

“To you! You who despised Baxter’s Call and Saints’ Rest?”

“Even so. Extremes meet sometimes.”

“I wish you joy, Mary.”

“But I declined the offer.”

“Why?”

“For your sake. I knew that you loved him.”

Susan was deeply affected at the generosity of her sister.

“I do not love him, sister. Do not let me be an obstacle in the way of your happiness.”

“I have not said that I loved him.”

“But you do?”

“I have refused him.”

“Nay, he is a noble and a good man, besides being handsome and talented. You need not be a fool because I have been. I assure you I am completely cured; I think he is a flirt.”

Mary did not think so, and the young minister was too deeply enamoured of her, too devotedly admired her wit and beauty, no less than her innate goodness of heart, to be content with a refusal. When he renewed his suit, the spirited girl was more tractable, and in process of time they were married.

Whether Mr. Carlisle ever succeeded in removing those pernicious notions about novels from the mind of his wife, we are unable to say; but we do know that Scott, Dickens, and Irving have found a place on the shelves of his library, beside the tomes of theology and history; and we infer that a mutual influence has brought each to adopt more reasonable views both of Baxter and the novelists.

THE MERCANTILE ANGEL.

_CHAPTER I._

“The contemptible little jackanapes! he had the audacity to ask me to play whist with him!” exclaimed Sophia Danvers to her sister.

“And why should he not, sister?” answered Mary Danvers, calmly.

“Why should he not, indeed! Did he think I would demean myself by playing whist with a clerk--one of my father’s servants?” and Sophia tossed her head in proud disdain.

“I can see no impropriety in your associating with him, Sophia. He is certainly a handsome, intelligent and well-behaved young man.”

“Behaves well enough, for aught I know; but only think of it--a clerk in our drawing room! For my part, I wonder how father could ever think of such a thing as admitting him into the family.”

“I suppose it was because he liked the looks of him.”

“What will Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert say when he finds us associating with poor clerks--the trash of counting rooms?”

“It matters little to me what he thinks; he is a conceited puppy, and I wonder that you can endure his presence,” replied Mary, smartly.

“But he is the leader of the _ton_, Mary,” said Sophia, astonished at the plebeian notions of her sister.

“He is a perfect flat, for all that, and infinitely inferior, in all that constitutes a man, to Mr. Harlowe, whom you affect to despise.”

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Danvers.

“How could you bring that horrible clerk into the house, papa?” said Sophia, as the merchant prince seated himself by the blazing grate.

“Horrible clerk! Pray, what is the matter with him?” asked Mr. Danvers, evincing some surprise at the plain speech of his daughter.

“Why, he is a clerk.”

“But a respectable young man.”

“Respectable enough, but not fashionable, papa.”

“I was a clerk once, Sophia; I commenced by sweeping out a store, and carrying bundles about the city.”

“How absurdly you talk, papa!”

“But Mr. Harlowe is a very estimable young man; I am confident you will find him agreeable company.”

“I shall have nothing to say to him,” replied Sophia, with a shrug of the shoulders.

“Beware, Sophia; there is an old proverb, you know, about entertaining angels unawares.”

Sophia laughed heartily at the idea of a poor clerk being an angel.

“But what says Mary?” asked the merchant, turning to his gentle-hearted daughter.

“O, _I_ like him very much; we are already fast friends,” replied Mary, and a slight blush seemed to emphasize the remark.

“Just like her, papa; I should not wonder if she got head over heels in love with your mercantile angel.”

“She must do as she pleases about that,” replied Mr. Danvers, smiling.

“Pooh, Sophy! who said a word about falling in love? Can’t a body be civil to a young gentleman without falling in love with him?”

The pretty Mary blushed as she spoke, in good earnest--blushed so palpably that her father began to think the affair was something more than a mere jest.

“But pray, papa, when does your new partner arrive?” asked Sophia. “If all the accounts I have heard of his wit, gallantry, and personal attractions are true, I shall certainly set my cap for him.”

“He will appear one of these days,” replied Mr. Danvers.

“I hope you will not keep this stupid clerk in the house after he comes.”

“I certainly shall.”

“But, papa, we shall ‘lose caste’ if you do; it is really abominable.”

“Small loss, my child. If we are dependent upon the apes and puppies of fashionable life for our position in society, the sooner we lose it the better for our own self-respect,” said Mr. Danvers, smiling good humoredly.

“You are absurd, papa.”

“Now, Sophy, you have given me a lesson, let me give you one. The idol you worship is more senseless than those of the Feegee Islands. Fashionable society is as hollow as a brass pan; place no reliance upon it. The fops and fools who follow in your train are as soulless as they are brainless.”

“I wish Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert could hear you say so,” added Sophia.

“Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert was a journeyman barber in New Orleans, less than a year ago. I had the honor of being shaved by him last winter when I was there.”

“O, horrid, papa! Why have you not exposed him?”