Chapter VIII: Part 8

“Why should I, my child? He is as good a fellow, as sensible a person, and, according to your statement, as fashionable a man as Mr. Finstock, whose great grandfather was the governor of the state.”

“Is it possible that Mr. Fitzherbert was a barber?” exclaimed Sophia, horrified at the appalling statement.

“Nothing else, my child.”

“An impostor?” added Mary.

“Just so. Probably he is trying to obtain a rich wife.”

“It is abominable, I declare! One hardly knows, nowadays, who is respectable and who is not,” said Sophia.

“Therefore, my child, we ought not to speak so disparagingly of persons in humble life, as you have to-night.”

“Pooh! a clerk!”

At this moment, Mr. Harlowe, the new clerk, entered the room, and, as Sophia would have expressed it, had the impudence to seat himself by the side of Mary Danvers, who appeared not at all averse to this close proximity with him.

Frederic Harlowe was, as Mary had said, a handsome, intelligent, and agreeable young man; and Sophia, if she could have forgiven him for being a clerk, could have appreciated his society quite as highly as did her sister.

With her father’s permission, Mary accepted an invitation from Frederic to attend Alboni’s last concert.

They had scarcely left the house before Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert was ushered into the sitting room. This gentleman was an exquisite of the “first water.” In his personal appearance, he certainly was sufficiently well endowed to challenge the admiration of the fair sex; but, unfortunately, he was sadly lacking in that necessary element of a man of sense--brains.

Sophia could scarcely refrain from expressing the contempt she felt for the journeyman barber in disguise. The leader of the “ton,” in her estimation, was a ruined man.

The dandy, as a matter of courtesy, inquired for Mary, and was informed that she had gone to the concert with Mr. Harlowe.

“With Mr. Harlowe--a clerk--aw?” said the ex-journeyman barber, with a sneer, as he twirled up the long “rat tail” of his mustache.

“A very worthy young man,” replied Mr. Danvers.

“No doubt of it, saw; but a clerk--aw.”

“Pray, were you never a clerk, Mr. Fitzherbert? _I_ was.”

“A clerk! No, saw--nevaw!”

“Did I not meet you in New Orleans last winter?”

The dandy started up like a parched pea from a hot pan.

“I have a faint recollection of having met you in a barber’s shop there,” continued the merchant, tormentingly.

“Aw, very likely, saw. I patronize the barbaws.”

“And now I think of it, you wore a little white apron, and, if I mistake not, I had the pleasure of being shaved by _you_ in person.”

“Quite a mistake, saw, I assuaw you.”

Suddenly Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert, whose real name was John Smike, remembered an imperative engagement, and hastened to take his leave.

He was seen to enter the cars for New York on the following day, and nothing has been heard of him since.

_CHAPTER II._

Of course the reader understands that Frederic Harlowe and Mary are deeply, irretrievably in love with each other by this time. The poor clerk had won his way to the heart of the fair girl, and she, poor thing, had been captivated by the manly attractions, the noble soul of him who offered incense before her shrine.

As the world goes, it would be deemed a very wicked thing for a poor clerk to fall in love with the daughter of his aristocratic employer. Some people would say it was ungrateful in him thus to spirit away the affections of a confiding girl, when his position and prospects did not warrant his presuming to be her husband.

These questions are still open to the casuist. He may debate them to his entire satisfaction; but Mr. Danvers, either because he was more sensible than many of the aristocratic merchants of the day, or for some other equally potent reason, neglected to make any fuss about the matter, and suffered the clerk to woo and win his daughter, without even remonstrating against the wickedness of the act.

But Sophia was deeply grieved by her sister’s folly, as she deemed it, and used all the arguments in the range of her shallow sophistry to dissuade her from the folly and madness of wedding a clerk.

Mary was obstinate. The only excuse she offered in palliation of the flagrant misdemeanor was, that she loved him; and if she _loved_ a scavenger, she would cling to him with the last breath she was permitted to draw.

“A ring!” exclaimed Sophia, one day when matters appeared to have taken a very decided turn. “Well, well, I suppose you are engaged.”

“We are, Sophia,” replied Mary, with a face radiant with happiness.

“And you intend to be married?”

“Certainly we do; that is the end of an engagement.”

“My conscience! to think that the daughter of a merchant prince should became the wife of a poor, insignificant clerk!”

“Nothing very alarming about it, Sophy; it wouldn’t be half so ridiculous as another daughter of a merchant prince becoming the wife of an ex-journeyman barber. I believe Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert was your beau ideal of what a fashionable husband ought to be.”

“The impostor!”

“I am at least sure that Frederic is not an imposter--a humbug; one would not be likely to _assume_ the character of a clerk.”

“Perhaps not; but pray, sister, when do you intend to become the wife of this counting room cherub?”

“The day has not been fixed yet; in the spring, probably.”

“And may I ask what you intend to do with yourself? His salary is only a thousand dollars a year.”

“We can get along very well on that sum.”

“Yes, I suppose so, and live in some ten footer in a dark alley.”

“We intend to live out of town, in a nice little cottage.”

“Y-e-s! a nice little cottage!” drawled Sophia, in derision. “O sis, I will show you how to live when I am married. None of your nice little cottages for me. But I wonder when the new partner is coming.”

“Papa told me this morning that he had deferred the arrangement till next spring, and that the gentleman would attend to his business at the south as heretofore.”

“How provoking! I have been reserving my affections on purpose for him. I mean to make a conquest of him in just one month.”

“How foolish you talk, Sophy! One would think you had entirely forgotten your maidenly delicacy.”

“Pooh! I’m jesting; it’s between _us_;” and Sophia relapsed into a revery, which, we are almost sure, related to the aforesaid new partner, who was not only a nice young man, but was to put thirty thousand dollars into the concern when he became a partner.

* * * * *

The winter passed away, and the spring came. Frederic and Mary were to be married in a few days. Mr. Danvers, to the infinite chagrin of Sophia, had readily consented to the match. The proud sister--though in the natural goodness of her heart she would not have had Mary’s affections blasted--would fain have had a little opposition, to save appearances.

The bridal day came, and after the ceremony had been performed, the happy parties started for their new residence in the suburbs. Sophia, who had acted as bridesmaid, was to accompany them.

The carriage wound through an elm-shaded road, and suddenly brought to the view of the delighted party a splendid country residence.

“That is the cottage,” exclaimed the bride.

“That a cottage! Why, Mary it is a palace!” replied Sophia, in utter astonishment; for she had never taken interest enough in her sister’s affairs to visit her proposed residence.

The carriage stopped before the door, which was half hidden behind a vine-laced portico, and the party alighted.

The place was a perfect paradise, and many were the encomiums lavished upon it by the bewildered Sophia.

“You cannot think how surprised I was when I first beheld it,” said Mary, when she and Sophia were alone. “It seemed more like a dream of fairyland than a reality. But Frederic is so very odd about these things.”

“I should think that he was! Why, sis, it will certainly ruin him, a poor clerk on a thousand dollars salary.”

“Well, he knows best; he says the rent is nothing.”

“Nothing, indeed; but it will eat up his poor pittance.”

“Well, I gave him a lesson on extravagance; but he only laughed in my face, and said he knew what he was about.”

“But here are Frederic and father; I am sure papa has been scolding him for his recklessness.”

“He does not look as though the scolding had produced a very powerful effect,” said Mary, as she saw her husband’s smiling countenance.

“What a beautiful house!” exclaimed Sophia, as Frederic Harlowe joined the group.

“A fitting nest for my pretty bird,” replied the husband, gayly, as he chucked his blushing wife under the chin.

“I should think your thousand dollars a year would have to suffer some,” said Sophia, bluntly.

“O, your father has been so very good as to elevate me a peg, so that I can well afford to incur the expense.”

“Yes, my child,” interposed Mr. Danvers; “you know I said something to you about entertaining angels unawares. Sophy, _Mr. Frederic Harlowe_ is the new partner.”

“What an abominable cheat, papa! I’ll warrant you told Mary of it in the beginning,” said Sophia, with abundant good humor.

“Nay, she knew nothing of it till a few days before her marriage. This was all Mr. Harlowe’s whim; he must explain it for himself.”

Mr. Harlowe did attempt to explain his motive in entering the family _incog._, but it was a lame explanation. Probably the reader, who readily penetrates the secret thoughts of the hero of the story, has already divined his motive. He wanted a wife, and had the sense to seek for genuine goodness in preference to name and position in society. He won the daughter of a merchant prince as a simple clerk; there was no doubt that she loved him.

Mary was very much surprised, and perhaps not a little chagrined, to find the romance of marrying a clerk so suddenly disappear; but in the wealth of a mutual love they were richer than in the smiles of fickle fortune, which had blessed them with an abundance of the good things of this life.

CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN;

BEING THE SUBSTANCE OF WHAT SOME YOUNG MEN THINK, BUT NEVER SAY.

_CHAPTER I._

When I was a boy, the schoolmaster succeeded in impressing upon my mind the truth of that common saying--“If a man thinks nothing of himself, no one will think any thing of him.” The pedagogue believed it himself, and his daily deportment was based upon it. Whether I learned any thing else of him I cannot now say; but I am sure I learned to set a high value upon myself.

At the age of eighteen, I found myself in the service of an eminent merchant of Boston, in the capacity of assistant bookkeeper, on the paltry salary of four hundred dollars a year. I was worth more--I was sure of it. But perhaps my employer had not yet come to a knowledge of the treasure he possessed in me, and I wisely determined to wait till I had a better opportunity to distinguish myself.

Certainly I took a great deal of pride in discharging the duties of my position. I labored assiduously to please both the merchant and the head bookkeeper, and they seemed to regard me with satisfaction; but I resolved to make myself so necessary that the business could not be carried on without me.

Whether my imagination was more lively than my reason, or not, I do not know; but certainly, at the end of six months I made up my mind that Mr. Bancroft could not possibly continue in business a single month without me. As to my superior, he would be perfectly powerless if I should leave. In fact, I “conceited” that I was in reality _the_ bookkeeper of the concern, though he received the salary and did all the dictating.

I was an ambitious young man. I built a great many very pretty castles in the air; among them the idea of marrying my employer’s beautiful daughter was not the least attractive. She was a splendid girl--people called her the belle of Boston--and what to me was just as insinuating, she was an only child, and consequently the heiress of all Mr. Bancroft’s reputed wealth.

I never was one of that sort who wistfully dream over fine things, without making an attempt to attain them. That stale old maxim to the effect that “faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” was uppermost in my mind. I had come to the conclusion that Rosabel Bancroft should have the supreme felicity of becoming my household deity.

But the way was full of difficulties. I had never seen the peerless maiden, save on occasions when I had called at the house in the capacity of an errand boy--for the key of the safe, to get Mr. Bancroft to sign a check, or something of that sort. She was a proud beauty, and had never even taken the pains to look at me. “Ah, my fine lady,” thought I, “when we are married, I will teach you what is what!”

Certainly I would! And as for marrying her, why, that was a settled fact in my mind--I had resolved to do the deed.

I flattered myself that I was a decidedly good-looking fellow, and a great many young men cherish this idea in these progressive times. My looking glass had told me I was handsome, and there was no going behind its impressive declaration. But I was aware that my beauty needed a little cultivation, and accordingly I applied to Bogle for some of the “compounds,” and in a few weeks, I had the satisfaction of contemplating the addition of a downy mustache upon my well-turned upper lip. I took a great deal of pains with this beautifier of my physiognomy, and felt perfectly sure that the charming Rosabel would be unable to resist my killing attractions.

There was to be a grand ball at Union Hall, and I heard that my divinity was to form one of the revellers. I will not trouble the reader with a relation of the difficulties that beset me in procuring a ticket--for the affair was intended solely for the “upper ten;” but I got one, though it cost me in the neighborhood of twenty-five dollars, to say nothing of twenty-five more expended in a fancy vest, cravat, and other little amiabilities.

When I was dressed for the occasion, the effect was perfectly stunning. Rosabel was certainly a goner!

My _entrée_ into the drawing room seemed to create a profound sensation. All the gentlemen stared at me, and I felt assured of being the lion of the evening. It was plain that my “personal” had created a _furor_ among the aristocratic dandies; but I tried to treat them all with respect and politeness. It is true I saw some of them turn up their noses at me; and all evinced a disposition to avoid me. But I attributed all these unmannerly symptoms to the envy which my superior personal attractions had roused in their narrow minds. I did not resent their ill nature--I could afford to be magnanimous.

I walked like a king through the sumptuous apartments; indeed I always prided myself on my gait. More than once, when I have been leisurely promenading Washington Street, I have felt sure that all the ladies had singled me out for especial admiration.

There was something magnificent about my style of walking, and I did not blame the dear creatures for sighing when I passed them. It was a great pity that, in the illiberality of our laws, only one lady could ever have the satisfaction of calling me her husband. I am naturally of an sympathetic temperament, and I assure the reader that it deeply grieved me to think of the number of fair, promising ladies who would be disappointed in winning my affections. I could not love them all, and from the bottom of my heart I pitied those who were doomed to be disappointed.

Rosabel Bancroft was destined to be my wife. I had deliberately made up my mind, and though I thought, in consideration of my condescension in choosing her from the thousands who would have rejoiced to win me, she ought to meet me half way. But I was not over nice, and in deference to the fashions of the times, I mentally consented to do all the courting myself.

I succeeded in getting an introduction to her, and she consented to dance with me. I was not much elated; I regarded my progress as a matter of course. During the quadrille, I did the agreeable to my own satisfaction, and though the impression was not as marked and decided as I had expected, I was assured that everything was going on well.

“Procrastination is the thief of time,” said somebody. I don’t remember whether it was Plato or Diogenes. When the dance was ended, and I had conducted her to the drawing room, I made bold to express my admiration of her beauty and grace. She blushed, smiled, and looked confused. Poor thing! how could she help it?

Just then a dandy spoke a word to her, and then retreated. I was not to be balked, and with all the eloquence I possessed--and I would just hint that Demosthenes, Cicero, or Daniel Webster couldn’t hold a candle to me in making a speech--I popped the question.

It was handsomely done, and Rosabel was taken all aback. I expected all this--I knew all about making love--Ovid couldn’t tell me any thing about it. Girls at this momentous crisis, do not always mean half they say; and I was prepared to hear her declare it was rather sudden, that she must ask papa about it, and all that sort of thing.

But my ardent confession seemed to throw her into a perspiration--if I may so unpoetically express the confusion which my declaration produced.

“You impudent puppy!” exclaimed she, her pretty cheeks red with anger; “so you are one of my father’s clerks, and have the presumption to ask me to dance with you, and then to offer me such an indignity! Leave my presence, sir, this instant, or I will ask my friends to kick you away!”

Whew! I did feel sheepish for a moment; but then, poor thing, she did not know her own mind. Some of those envious noodles had been exciting her prejudices against me. That dandy had told her I was her father’s clerk, before I had had an opportunity to weave my spell upon her.

Comforting myself with the assurance that there were thousands of heiresses who were more discriminating than she, I whistled an air, and ambled away from her. If there is any person on the face of the earth whom I pity more than another, it is he or she who wilfully throws away a good opportunity.

Poor Rosabel! I pitied _her_! I believe I was unselfish enough to deplore her misfortune more acutely than I did my own. I had lost nothing that might not be regained; she had cast away one of the most brilliant opportunities that ever dawned upon the destiny of a maiden.

I have the credit, among those who know me best, of possessing firmness in a very remarkable degree; and it was melancholy to think she had cast me off forever, for, I am sure, if she had fallen upon her knees, and begged and pleaded, I should have been as firm as a rock. Those insulting, unlady-like words, had “fixed her flint”--to use a rather homely phrase, which I believe did not originate either with Addison or Macaulay.

I did not dance any more that evening. I found that I had fallen among fools, who could not appreciate me. And strange as it may seem to the unphilosophical reader, the fact did not in the least disturb my natural equanimity. Why should it? Did not Socrates experience the same coldness at the hands of the fickle Athenians, who put him to death by mixing poison with his “sherry cobbler?” Why should I expect a better fate than others whose misfortune it is to be superior to the masses around them?

I left the hall regretting only that the eighth part of my year’s salary had been wasted in the adventure.

When I went to the counting room next morning, Mr. Bancroft summoned me to his private office.

“You are a fool, young man!” said he, and his face was flushed with anger.

O the ingratitude of the world! This was a pretty return for the distinguished honor I had intended for his daughter, and which only her own wilfulness had prevented her from receiving at my hands.

“If you ever presume to speak to my daughter again, under any circumstances, I will immediately discharge you from my service,” continued he, with the utmost coolness.

“Nonsense!” thought I--and I beg the reader will not suppose I uttered this unseemly expression--“you won’t do any thing of the kind. You know your own interest too well.”

Discharge me! I should have liked to see him do it. I believe I should actually have gone, if he had said the word, and left him to take care of his business as best he might! If he had got me mad, I should just as lief seem him fail as not--it is my temperament. To a friend, I am a friend; to a foe, a foe of the most determined sort.

But he knew better than to provoke me too far. Bancroft was a shrewd man. He knew just how far I would have permitted him to go, in deference to the dignity of his position, and he did not exceed that limit. It was a lucky thing for him that he did not. Disaster, mercantile ruin, would have been the inevitable consequence of such an imprudent act!

I regret that my space does not permit me to give the reader the details of my exploits in the arena of Cupid for the succeeding six months. They were rich and varied; but I am happy to console my friends and admirers with the assurance that I am at present engaged in writing out the history of the whole period, which in due time will appear, complete in seven volumes, with portraits and illustrations.

From the events of this campaign, I deduce the melancholy conclusion that the fair sex are sadly wanting in good taste and nice discrimination. The fact that I am still a bachelor is a sad commentary on this truth. The ladies “are not what they are cracked up to be”--to use a rather inelegant expression, which I think was original with Hogg, the poet.

But disappointed of my matrimonial hopes, I determined to make commerce the study of my life. I had about made up my mind to offer my time and talents to Bancroft--in short, to offer to become his partner in business. I never was much in favor of these complications of mercantile affairs, and to become a partner of his might involve me in some future sacrifices, which it might not be pleasant to make.

I thought it best, on the whole, to retain my present situation. But the salary was too small. I must wait upon Bancroft, and consent to remain in his service, if he would add a hundred dollars to my pay. Of course he could not be so imprudent as to run the risk of failure and utter ruin for so trifling a matter as this.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bancroft,” said I, in my blandest tones,--for even a highway robber is polite nowadays when he blows a man’s brains out--“but I have taken the liberty to wait upon you for the purpose of asking you to advance my salary from four to five hundred dollars.”

“Go to the devil!” said he, rudely.

It is astonishing how some folks will even kick an angel out of their presence. Poor Bancroft! he “stood in his own light,”--to borrow from Carlyle or Mephistopheles, I forget which.

“You are dear help at two hundred a year; I don’t want you any longer at any price,” continued Bancroft.

“There’s stupidity for you!” thought I.

My blood was up, and I determined to leave him, let the consequences be what they might.

I did leave him, assured that the mercantile world would be startled to its centre by a crash, in a very short time. The concern has not broke down yet, but there is a moral certainty that it must soon “go by the board,”--to quote from Captain Cook, or Sir John Franklin, it is not very material which.

I had not been out of business a week before I discovered that literature was the proper sphere for me. I intend to bring about a revolution in the world of letters, by introducing an entirely new style of composition, adapted both to prose and poetry. I have several works under way, including a complete History of the Musquito Kingdom, Annals of Hull, and a poem in two hundred and seventy-six cantos, on the Want of Appreciation and Correct Taste in the Female Sex,--all of which will appear as soon as written and published.

THE BACHELOR BEAU.

_CHAPTER I._

“I can no longer struggle against the current of misfortune,” exclaimed Mr. Whiting, a small merchant, who had by the pressure of hard times become somewhat involved; “I am ruined!”

“Nay, my husband, do not be distressed. Worse calamities than this might happen, and we will make the best of it.”

“But wife, I must fail; I cannot sustain myself another day.”

“You have done all you can to avert the misfortune, and if it must come, let us not repine, but bear it like Christians.”

“I will try to keep calm; but it seems hard, after weathering the worst of the storm, to be wrecked in sight of the land.”

“Perhaps your creditors will give you more time,” suggested Mrs. Whiting.

“I cannot hope it; the note which comes due to-morrow, and which I am utterly unable to pay, is in the hands of my bitterest enemy.”

“He will not distress you.”

“I know him well. He is a villain!”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Bacher.”

“God help us, if _he_ is your creditor!”

“As near as I can learn, he bought the note on purpose to perplex me, and perhaps to obtain his revenge.”

“Why is he so bitter against you?”

“Because I exposed a swindling operation, in which he was engaged.”

“How much is the note, father?” asked a beautiful, hazel-eyed girl, who had not before spoken, but who had been listening with intense interest to the conversation between her father and mother.

“Three thousand dollars, Sarah,” replied Mr. Whiting, fixing a glance of anxiety upon the fair girl.

“Can’t you borrow it, father?”

“Alas! my child, my credit is very much impaired. My notes have been too thick in State Street for me to borrow without paying exorbitant interest; and that, I think, would wrong my creditors in case any thing should happen.”

“It is not so very dreadful to fail, is it, father?”

“It would be ruinous to me, my child. If I could pay this note to-morrow, I could get along very well. I should not have been embarrassed, had it not been for the failure of Jones. But I suppose it must be, and we must content ourselves to live a little more closely than we have been accustomed to do.”

Sarah asked no more questions, and though the conversation was continued by her father and mother, she seemed to pay no attention to it. She appeared to be musing deeply over something.

As the evening advanced, John Barnet, a clerk, who had for some months been attentive to Sarah, and who, report said, was a favored suitor, made his accustomed evening visit. Every body said that John Barnet was a nice young man, and every way worthy of so beautiful and amiable a wife as Sarah Whiting would undoubtedly make him.

If there is any thing in smiles and gentle words, the affection of the young clerk was warmly reciprocated by Sarah. They were not engaged, however, though he called at Mr. Whiting’s house from four to seven evenings in a week.

Mr. Whiting and his wife retired at an early hour in the evening, leaving the lovers “to have it out.”

As usual, John Barnet begged her to make him happy by promising to be his forever. To his utter surprise and consternation, she told him she could never be his wife, and entreated him to think no more about her. Of course, the lover pressed her for an explanation of this sudden and remarkable change in her manner towards him. But she could not even do this, and John took his leave, feeling that he had not another friend in the world.

_CHAPTER II._

Sarah Whiting had another suitor in the person of a wealthy and eccentric old bachelor, who, after withstanding the assaults of thousands of bright eyes and bewitching smiles, had laid his heart at the feet of our beautiful heroine. We don’t blame the old fellow for falling in love with her, any more than we blame Sarah for laughing at him, when he threw himself at her feet and “popped the question.”

Mr. Landyke Somerset was only about forty, so that, if Sarah had been less cruel, it would not have been exactly “May and December,” but about June and November. He loved her with all the fervor which the march of time had left in his heart, and was actually disconsolate when she told him “no.”

Mr. Landyke Somerset was not an ill-looking man, though he was an old bachelor. True, his hair was not as black and glossy as it had been twenty years before; there was an occasional iron-gray hair, which looked a little suspicious; yet, when he began to make his court to the divinity of his dreams, even these suddenly disappeared, and people were malicious enough to say it was through the influence of a certain compound applied by the barber. True, also, there was now and then a wrinkle in his face, which some young ladies affect to dislike. But what of all these things? Old age is honorable, and the iron-gray hairs and the wrinkles did not in the least mar the kindly expression of his phiz.

He was a very clever fellow, and though the merry little Sarah Whiting could not help laughing when he “popped the question” to her, she would very willingly have had just such an uncle, or something of that sort. In short she _liked_ him, but she didn’t _love_ him.

Mr. Landyke Somerset was a firm believer in the ancient verity, that “faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” and he determined not to faint or give up the chase till he had bagged the game, or had seen her the wife of another. Consequently he held out all the inducements in his power to engage her heart in his favor.

He was not what young ladies called an “old fool,” for he had sense enough to feel that he should never be able to gain the victory on the strength of his physical attributes--his personal beauty. But he was an amiable man at heart, and trusted solely to the influence of his moral and mental qualities for success. They had thus far failed him, though he still persevered.

Mr. Whiting, readily understanding what these attentions meant, did all in his power to favor his suit; for he was an old-fashioned man, and placed more confidence in the power of a good heart and plenty of money to make his daughter happy, than he did in the more common attributes of youth and good looks, even though the possessor of the first-named commodities had passed the meridian of life.

But Sarah had a mind of her own in these matters, and though she appreciated her kind father’s motives, she could not think of throwing herself away on a man of forty, even if he was an angel.

It was only the afternoon of the day preceding the conversation we have recorded, that Mr. Somerset had paid her a visit, and renewed his protestations of love to her. She had told him for the twentieth time, “no.”

When she heard her father relate the particulars of his embarrassment, the image of Mr. Somerset had involuntarily presented itself to her mind. He was abundantly able to assist them in this emergency, and for the love he bore her perhaps he would.

But, then, if she applied to him, and he afforded the necessary aid, she would be under an obligation to him, which she might find it very inconvenient to discharge.

Ruin stared her father in the face. He had said it was _ruin_, and she was sure it was. What right had she to be selfish or over nice, when, perhaps, she had it in her power to avert the dreadful calamity? Her father was all in all to her; and though some girls are so sentimental as to sacrifice father, mother, home, friends, for a lover, she would sacrifice a dozen lovers for her father alone, to say nothing of her mother, who was at least worth two dozen more.

Let not the reader suppose the pretty Sarah did not love him upon whom she had smiled--she did; but her bump of veneration was bigger than that other bump on the back of the head.

Her resolution was formed, and about eleven o’clock the next day, she put on her bonnet, and walked up to the Revere House, where Mr. Somerset boarded.

_CHAPTER III._

Mr. Landyke Somerset was a nabob, and retained a private parlor, to which the obsequious servant conducted Sarah Whiting.

Of course the bachelor was reasonably astonished at this visit.

“Indeed, Miss Whiting, I am delighted to see you,” exclaimed he, with rapturous enthusiasm.

“I knew you would be, and that’s the reason I came,” laughed Sarah, and at the same time she blushed so sweetly that Mr. Landyke Somerset had almost dissolved in a rapture of delight.

“Ah, my dear Miss Whiting, you are not always so kind to me as you are to-day.”

“But I always will be hereafter,” and Sarah smiled, though her heart beat like the boundings of a race horse.

“Ah, you are so good, and so pretty, too.”

“I will save you the trouble of all these useless adulations, by saying that I have come to accept your oft-repeated proposal.”

“Indeed!” and the bachelor was taken “all aback;” he could hardly believe the evidence of his own senses.

“What, sir! Do you recede from your offer?” said Sarah, laughing with all her might--a very convenient cloak for young ladies sometimes.

“Capital joke, eh?” and the bachelor laughed too.

“No joke, sir; I am in earnest.”

Sarah looked as sober as the matron of an orphan asylum.

“Nay, nay, my pretty Sarah, do not make sport of me.”

“I will give you my promise in writing, with my signature, if you desire it.”

“Is it possible that you mean so?” said the doubtful Mr. Somerset.

“Take my hand.”

The bachelor took it, pressed it to his lips, and began to think himself the happiest fellow in the world.

“I am yours, Mr. Somerset.”

“Bless you, Sarah!”

“On one condition.”

“Name it.”

Sarah recounted the story of her father’s embarrassment.

“Fill me out a check for three thousand dollars, and I promise to become your wife within one year.”

Mr. Landyke Somerset mused. He appeared to be in doubt. He was a high-souled man, and the idea of _buying_ the hand of his wife was to the last degree repugnant to him.

“You hesitate sir; I know you do not love me,” said Sarah, with apparent pique.

“On my soul, I do! I agree; here is the check,” replied Mr. Somerset, as he seated himself at the table and drew the check.

“Now enclose it in a note to my father, saying you learned his trouble from a mutual friend, and then beg the privilege of loaning him the amount of the check.”

“And you sacrifice yourself to your father, my fair Sarah!” said the bachelor, as he sealed the note.

“I do.”

“You are an angel!”

“Nay, I must go now.”

The check did the business, and Mr. Whiting was as happy as ever he was in his life. Bacher could not sleep that night because he had been foiled in his revenge.

In the evening Mr. Somerset called at the house to see his future bride. She treated him kindly, and permitted him to sit by her side, hold her work basket, and pick up her thimble when she dropped it--which was glory enough for an evening, to one as moderate in his wishes as the bachelor beau of our heroine.

But about eight o’clock, to Sarah’s utter consternation, John Barnet paid his usual visit. The poor clerk was sadly distressed, as well he might be, and had called to desire an explanation of the cool manner in which he had been dismissed.

The presence of Mr. Somerset was all the explanation he desired. He was uneasy; he could not join in the conversation, and aware that he was making himself disagreeable to the party, he determined to take his leave; but how could he leave her?

He knew Mr. Somerset to be one of the best men in the world, and he resolved to request an interview with him on the spot.

The worthy bachelor kindly condescended to walk down the street a short distance with him, and John Barnet told him the whole story; how he loved Sarah, and how he had every reason to believe that Sarah loved him. He was sure that some unfair advantage had been taken, and he wanted the matter explained.

“Come back to the house, young man, and I will give you all the satisfaction you desire.”

John consented.

A few minutes sufficed to explain to Mr. Whiting and the discarded lover the nature of the sacrifice which the devoted Sarah had made for her father’s sake.

“Bless you, my child!” exclaimed the merchant, his eyes filling with tears of love, as he tenderly embraced his noble-hearted daughter.

“You understand it now, don’t you, Mr. Barnet?” said the bachelor, with a good natured smile.

“I do, indeed,” replied John, sorrowfully; “she is a noble girl, and I shall never cease to love her, though she can never be mine.”

Sarah cast a sad glance at him, and her eyes filled with tears. She never knew till that moment how much she loved the poor clerk. But it was all over now--the bright dreams of love had passed away, and she could never be happy again.

“What, Sarah! do you recede from your promise?” asked Mr. Somerset.

“Nay, I do not. Farewell, John! farewell forever!” and the poor girl sobbed convulsively.

“Farewell, Sarah!” and the clerk seized his hat and rushed towards the door.

“Hallo! stop, young man!” exclaimed Mr. Somerset; “don’t go off mad. Give me your hand.”

The bachelor took the clerk’s hand.

“You are a good fellow; I honor you. Your hand, Sarah,” and Mr. Somerset took the little white hand of the weeping maiden, and placed it in that of John Barnet. “Be happy!”

“What do you mean, sir?” asked Sarah, bewildered at the actions of the bachelor.

“Mean? You love him, don’t you?”

“With all my soul!”

“And you do not love me?”

Sarah began to understand.

“I _like_ you.”

“You are his; be happy! You did not for a moment suppose I could be so mean as to take advantage of such a noble act of self-sacrifice as you performed to-day? No! I love you, but I will not make you miserable.”

Poor Sarah! How happy she was, and how she pitied poor Mr. Somerset, who loved her so much! She felt that, if she had never seen John Barnet, she would have been glad to become his wife, iron gray and wrinkles to the contrary notwithstanding--he was such a dear good soul!

“Be happy! and that isn’t all; when I die you shall have half my fortune.”

The bachelor kept his word, and though he didn’t die of a broken heart, he did not live many years; yet when he did die, the hand of woman--of as true and loving a woman as ever made home a paradise--smoothed his dying pillow, and closed his eyes in their last sleep; and there were sincere mourners over his bier.

Poor Mr. Landyke Somerset! though he found not a wife in Sarah Whiting, he found a true friend.

THE GRAND RECEPTION BALL.

_CHAPTER I._

Tiptop is somewhere in the State of Massachusetts; but, in consideration of the unpleasant nature of the details of my story, I do not feel at liberty to state its precise geographical position. Undoubtedly, too, there are within the limits of our ancient commonwealth a great many Tiptops, and, by assigning it a specific _locale_, many whom the coat fits will fail to put it on.

Tiptop was fully up with the times. The distinctions of caste were as precisely defined and protected as in New York or Philadelphia. It is true, a belle from one of the emporiums of fashion would not have felt at home there; but then the Tiptopites labored to be as fashionable as the metropolitans, and if they did not succeed, it was not their fault.

There were balls, parties, and lyceums in Tiptop; but, unfortunately for the luminous propensities of the “upper ten,” they were obliged to call in the aid of the _canaille_ on these occasions, in order to make the expense fall as lightly as possible on the glorified few.

There was a great excitement in the place when it was understood that the Hon. Mr. Silas Lumpkin, M. C., from one of the Western States, proposed to spend a few days with Squire Rogers, his “chum” in college.

The Hon. Mr. Lumpkin was a distinguished man in his day and generation. Though not thirty-five at the period of our story, he had made a mark on the country which time will not immediately obliterate.

But Mr. Lumpkin was a sensible man, notwithstanding the temptations of his position to be otherwise. We have referred to the Congressional Globe, but we do not find that he ever made a long speech, which, in our mind, fully establishes his reputation as a model Congressman.

The distinguished gentleman’s visit to Tiptop, promised to be an epoch in the history of the place. The notables were duly impressed with the honor which awaited them, and immediately put their heads together to devise a suitable plan for a public demonstration. They fully appreciated the great man’s condescension, and it only remained to make a proper expression of it.

A voluntary committee of the most notable of the notables waited on Squire Rogers in this emergency. Unfortunately, the Squire was a legal man, and did not feel competent to advise in an affair of this kind; and the squire, too, was a sensible man, and had it not been for the fact that he was a candidate for the office of representative to the next General Court, would probably have expressed his disgust at the whole thing.

But while the voluntary committee were discussing a scheme for a public dinner in the town hall, the ladies decided that a grand reception ball should be given on the occasion of Mr. Lumpkin’s arrival.

Of course the matter was settled, for Miss Araminta Pipkin and Annabellina Punkinton had said so. Miss Dorothea Pilkinton was opposed to it at first, on account of the shortness of the time; but Miss Pipkin was an Amazon in an argument, and carried the day.

_CHAPTER II._

It was after dark when the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin arrived at Tiptop. The Lyceum Hall was already in a blaze of brilliancy, and the revellers were rapidly gathering to do honor to the man who had distinguished himself by holding his tongue.

Mr. Lumpkin, all unconscious of the honors that were in store for him, cordially grasped the hand of Squire Rogers, and entered the house. He drank several cups of particularly strong tea, and found himself fully refreshed from the fatigues of his journey.

“The hall was lighted as you passed, was it not?” asked the squire, thinking it time to broach the subject of the complimentary ball.

“The building on the hill?”

“Yes--next to the meeting house.”

“It was.”

“Something grand there to-night; we must go up.”

“Political?”

“No, nothing of the kind; your friends in this place, without distinction of party, propose to welcome you to Tiptop in a grand reception ball.”

“The deuse they do!”

“Fact!” and the squire grinned in sympathy with the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin.

“But, Rogers, it’s silly.”

“Public men must humor the follies of their constituency.”

“Not my constituents, thank my stars! I am not holden to them for my office; so I shall do them the honor to spend the evening with you, Rogers.”

“But my dear Lumpkin, the affair was got up wholly on your account.”

“Infernally silly of them--decidedly flat.”

“They will be disappointed;” and Squire Rogers looked sad, for he happened to think at that moment that he was a candidate for the legislature.

“No matter.”

“But the aristocracy--bah!--will be mortally offended with me.”

“The what?”

“The affair was got up by our fashionables.”

“So much the better. If they wish to make fools of themselves, they shall not do it at my expense.”

“But consider, my dear Lumpkin, what a terrible disappointment it will be to them. They are even now waiting your arrival. I have been appointed gentleman usher, to conduct you to the hall, and do the honors.”

“Good, Rogers!” and Mr. Lumpkin, being a jolly, good natured Congressman, laughed heartily, notwithstanding the consternation of his legal friend, who began to fear that his want of tact would insure the victory, at the approaching election, to his rival.

“But the ladies, Lumpkin.”

This was a fortunate hit on the part of Squire Rogers. Mr. Lumpkin was a bachelor, and like bachelors in general, he loved the ladies to distraction, while he kept them at a safe distance. The thought of being the centre of attraction, amid a galaxy of bright eyes and blushing cheeks, was rather inviting; but Mr. Lumpkin could not forgive the Tiptopites for making fools of themselves at his expense.

The honorable gentleman was a consistent man, and having before decided not to go, it was against his principles to change his mind. There was a villainous rumor in circulation that Mr. Lumpkin, having unhappily fallen asleep during the making of a certain motion, had suddenly woke up and voted “yea,” in opposition to his colleagues, and against the instructions of his constituents.

Having always been considered sound on the question at issue, every body was surprised at his vote. He did not discover his mistake until the following day; but, being a consistent man, he defended his course, and made the longest speech he was ever known to make, on the folly of instructing public men who are sent to Congress for the good of their country. He would have lost his subsequent election, only that a majority, admiring his manly independence, saw fit to give him their suffrages.

Mr. Lumpkin had said no, and it was an exceedingly difficult thing for him to reverse his sentiments, and say yes. But the ladies, being--as he eloquently expressed it, in his speech on the necessity of reducing the duty on Cashmere shawls, and making it specific, instead of _ad valorem_--the bright particular luminaries of a republican nation, seemed to beckon him to the ball--to be recreant to his principle of consistency.

But Mr. Lumpkin, in the true spirit of our glorious constitution, resolved to compromise the matter, and go. There was a codfish clique in Tiptop, and Mr. Lumpkin considered it his duty to punish them. After making some arrangements with his friend, whose urgent remonstrances were all unheeded, he left the house.

_CHAPTER III._

Lyceum Hall blazed with beauty and tallow candles. All the _élite_ of Tiptop were on tiptoe with expectation. After a long and rather stormy discussion, it was decided that Miss Pipkin should dance first with Mr. Lumpkin.

Eight o’clock came, and the distinguished gentleman did not make his appearance. The less pretentious portion of the party began to grow impatient. They cared nothing at all about Mr. Lumpkin; they came to have a good time, and were bound to enjoy themselves, whether Mr. Lumpkin and his admirers did or not.

Joe Maple began to get a little mad. He came with Lizzie Lee, had paid for his ticket, and--as he expressed it to Mr. Adolphus Pipkin--he’d like to know why they couldn’t go ahead without Mr. Lumpkin.

“Hang me if I stay or pay for my ticket if they don’t put her through pretty soon,” said he.

“What are they waiting for?” asked a stranger by his side.

“For Mr. Stumpkins, or some sich name; but I ain’t a-going to wait any longer. What do you say, boys--shall we back out if they don’t go ahead?”

“Sartin; go to the managers, Joe; we’ll back you up in any thing you say,” replied several.

“They ought to go on,” suggested the stranger.

“Tew be sure they had; so here goes for the managers. They are so darn stuck up, they seem to think we ain’t nobody; we’ll larn ’em better;” and Joe Maple marched for the knot of gentlemen who had charge of the arrangements, and who were wondering why the distinguished guest of the evening did not appear.

At this moment Squire Rogers entered the hall. In reply to the managers’ queries, he said Mr. Lumpkin had left his house half an hour before, promising to meet him at the festive scene.

Joe Maple said the “boys” meant to have a time, any how, and he insisted that the dance should be immediately commenced, or the “boys” would make tracks for “hum.”

Joe Maple’s party were in a very decided majority, and their appeal was irresistible. The band, who were prepared to play “Hail Columbia” for the “grand entrée” of Mr. Lumpkin, were directed to commence a cotillon.

The sets were nearly formed, when the stranger who had before questioned him, requested Joe Maple to introduce him to a partner.

“Sartin,” said Joe, who was a good-natured, clever fellow; “but I don’t know ye. What’s your name?”

The stranger hesitated a moment, and then said it was Smith.

“You don’t say so! You ain’t the Smith that’s just moved on to the Pelatiah Hopkins place?”

“Just so,” replied Mr. Smith.

“Well, now, I am glad to see you;” and Joe Maple cast about him for a suitable partner for the new proprietor.

Joe was always up to some mischief, and it seemed as though the very demon of mischief ruled him when he glanced at Miss Araminta Pipkin, who was impatiently waiting the arrival of her distinguished partner.

Now Mr. Smith was certainly not very prepossessing in his external appearance. He looked very much like a country shopkeeper dressed up in his Sunday clothes, and Joe Maple was perfectly satisfied that Miss Pipkin would never condescend to dance with him. But there was a prospect of some sport, and though he and the amiable leader of the Tiptop _ton_ were not on speaking terms, he determined to present Mr. Smith.

“I want to introduce Mr. Smith to you,” said Joe, mustering his most elegant expression. “He wants a pardner.”

Miss Pipkin addressed a languid sneer, first to Joe Maple, and then to Mr. Smith.

“No, I thank ye,” replied she, briefly, turning away her head from the suppliant at her feet.

“Hadn’t ye better? This is Mr. Smith, that has bought the Pelatiah Hopkins place.”

“You have my answer; I dance with Mr. Lumpkin;” and Miss Pipkin looked unutterably scornful at the thought of descending from a member of Congress even to the proprietor of the Hopkins place.

“That is very plain speech,” suggested Mr. Smith.

“Short as pie-crust; she’s right down smart. But, Mr. Smith, as you have bought that place, you shall dance with the poottiest gal in the hall--that’s Lizzie Lee. She engaged to dance with me----”

“I could not think of disappointing you,” interposed Mr. Smith.

“I don’t stand on trifles. The fact is, Lizzie and I understand one another pootty well.”

Mr. Smith was introduced to Lizzie, who was all the enamoured Mr. Maple had said she was.

But the sets were all full save one, in which had been reserved a place for Mr. Lumpkin and the sighing Miss Pipkin, who fondly hoped to make a conquest of the distinguished bachelor’s heart.

This set was at the head of the hall, and of course the three couples which now composed it were the cream of the aristocracy. Mr. Lumpkin had not come and Joe, who was all attention to the new owner of the Hopkins place, directed Mr. Smith to lead his partner to this vacant position.

Mr. Smith did so. He was perfectly innocent of any intention to offend, and smilingly bowed to his pretty partner.