Читать книгу The American Gentleman's Guide to Politeness and Fashion or, Familiar Letters to his Nephews - Margaret C. Conkling - Страница 13

——"variable as the shade,

By the light, quivering aspen made."

I think I have already incidentally alluded to the bad taste, to give it no severer name, so commonly exhibited by young persons in this country, in their conduct towards parents. Let nothing tempt you, I pray you, into habits so discreditable. Manhood is never depreciated by any true estimate, when yielding tribute to the claims of age.—Towards your father preserve always a deferential manner, mingled with a certain frankness, indicating that thorough confidence, that entire understanding of each other, which is the best guarantee of good sense in both, and of inestimable value to every young man, blessed with a right-minded parent. Accept the advice dictated by experience with respect, receive even reproof without impatience of manner, and hasten to prove afterwards, that you cherish no resentful remembrance of what may even have seemed to you too great severity, or too manifest an assumption of authority. Heed the counsel of an old man, who "through the loop-holes of retreat" looks calmly on the busy tide of life rolling forever onward, and let the sod that closes over the heart that throbs no more even with affection and anxiety for you, leave for you only the pain of parting—not the haunting demon of remorse. Allow no false pride, no constitutional obstinacy, to interfere with the better impulses of your nature, in your intercourse with your father, or to interrupt for an hour the manly trust that should be between you. And in the inner temple of home, as well as when the world looks on, render him reverence due.

There should be mingled with the habitual deference and attention that marks your manner to your mother, the indescribable tenderness and rendering back of care and watchfulness that betokens remembrance of her love in earlier days. No other woman should ever induce you to forget this truest, most disinterested friend, nor should your manner ever indicate even momentary indifference to her wishes or her affection. Permit me again to refer you to the example of our country's pride in this regard. You will all remember his marked attention, through life, to his only parent, and the fact that his first appearance in public, on a festive occasion, after the triumph of Yorkstown, was in attendance upon his mother at the ball given at Fredericksburgh, in celebration of that event. A fair friend of mine, who has written the most enthusiastically-appreciative description of this memorable scene that I remember to have read, characterizes the manner of Washington as illustrating the moral sublime, to a degree that filled all beholders with admiration. But no one needs the examples of history, or the promptings of friendship, to convince him of a duty to which the impulses of nature unmistakably direct him: all that I, for a moment, suppose you require, is to be reminded that no thoughtlessness should permit your manner to do injustice to your feelings, in this sacred relation of life.

The familiarity of domestic intercourse should never degenerate into a rude disregard for the restraints imposed by refinement, nor an unfeeling indifference to the feelings of others. With brothers and sisters even, the sense of equality should be tempered by habitual self-restraint and courtesy. "No man is great to his valet de chambre"—no man grows, by the superior gifts of nature, or by the power of circumstance, beyond the genial familiarity of domestic intercourse. You may be older and wiser than your brothers, but no prerogatives of birthright, of education, or of intellect can excuse assumption, or make amends for the rupture of the natural tie that is best strengthened by affectionate consideration and respect.

To his sisters, every man owes a peculiar obligation arising from the claim nature gives them to his protection, as well as to his love and sympathy. Nor is this relative claim wholly abrogated even by their being older than he. The attributes and the admitted rights of our sex give even younger brothers the privilege—and such every well constituted man will consider it—of assuming towards such relations the position of a friend, confidant and guardian. And the manner of a gentleman will always indicate, unmistakably, the delicacy, the consideration and the respect he considers due to them. I will not assume the possibility of your being indifferent to their love and interest; suffice it to say, that both will be best deserved and preserved by a careful admingling of the observances of politeness practised towards other women, with the playful freedom sanctioned by consanguinity. The world will give you no substitutes for the friends nature provides—they are bound to you by all ties unitedly. Be ever mindful that no rude touch of yours, sunders or even weakens the tenderest chords of the heart.

Since

——"modest the manners by Nature bestowed

On Nature's most exquisite child,"

a man's conduct towards his wife should always indicate respect as well as politeness. No rude familiarity should outrage the delicacy that veils femininity, no outward indifference or neglect betoken disregard of the sacred claims of the woman, whom, next to his mother, every man is bound in honor, to distinguish beyond all others, by courteous observance. If you consider the affection you doubtless took some pains, originally, to win, worth preserving, if you think it of any moment to retain the attributes ascribed to you by the object of that affection, while you made the endeavor to do full justice to yourself in the eyes of your mistress,[4] would it be wise to prefer no further claims to such characteristics by your manner to your wife? I have never forgotten the impression made upon me in youth by an exquisite letter in one of Addison's Spectators, purporting to be written by an old woman, in regard, if I remember, to the very point we are now discussing. It contains, as inclosed to the Solon of polite laws in that day, a note represented to have been written to her, by the husband of the lady, from a London coffee-house, upon some emergency, which is the very embodiment of gentle courtesy, and concluding with a respectful apology for the coarse paper, and other unseemly appliances of the communication. "Could you see the withered hand that indites this, dear Mr. Spectator," says the correspondent of Addison, "you would be still more impressed by the gallantry that remains thus unimpaired by time," or words to that effect. I have not the original to transcribe from, and the copy in my mental tablets is a little dimmed by the wear of years. But though the exact phraseology of the number I allude to is indistinct, I repeat that I have a thousand times recalled the substance with the same pure pleasure and admiration. I have not half done justice to it, and, indeed, I am almost ashamed to have so poorly sketched a picture whose beauty you may best appreciate by personal inspection. No tyro should attempt a copy of the production of an old master—especially when the mental magician fails to place the original before his mind's eye,

"Pictured fair, in memory's mystic glass."

But if you do not despise such old-fashioned literature as the writings of the English classic authors—and certainly, without undue prejudice in their favor, I may venture, I think, to say, that a knowledge of the writings of such men as Johnson, Goldsmith, Burke, and Addison, should make part of the education of every gentleman—if you will look up this elegant essay, and read it for yourselves, I can safely promise you ample remuneration for your trouble.

Do not degrade your own ideal by a too minute scrutiny, nor forget that the shrine of the Lares, though it may be approached with the simplest offerings, is desecrated by even a momentary forgetfulness that its votaries should be

"Content to dwell in decencies, forever!"

The chosen friend of your life, the presiding genius of your home, the mother of your children, then, not only claims the high place of trust and confidence, but the proof afforded by manner of the existence and dominance of these sentiments.

Many men, with the kindest feelings and the clearest perceptions of duty, are, from mere inadvertency, unobservant of the fact that they habitually give pain to those dependent on them for consideration, by neglecting those graces of manner that lend a charm to the most trifling actions. Remember, while you are forming habits, in this respect, how sensitively constituted are the gentler sex, how easily pained, how easily pleased. The more discriminating and affectionate is woman, the more readily is she wounded. Like a harp of a thousand strings, her nature, if rudely approached, is jarred responsively, while the gentlest touch elicits an harmonious thrill. The delightful abandon that constitutes one of the most exquisite enjoyments of home, is not augmented, for a man of true refinement, by a total disregard of ceremony and self-restraint. Selfishness, ill-humor, and a spirit of petty tyranny, rest assured, though their manifestation be confined to home intercourse, and borne in silence there, will gradually undermine character and essentially diminish domestic happiness.

Earnestly, therefore, do I admonish my youthful relatives to cultivate a careful observance of the requisitions of what has been well designated as "domestic politeness." Confer favors with ready cheerfulness, or, if necessary, refuse them with an expression of regret, or a polite explanation. Never repel solicitations, much less caresses, with impatience, nor allow your bearing to indicate the reluctant discharge of a duty that should also be a pleasure. A smile, an intonation of affection, a glance of appreciation or acknowledgment—small artillery all, I grant, my boys, but they will suffice to make a feu-de-joie in a loving heart, that will, each and every one of them, cause you to be followed in the thorny path of daily life by a blessing that will not harm you; they will secure you a welcome, when, world-worn, you shall 'homeward plod your weary way,' worth all the gold you have gathered, and well rewarding all the toil you have encountered.

I will only add, in this connection, that manhood is ennobled by the habitual exercise of delicate forbearance towards helplessness and dependence, and that a high test of character is the right use of power. Those, then, whom nature teaches to look to you for affection, as well as for care and protection—your mother, wife, sisters—should invariably derive from your manner evidence of the steadfastness of your interest and regard for them.

Like most of the aphorisms of the ancients for subtle wisdom, is the saying, "We should reverence the presence of children." Fresh from the creating hand of Deity, they are committed to us. While yet unstained by the pollutions of the world, should we not render a certain homage to their pristine purity and innocence? Should we not hesitate by exhibitions of such qualities of our nature as are happily still dormant in them, to force them into precocious development? The silent teaching of example tells most effectively upon the young for the reason that they are insensibly forming in imitation of the models before them, without the disadvantages of previous habit, or of diminished impressibility. It is no light sin, then, either in our manner towards them, or towards others in their presence, to obtrude a false standard of propriety upon their notice. If manner be, as we have assumed, active manifestation of character, the ductile minds of these nice observers and ceaseless imitators must be indeed seriously under its influences. That careful study of individual peculiarities which paternal duty imperatively demands, will readily suggest the proper modification of manner demanded by each different child in a household. It is said that children are never mistaken judges of character. Certain it is, at least, that they instinctively discern their true friends, and that of the "Kingdom of Heaven," as by divine assertion they are—the Law of Love, attempered in its administration by practical good sense, is the most effective influence that can be brought to bear upon them. Permit me to recall to your remembrance the tenderness that distinguished the manner of Christ towards little children.

Pre-supposing as I have done, thus far in this letter, and as I shall continue to do, throughout our correspondence, that you regard moral obligation as the grand incentive to the correct discipline even of the outer man, arrogating to myself only the office of the lapidary—that of endeavoring to polish, not create, the priceless jewel of principle, I shall make no apology for the suggestion, that manner should not be regarded as beneath the attention of a Christian gentleman, in his intercourse with such inmates of his household as may from any circumstance be peculiarly sensitive to indications of negligent observance. The aged, the infirm, the insignificant, the dependent; all, in short, who are particularly afflicted "in mind, body, or estate," are suitable recipients of the most expressive courtesies of manner.

Perhaps no single phase of manner at home more correctly illustrates nice mental and moral perceptions than the treatment of servants and inferiors generally. One may be just to the primary obligations evolved by this relation to others, and yet always receive the service of fear rather than of affection. All needless assumption of authority or superiority, in connection with this position, is indicative of inherent vulgarity, and is at as great a remove from a true standard as is undue familiarity. Never to manifest pleasure even by a smile, never to make an acknowledgment in words, of the kindly offices that money cannot adequately reward, may be very grand and stately, but such sublime elevation above one's fellow-creatures raises the heart to rather an Alpine attitude—to a height at which the milk of human kindness even, may congeal!

Always accept voluntary service with the slight acknowledgment that suffices to indicate your consciousness of it, nor deem it unworthy of one pilgrim upon the great highway of life to cheer another upon whom the toil and burden falls heaviest, by a smile or a word of encouragement. The language of request is, as a rule, in better taste than that of command, and, in most instances, elicits more ready, as well as cheerful obedience. Scott makes Queen Elizabeth say, on a momentous occasion, "Sussex, I entreat; Leicester, I command!" "But," adds the author, "the entreaty sounded like a command, and the command was uttered in a tone of entreaty." Can you make only a lesson in elocution out of this; or will it also illustrate our present theme?

Few persons who have not had their attention called to this subject, have any just conception of the real benefits that may be conferred upon those beneath us in station by a pleasant word uttered in a pleasant tone. Like animals and young children, uneducated persons are peculiarly susceptible to all external influences. They are easily amused, easily gratified—shall I add, easily satisfied, mentally? The comparatively vacant mind readily admits an impression from without; hence, he who "whistles for want of thought," will whistle more cheerily for the introduction of an agreeable remembrance, into the unfurnished "chambers of imagery," and the humble plodder who relieves us of a portion of the dead weight that oppresses humanity, will go on his way rejoicing; ofttimes for many a weary mile, impelled by a single word of encouragement from his superior officer in the "Grand Army" of life. But I hear you say, "Uncle Hal grows military—'the ruling passion strong' even in letter-writing. Like the dying Napoleon, his last words will be 'Tête d'Armée!'"—Well, well, boys! pardon an old man's diffuseness!—his twilight dullness!

There are occasions when to talk to servants and other employés, make part of a humane bearing towards them. To converse with them in relation to their affairs rather than our own, is the wiser course, and to mingle a little appropriate instruction withal, may not be amiss. Remember, too, how easily undisciplined persons are frightened by an imperious, or otherwise injudicious, manner on the part of their superiors, out of the self-possession essential to their comprehension of our wants and language.

I believe even the American author who has long concentrated his mental energies in elaborating the literary apotheosis of Napoléon le Grand, has not ascribed to his idol excessive refinement of manner. His attempts at playfulness always degenerated into buffoonery, and his habitual bearing towards women, in whatever relation they stood to him, was unmistakable evidence of his utter want of nicety of perception on this point.

Holding a reception, on one occasion, in a gallery of the Tuileries for his relatives, his mother was present, with others of his family. The emperor proffered his hand to each in turn to kiss. Last of all, his venerable parent approached him. As before, he proffered his hand. With an air worthy of the severe dignity of a matron of early Grecian days, "Madame Mère" waved it aside, and, extending her own, said, "You are the king, the emperor, of all the rest, but you are my son!" Would a man imbued with

"The fair humanities of old religion"

have needed such a rebuke, from such a source, think you?

Bonaparte was quite as stringent in his enforcement of court rules, in regard to dress and all matters of detail, as Louis XIV. himself, and often quite as absurd as the "Grand Monarque" in his requisitions.—Abruptly approaching a high-born lady of the old régime, one of the members of Josephine's household, who from illness (and, perhaps, disgust commingled) had disobeyed an edict commanding full dress at an early hour on a particular morning, as she leaned against a window in this same gallery of the Tuileries, the First Consul contemptuously kicked aside her train, at the same time addressing the wearer in an outburst of coarse vituperation.

Madame Junot records a characteristic illustration of Napoleon's unmanly disregard of the constitutional timidity of his first wife, as well as of his manner towards her in general.

As they were about to cross a turbulent stream upon an insecure-looking bridge, in a carriage, the Empress expressed a wish to alight. Napoleon forcibly interfered, but permitted the fair narrator of the incident, who was in the carriage with them, to do so, upon her informing him with the naïveté of a true French-woman, that there was a special reason for her avoiding a fright! Josephine wept in helpless terror, even when the ordeal was safely passed. By-and-by, the whole cortége stopped, and every one alighted; the imperial tyrant rudely seizing the empress by the arm, dragged her towards the destination of the party, in a neighboring wood, saying, as he urged her forward: "You look ugly when you cry!"

One of Napoleon's biographers has said of him that many passages in his letters to Josephine were such as no decent Englishman would address to his 'lady light o' love,' and it is well known that his earliest intercourse with the proud daughter of the House of Hapsburg—the shrinking representative of the hereditary refinement of a long line of high-bred women—was marked by the merest brutality. It was left to a citizen of our Republic to discover, in the year of our Lord one thousand, eight hundred and fifty-five, that this man was the "Washington of France!" and to communicate the marvellous fact to the present occupant of the imperial throne of the Great Captain—who is, by the way, the grandson of the repudiated Josephine!

Steaming along the Ohio, some years ago, I had the good-fortune to fall in with the most agreeable companions, a father and son, Kentuckians, of education and good-breeding. The father had won high public honors in his native State, and the son was just entering upon a career demanding the full exercise of his fine natural gifts. I was particularly attracted by the cordial confidence and affection these gentlemen manifested towards each other, and by the manly deference rendered by the youth to his venerable sire.

A storm drove us all into the cabin, in the evening, and, while the elder of my two new friends and I pursued a quiet conversation in one part of the room, his son joined a group of young men at some distance from us. Gradually the mirth of those youngsters became so roisterous as to disturb our talk. Hot and hotter waged their sport, loud and louder grew their laughter, until our voices were fairly drowned, at intervals. More than once, I saw the punctilious gentleman of the old school glance towards the merry party, of which, by the way, his son was one of the least boisterous. At length he spoke, and his clear, calm voice rang like a trumpet-note through the apartment:

"Frederick!"—there was an instant lull in the storm, and the faces of each of the group turned to us—"make a little less noise, if you please."

The youth rose immediately and advanced towards us: "Gentlemen," said he, with a heightened color and a respectful bow, "I beg your pardon! I really was not aware of being so rude."

I said something about the very natural buoyancy of youthful spirits; but I did not say that this little scene had the effect upon me that might be produced by unexpectedly meeting, in the log-hut of a back-woodsman, with a painting by an old master, representing some fine incident of classical or chivalrous history—as, for instance, the youthful Roman restoring the beautiful virgin prisoner to her friends with the words, "far be it from Scipio to purchase pleasure at the expense of virtue!"

My pleasure in observing the intercourse of these amiable relatives in some degree prepared me for the enjoyment in store for the favored guest, who, at the earnest instance of both father and son, a few days afterwards, turned aside in his journey to seek them, at home. It was a scene worthy the taste and the pen of Washington Irving himself, that quaint-looking old family mansion—in the internal arrangements of which there was just enough of modern comfort and adornment to typify the softened conservatism of the host—and the family group that welcomed the stranger, with almost patriarchal simplicity and hospitality. Really it was a strange episode in busy American life. My venerable friend sat, indeed, "under the shadow of his own vine and fig-tree, with none to make him afraid," reaping the legitimate reward of an honorable, well-spent life, and beside him the friend who had kept her place through the heat and burden of the day, and now shared the serene repose of the evening of his life. What placid beauty still lingered in that matron face, what "dignity and love" marked every action! And the fair daughters of the house, who, like Desdemona, "ever and anon would come again and gather up our discourse," in the intervals of household duty, or social obligation—they seemed to vie with each other and with their brother in every thoughtful and graceful observance towards their parents and towards me, and the noble boy—for he really was scarcely more, even reckoned by the estimate of this "fast" age—unspoiled by the dangerous prerogatives of an only son, manifestly regarded the bright young band of which he still made one, with the mingled tenderness and pride that would ever shield them from

"The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune."

These all surrounded my venerable host and hostess, as they gently and calmly turned their feet towards the downward path of life, with intertwining hearts and hands—like a garland of roses enwreathing time-worn twin-trees—ever on the watch to lighten each burden they would fain have wholly assumed, and with loving care striving to put far off for them the evil day when the "grasshopper shall be a burden."

But I essay a vain task when I would picture such a scene for you, my friends. If I may hope that I have made a study, from which you will catch a passing suggestion for future use, in the limning of your own life-portraits, it is well.

Chancellor K——, who was my life-long friend, retained, even in the latest years of his lengthened life, an almost youthful sprightliness of feeling and manner. His son, himself a learned and distinguished son of the law, thought no duty more imperative, even in the prime of his manhood and in mid career in his honorable profession, than that of devotion to his father, in his declining years. He fixed his residence near, or with, his venerable parent, and, like the son of ancient Priam, long sustained the failing steps of age. Few things have impressed me more favorably, in my intercourse with the world, than this noble self-sacrifice.

No one unacquainted with my vivacious friend can appreciate the full expressiveness of his characteristic remark to me, on an occasion when his son happened to be the theme of conversation between us. "I like that young man amazingly!" said the chancellor.

I still remember the impression made on me, when a boy, by meeting, in the streets of my native city, a stalwart young sailor, arrayed in holiday dress, and walking with his mother, a little, withered old woman, in a decent black dress, hanging upon his arm. How often that powerful form, the impersonation of youth, health, and physical activity, has risen up before my mind's eye, in contrast with the little, tremulous figure he supported with such watchful care, and upon which such protecting tenderness breathed from every feature of his honest, weather-embrowned face.

Bob and Charley grew side by side, like two fine young saplings in a wood, for some years. After awhile, however, the brothers were separated. Bob went to a large city, became a merchant, grew rich, lived in a fine house, was a Bank Director, and an Alderman. His younger brother, pursuing a more modest, but equally manly and elevated career, seldom met Bob during some years, and then only briefly at their father's house, when there was a family gathering at Thanksgiving, or on some other similar occasion.

Once, when I chanced to see these young men together, thus, I remarked that, while the sisters of each clung round the neck of the unassuming, but true-hearted, right-minded Charley, at his coming, and lost no opportunity of being with him, the repellant manner of the elder brother held all more or less aloof, though none failed in polite observance towards him. Egotistical and pompous, he seemed to regard those about him as belonging to an inferior race. As his brother and I sat talking together near a table upon which were refreshments, he actually had the rudeness to reach between us for a glass, without the slightest word or token of apology, with his arm so near to his brother's face as almost to touch it! There was more of shame than indignation expressed in that fine, ingenuous countenance when it again met my unobstructed gaze, and I thought I detected a slight tremor in the sentence he uttered next in the order of our conversation.

Before my visit that day was at an end, I found myself exceedingly embarrassed as an unwilling auditor of a political discussion between Bob and his father, which grew, at length, into an angry dispute, little creditable to, at least, the younger of the two word-combatants.

As I stood in the hall that night, awaiting my carriage, I saw Charley advance to the door of the library, opening near, and knock lightly. The voice of his aged father bade him enter. Opening the door, the young man, taking his hat quite off, and bowing almost reverentially, said only, "I bid you good night, sir," and quietly closed it again. When they turned towards me, there was almost a woman's softness in eyes that would have looked undimmed upon the fiercest foe or the deadliest peril.—Think you the Recording Angel flew up to Heaven's high Chancery with a testimony of that day's deeds and words?

Once, after this, Charley had occasion to visit the city where Bob resided. Breakfast over, at his hotel, he sallied forth to call on Bob, at his own house, and attend, subsequently, to other matters.

He was shown into an elegant drawing-room, where the master of the mansion sat reading a newspaper. Without rising, he offered his hand, coldly, and before inviting his visitor to sit, took occasion to say that his wife's having an engagement to spend the day out of town would prevent his inviting his brother to dine!

As Charley descended the steps of his brother's stately mansion, at the termination of his brief call that day, he silently registered a vow never again to cross his threshold, unless impelled by imperative duty. And yet Bob is not only a rich merchant, an Alderman, and a Bank Director, but a man of fashion!

One of the most discriminating and truthful delineators of life and manners whom we boast among our native authors, prominent among the characteristic traits he ascribes to an old English gentleman, of whom he gives us an exquisite portraiture, is that of such considerate kindness towards an old servant as to make him endure his peevishness and obstinacy with good humor, and affect to consult and agree with him, until he gains an important practical point with "time-honored age."

Illustrative of our subject is one of the anecdotes recorded of the poet Rogers, in his recently published life:

"Mr. Rogers," said the body-servant, who had long attended him in his helpless years, "we are invited to dine with Miss Coutts." The italicizing is mine. Is it not suggestive?

You remember the rest of the anecdote; Rogers had the habit, during the latter years of his life, of writing, when able to use his pen, notes to be dated and directed as occasion required, in this established form "Pity me, I am engaged." So, on this occasion, the careful attendant added: "The pity-me's are all gone!"

Weather-bound during the long, cold winter of 18—, by a protracted snow-storm and a severe cold, in the house of an old friend, I left my comfortable private quarters one morning for a little walk up and down the corridor into which my own apartment and those of the family opened.

By and by the active step of my hostess crossed my sauntering way.

"Perhaps it may amuse you to come into the nursery, a little while, colonel," said she, "it will be a novelty, at least, to you, to see behind the scenes."

"I feel myself honored by the permission, I assure you; the green-room always has an interest for me!" returned I; and I was soon ensconced in a large, cushioned-chair, in a cozy corner, near the open, old-fashioned "franklin" in which blazed a cheerful wood-fire. The rosy-cheeked juveniles among whom I found myself vied with each other in efforts to promote my comfort. One brought her own little chair, and placed it to support my feet; another climbed up and stuffed a soft cushion greatly larger than his own rotund, dumpling of a figure, between me and the chair-back, assuring me with a grave shake of the head, in which I saw the future Esculapius, "it is so nice ven your head do ache—mamma say so, ven I put him on her always!" and bright-eyed little Bessie, between whom and me a very good understanding already existed, crowned the varied hospitalities of my initiatory visit by offering me the use of her tiny muff!

My hostess, though she kept an observant eye upon us, from her seat by her work-table over against my arm-chair, had too much tact to interfere with the proceedings of my ministering cherubs; except to prevent the possibility of my being annoyed.

When I had leisure to reconnoitre a little, I discovered, among the other fixtures in the large, well-lighted, cheerful-looking apartment, an old woman with a good-humored face and portly person, seated near a window, sewing, with a large, well-stored basket of unmended linen and hosiery before her.

Presently, the eldest son, a fine manly boy of some sixteen years entered, hat and cane in hand. Used, I suppose, to a jumble of faces and forms, in this human kaleidoscope, he evidently did not observe the quiet figure in the high-backed chair. "Mother," he exclaimed in a tone in which boyish animation and the utmost affection were singularly united, striding across the room, like the Colossus of Rhodes, suddenly endued with powers of locomotion: "Mother, you are the most beautiful and irresistible of your beautiful and irresistible sex!" and stooping, he pressed his full, cherry lips gently upon her rounded cheek.

A flash of amusement, mingled with the love-light in the soft eyes that met those of the boy. He turned quickly. A scarcely-discernible embarrassment of manner, and a quick flush in the bright young face, were all that I had time to note, before he was at my side with a cordial greeting and a playful welcome to "Mother's Land of Promise."

"Land of Nod, say rather," replied the presiding genius of the scene, pointing to the quiescent form of little Bessie, who—her curly head pillowed on her chubby arm—was just losing all consciousness of the world, upon the rug at her mother's feet.

"George, what an armful!" said the youth, in a sort of half undertone, as he tenderly lifted the little lay figure, and bore it to a crib. "Don't get up, mother, I can cover her nicely. I say, mammy [an arch glance over his shoulder towards the ancient matron of the sewing-basket], how heavy bread and milk is, though, eh!"

"Speaking of bread and milk, here comes lunch," continued my hero for the nonce, rubbing his hands energetically, and only desisting to give a table the dextrous twirl that would bring it near his mother, and assist the labors of the servant who had entered with a tray.

"Will, you immense fellow, take yourself out of the way! Colonel, permit me to give your sedan-chair just the slightest impulse forward, and so save you the trouble of moving. My adorable mother, allow me the honor of being your Ganymede. Here we are, all right! Now, let's see what there is—ham, baked apples, cold roast beef, hot cocoa—not so bad, 'pon my word. Colonel, I hope this crispy morning has given you some appetite, after your hard cold—allow me"—

"Mammy fust," here interposed little Will, authoritatively, "'cause she older dan us!" and, carefully holding the heaped-up plate his mother placed in both hands, he deliberately adventured an overland journey to the distant object of his affectionate solicitude.

At this juncture, it was discovered that the servant-man who brought up the tray, had forgotten the sugar, and a young nursery-maid was dispatched for it. Upon her return she contrived, by some awkwardness in closing the door, to spill the whole result of her mission to the pantry upon the floor. Her arms dropped by her sides, as if suddenly paralyzed, and I noticed a remarkable variety in the shade of her broad Irish physiognomy.

"There is no great harm done, Biddy," said my hostess, immediately, in a peculiarly quiet, gentle voice, "just step down to John for another bowlful. While poor Biddy is collecting her scattered senses on the stairs, my son, will you kindly assist Willie in picking up the most noticeable lumps?—put them in this saucer, my dear. She is just learning, you know and—she would not cross that Rubicon as bravely as the classic hero you were reading of last night."

"While we are so literary, mother—what is it about the dolphin? If I remember rightly Bid was a pretty good exemplification"——

"Hush!—I am glad you thought to bring up more apples, Biddy. Colonel, here is the most tempting spitzenberg—so good for a cold, too. Take this to mammy will you, Biddy? The one I sent you before, was not so nice as these, mammy—your favorite kind, you know."

Amused with the new scene in which I found myself, I accepted the assurance of the fair home mother, as the Germans have it, that I was not in the way, and lingered a little longer.

By and by, John came up to tell his mistress that there was an old man at the door with a basket of little things to sell, and that he had sent a box of sealing-wax for her to look at.

"Poo' man! poo' man?" said little Will, running up to my knee, with such a sorrowful look in his innocent face—"an' it so-o-o col'," he added, catching his mother's words, as if by instinct.

"Take him down the money, John," I overheard, in the intervals between the discourse of my juvenile instructor, "and this cup of chocolate—it will warm him. Ask him to sit by the hall stove, while he drinks it." Nothing was said about the exceedingly portly brace of sandwiches that were manufactured by the busiest of fingers, and which, through the golden veil of Willie's light curls, I saw snugly tucked in, on either side of the saucer.

"Now, young ladies," continued my amiable friend, addressing a bevy of her rosy-cheeked young nieces, who had just before entered the room, "here is a stick of fancy-colored wax, for each of us—make your own choice. Luckily there is a red stick for Col. Lunettes" (a half deprecatory glance at me), "the only color gentlemen use. And," as she received the box again—"there is some for mammy and me—we are in partnership, you know, mammy!"

A pleased look from the centre of the wide cap-frills by the window, was the only response to this appeal; but I had repeatedly observed that, despite her industry, mammy's huge spectacles took careful cognizance of the various proceedings around her.

As I was about, for very shame, to beat a retreat, a cheery—"good morning, Colonel, I tapped at your door, as I came up, and thought you were napping it," arrested my intended departure. "So wifie has coaxed you in here! Just like her! She thinks she can take the best care of you with"—

"With the rest of the children!" I interrupted.

"My loving spou," as Bessie says, when she recites John Gilpin, "may I trouble you to tie my cravat?" And with that important article of attire in his hand, my friend knelt upon a low foot-stool, before his household divinity.

"Thompson," said I, "I always knew you were one of the luckiest fellows in the whole world; but may I ask—just as a point of scientific inquiry—whether that office is always performed for you,

'One fair spirit for your minister?'"

"Not a bit of it! No indeed, 'pon my word! only when I go to a dinner, as to-day—or to church, or—I say, Will, you unmitigated rogue, how dare you! you'll spoil my cravat—don't you see mamma is just tying it!"

The little fellow thus objurgated, his eyes scintillating with mirth, now fairly astride of his father's shoulders, clung tenaciously to his prize, and petitioned for a ride in his familiar seat.

Resorting to stratagem, where force would ill apply, the father, rising with a "thank you, dear wifie," retired backward towards a wide bed, and, by a dextrous movement, suddenly landed his youthful captor in a heap in the middle.

To lose no time, the brave boy, "conquered, but not subdued," made the best use of his lungs, while reducing his arms and legs to order, and Bessie, opening her beaming eyes, at this outcry, stretched out her arms to aid her pathetic appeal to papa to "p'ay one little hos" with her, "only but one!"

Evidently fearful of being out-generalled, the invader beat a rapid retreat from the enemy's camp, with the words "thank you, love, I believe the little rascal didn't tumble it, though I came within an ace, like a real alderman, of dying of a dinner—before it was eaten!"

After this initiatory visit to the nursery of my fair friend, Mrs. Thompson, I was allowed to come and go at my own pleasure, during the remainder of my visit beneath her hospitable roof, and I found myself so interested and amused by what I witnessed there, as often to leave the solitude of my own apartment, though surrounded there by every possible "aid and appliance" of comfort and enjoyment that refinement and courtesy could supply, to learn the most beautiful lessons of practical wisdom and goodness from the most unpretending of teachers.

One morning when the habitué had sought his accustomed post of observation, a young lady presented herself at the door, and seeing me, was about to retreat with something about its being very early for a visit, when Mrs. Thompson recalled her with a "Come in, my dear, and let me have the pleasure of presenting you to Colonel Lunettes, the friend of whom you have heard us all speak so often."

After the usual courtesies, this lovely earth-angel, with some hesitation, and drawing her chair nearer her friend, explained her errand.

Making a little screen of a cherub-head, as was my wont, I regaled myself unobserved, with the music of sweet voices and the study of pretty faces. I caught—"my old drawing-teacher"—"her husband was a brute in their best days"—"this long, hard winter"—"not even a carpet"—"the poor child on a wooden-bottomed chair, with a little dirty pillow behind her head, and so emaciated!"—here there was a very perceptible quiver in the low tones, followed by a little choking sort of pause.

"I am really grateful to you for coming—I have been unusually occupied lately by the baby's illness and other duties—the weather has given me more than one twinge of conscience"—this accompanied by a quiet transfer from one purse to another, and then I heard, as the two ladies bent over the crib of the sleeping infant—"is there a stout boy among the children? There are the barrels of pork and beef, always ready in the cellar—each good and wholesome of their kind—husband always has them brought from the farm on purpose to give away; and we have abundance of fine potatoes—John could not readily find the place, and really, just now, he is pretty busy; still, perhaps, they have the natural pride of better days—if you think it well, I will try to send"—the gentle ministers of mercy left the room together, and I heard no more.

Presently, the youth of whom I have before spoken, still at home enjoying his holiday's college vacation, joined me, and, between the exercises of an entertaining gymnastic exhibition, in which he and Willie were the chief performers, regaled me with humorous sketches of college adventures, anecdotes of the professors, etc., in the details of some of which I think he had his quiet old nurse in his mind's eye, as well as his father's guest.

When Mrs. Thompson resumed her accustomed seat at her business-table, as it might well be called, my agreeable young entertainer slid away from the group about the fire, and was soon snugged down, in his own favorite fashion, with his legs comfortably crossed over the top of the chair sustaining mammy's implements, cheek-by-jowl with the venerable genius of the sewing-basket, dipping into a newspaper, and chatting, at intervals, with his humble friend. Once in a while I caught a sentence like this:

"I say, mammy, you can't begin to think how glad I am you are getting down to my shirts! Such work as they make washing for a fellow at college! My black washerwoman (and such a beauty as she is—such a little rosebud of a mouth!) pretends to fasten the loose buttons—now, there is a specimen of her performances—just look! The real truth is, Mrs. Welch, that mother and you are the only women I know of who can sew on a button worth a pin—just the only two, by George! Now, there's Pierre de Carradeaux, one of our young fellows down there—his friends all live in Hayti, or some other unknown and uninhabitable region, you know, over the sea—I wish you could see his clothes! The way they mend at the tailors! But the darns in his stockings are the funniest. He rooms with me, and so I hear him talking to himself, in French. I am afraid he swears, sometimes—but the way he fares is enough to make a saint swear!" And then followed a detail that caused mammy to wipe her eyes in sympathy with this strange phase of human woe, in alternation with an occasional exclamation of amusement—like, "You'll surely be the death of me, Master Sidney!" apparently forced spasmodically from her lips, despite the self-imposed taciturnity which, I shrewdly suspected, my presence created.

"Mother, my revered maternal primitive, may I read you this anecdote? Colonel, will you allow me?"—a respectful glance at the book in my hand. And squeezing himself in from behind, by some utterly inconceivable india-rubber pliancy, between the fire and his much-enduring parent, the tall form of the stripling slowly subsided until I could discern nothing but a mass of wavy black hair reposing amid the soft folds of his mother's morning-gown, and a bit of his newspaper. Thus disposed, apparently to the entire satisfaction of all concerned, he read:

"Once, while the celebrated John Kemble, the renowned actor and acute critic, was still seated at the dinner-table of an English nobleman, with whom he had been dining, a servant announced that Mrs. Kemble awaited her husband in a carriage at the door. Some time elapsed, and the impersonator of Shakspeare's mighty creations remained immovable. At length the servant, re-entering, said: 'Mrs. Kemble bids me say, sir, that she is afraid of getting the rheumatiz.' 'Add ism,' replied the imperturbable critic of language, and quietly continued his discourse with his host."

"If I should ever be compelled to marry—which, of course, I never shall unless you disinherit me, mother, or mammy insists upon leaving us to keep house for that handsome widower, in the long snuff overcoat—[though the respectable female thus alluded to did not even glance up from her stitching, I plainly marked a little nod of virtuous defiance, and a fluttering in the crimpings of the ample cap-border, that plainly expressed desperation to the hopes of the widower aforesaid]—but if fate should decree my 'attaining knowledge under difficulties,' upon this subject, I hope I'll be a little too decent to keep my wife sitting out doors in a London fog (I shall make a bridal tour to Europe, of course), while I am imbibing, even with a 'nobleman.' Speaking of the tyranny of fate, I am, most reluctantly, compelled to deprive you of my refreshing conversation, my dear and excellent mother. If my dilapidated linen is restored to its virgin integrity: in other words, if my shirt is done, I propose retiring to the deepest shades of private life, and getting myself up, without the slightest consideration for the financial affairs of my honored masculine progenitor, for a morning call upon——, the fortunate youthful beauty I, at present, honor with my particular adoration." So saying, Sir Hopeful slowly emerged from his 'loop-hole of retreat,' and making a profound obeisance to his guardian spirit, and another to me, a shade less lowly, he took himself off, with his linen over his arm, and a grand parting flourish at the door, with his hat upon his walking-stick, for the especial benefit of his little brother, which elicited a shout of unmingled admiration from the juvenile spectators that need not have been despised by Herr Alexander himself.

During dinner that day, as the varied and most bountiful course of pastry, etc., was about to be removed, young Sidney said:

"Mother, allow me to relieve you of the largest half of that solitary-looking piece of mince-pie. I am sorry I cannot afford to take the whole of it under my protecting care."

"My dear son," replied my hostess, pleasantly, "let me suggest the attractions of variety. You have already done your devoir to this pie. Your father pronounces the cocoanut excellent"—and then, as if in reply to the look of surprise that met her good-humored sally, she added, in a tone meant only for the ears of the youth, "this happens to be the last, and mammy eats no other, you remember."

"No great matter, either; to-morrow will be baking-day. Now I know why you took none yourself, mother," answered Sidney, cheerfully, in the same "aside" manner; and the placid smile on the hospitable face of the 'home-mother' alone acknowledged her recognition of the ascription of self-denial to her; for it is not occasionally, but always, that