 | THE DENTIST. The soldier's bride and other tales |  |
THE DENTIST.
I am not aware whether the following story has
been told before; nor is it any matter—if it has, my
relation of it will have the effect of corroborating
evidence, and if it has not, it will possess the merit
of novelty. The circumstance which led to a developement
of the whole affair, occurred in the
shop of a respectable milliner in the village of
R—. The worthy proprietor of this rural
emporium of fashions, a maiden lady of fifty, stood
behind the counter, as gay as a May morning, and
as neat as if she had just stepped out of one of her
own bandboxes. On the opposite side was a grave,
middle-aged gentleman, who might have been buying
a bonnet for his wife, or paying for finery for
his daughters. His countenance was shrewd,
though benevolent, and his appearance that of a
professional man who was thriving in his business.
who stepped in attracted his attention, and without
seeming to notice her, he lingered, leaning upon
the counter, and apparently absorbed in reading a
newspaper. She was delivering some beautiful
specimens of needle-work. While the milliner examined
the patterns, the gentleman stood in a
situation to have a full view of the face of the fair
stranger, and was struck with its extraordinary
beauty. Not only were the features and expression
pleasing, and the complexion fine, but the rich glow
of the cheek, the softness and intelligence of the
clear blue eye, and the youthful brilliancy of the
whole countenance, pointed out this young female
as the possessor of more than ordinary attractions.
But he was most surprised at the evidence of extreme
poverty exhibited in the transaction before
him. She was disposing of work, for a mere pittance,
which must have cost her immense labour,
and which showed accomplishments, such as the
“labouring poor” do not ordinarily possess. Her
own dress, though perfectly neat, and managed with
care, was worn and faded, and entirely destitute
of ornament. Every indication, except such as her
face and form afforded, announced her to belong
to the humblest rank of life, and to be then enduring
the extreme of poverty. But what most particularly
attracted his attention were her fine teeth,
the most beautiful he had ever seen; her coral lips,
and a smile so engaging as even to give dignity and
seemed to be so unsuitably employed.
The stranger, who evidently had some purpose
in view in thus watching the motions of the young
girl, seemed to be much embarrassed, and as she
lightly tripped away, after disposing of her wares, it
was with an air of respect, and some hesitation,
that he followed her to the door and gently laid his
finger on her shoulder. She turned hastily, and
slightly curtesied; a blush suffused her cheek, but
her calm eye met that of the stranger, with a glance
that announced the self-possession of one accustomed
to the world. He paused, as if uncertain whether
to proceed; but he was a man not easily to be
baulked, and assuming a familiar tone, which his
own age, and the youth, as well as the extreme
indigence, of the person before him, seemed to
justify, said,
“My pretty girl, have you nothing more to sell?”
“Nothing more, sir.”
“You do not know how rich you are,” continued
the stranger, “let me make your fortune by purchasing
some of your teeth.”
The young female recollected that her dress was
of the coarsest kind; yet she felt offended at the
familiarity of the stranger's manner, as well as at a
proposition which seemed to be intended as an unfeeling
jest, and was about to pass on, when the
stranger added,—
“I am quite in earnest, and would most gladly
be the purchaser.”
“Indeed!” replied the girl, “I cannot imagine,
sir, why you should wish to purchase my teeth.”
“If I am willing to give you your own price,”
said the stranger, very good humouredly, “it is not
important for you to know my reasons.”
The girl looked in the man's face, astonished at
the oddness of his proposal. He was a person of
respectable appearance, whose prepossessing countenance
seemed to assure her, that he would not
sport with the feelings of the unfortunate.
“I am in very serious earnest,” he repeated, “for
two of your lower fore-teeth, I will give you a price
far beyond their actual value.”
“That you are not jesting I am bound to believe,”
replied the girl, “since you say so; I am
only surprised at the novelty of the offer.”
“Perhaps you think it would be more natural to
dispose of the whole set together, with yourself in
the bargain,” said the stranger, jokingly.
To his surprise, the young female made no reply;
her unaltered features and calm eye seemed to say
that she did not consider herself the fit subject of a
jest, and had no reply to make to such ill-timed
pleasantry.
The stranger saw his mistake, and regretted his
unintentional rudeness. He had touched the feelings
of a sensitive heart. “Pardon me,” said he,
“I meant no offence. To convince you of my
I am a dentist, and reside in a neighbouring
town. A patient of mine, a lady who is wealthy
and handsome, but not quite so young as you are,
has had the misfortune to lose two of her fore-teeth.
She is inconsolable, and will not agree to
have them replaced, except from the mouth of a
young, healthy, handsome girl. Such are my instructions.
None but the most beautiful teeth will
be accepted. Yours are just the thing, and I am
authorised to offer you five hundred dollars for two
such as I shall select.” The young female's surprise
had kept her silent when she first heard this
singular proposal; she smiled when it was seriously
persisted in; but at last, when the possibility that
she might accept it occurred to her, a cold chill ran
through her frame, and pointing out her door to the
dentist, she requested him to call upon her in half an
hour, and hastily retired.
As the reader feels, no doubt, a laudable curiosity
to be introduced to all the persons concerned in
the interesting catastrophe which is to follow, I
shall now present them separately to his notice.
The first in point of importance, is a certain Mrs.
Flowerby, who, when I can first recollect her, was
a middle-aged widow lady, but who would have been
very much offended to have had that description
applied to her, even twenty years afterwards. She
had been—some time or other, but I know not when
—thought very handsome; and she thought herself
stately air, and dressed in the extreme of every
fashion. We used to call her Madame Flowerby,
and the boys sometimes nicknamed her “my lady”—
epithets which incensed her greatly, inasmuch as
she supposed that they had some allusion to her
age, when in fact they were given in reference to
her pride. Had she known this, it would have
satisfied her; because, although people are ashamed
of being old, few think it a disgrace to be proud
or childish. The fact is, that Mrs. Flowerby was
really a very genteel, and a very respectable woman,
to look at—but not for any other purpose; for she
was not overstocked with either good sense or good
nature, nor do I know of a single valuable quality
that she had, except to dress remarkably well, and
to give famous parties. I shall never forget how
she used to toss her head when she came in contact
with vulgar people, by which she meant every
body that did not visit at her house; nor how
sweetly she smiled upon those who approached her
with proper respect, and under a due sense of her
superior perfections. One of the best things she
had was a fine set of teeth, and of all her possessions
there was nothing upon which she placed so
proper an estimate; every body admired her teeth,
and she not only admired them herself, but, with a
laudable public spirit, displayed them to the world
upon all occasions. It is not to be wondered at,
therefore, that when two of those teeth, occupying
Flowerby's ruby lips, and in the very centre of her
smile, were accidentally destroyed, she was inconsolable.
After mourning over her misfortune for
several days, she bethought herself of an expert
dentist in the neighbourhood, who had recently
acquired celebrity by his success in his vocation.
The dentist displayed before her a number of the
best shaped and whitest substitutes in his possession.
“There, madam, is a beautiful one; it is ivory,
but I cannot vouch that it will retain its colour.”
“That will never do, then; the colour must be
exact. I would not be detected in this matter for
the world.”
“It would certainly be very unpleasant.”
“Oh, shocking! I had rather have any thing else
said of me, than that I showed false teeth. My poor
dear teeth! they were so beautiful!”
“There are some handsome ones, ma'am, and
their brilliancy will stand the touch of time. Nothing
can be more natural.”
“Oh! these are beauties! what are they made of?”
“Of the tooth of a hippopotamus.”
“Of a hippo—what did you say, sir!”
“The hippopotamus, ma'am; a great sea monster.”
“Oh, horrible! do you suppose, sir, that I would
ever have in my mouth the fang of a terrible sea
monster, that had crushed shoals of raw, live fish,
in his voracious jaw!”
“Here, ma'am,” continued the dentist, very coolly
handing over another pair, “are two of the handsomest
I have ever seen. Your own were scarcely
more beautiful.”
“These are darlings, indeed! so delicate! of such
exquisite whiteness! What are these made of?”
“They are real; I took them from the mouth of
a negro boy.”
“Oh, you inhuman creature! to think of putting
the teeth of a negro into the mouth of a lady—that
is worse than the hippo—the dreadful sea monster
you spoke of.”
“Then, ma'am, I know not how to please you.”
“Sir, I must be pleased! I ask no favours. I am
able to pay for what I set my heart upon.”
So they went on; until the conference ended in
the lady's issuing the instructions, which we have
already heard announced from the lips of the dentist.
Our next portrait shall be that of the heroine.
But a few months had passed away, since the
brightest star in our constellation of village beauty
was Louisa Hutchinson. Her form was fine, and
no one ever beheld her face without being struck
with its beauty. The grace and loveliness of her
appearance were exquisite. The blended dignity
and sweetness of her manner were unrivalled. Her
mind was vigorous and sprightly, her wit playful,
and her conversation highly attractive. Above all
there was a joyousness, an air of chaste hilarity,
that was particularly engaging, and won the involuntary
was joy personified. To behold her smile, and not
to feel its power, was impossible. Her eye, her
cheek, her lip, all smiled in unison, as if the stream
of intellectual gladness overflowed its fountain, and
beamed from every feature. Do I dream when I
paint her thus? Far from it. Such was Louisa
when I knew her first; when her voice was music,
and her touch enchantment; when she was the luminary
about whom all lesser lights revolved; when
she warmed and animated all. She was the Belle.
To admire her was the criterion of taste; to follow,
to love, to pay her homage, was the common fate of
the village youth; and no one was properly graduated
in the school of fashion, who had not duly
enrolled himself among the number who were
vanquished by her fascinations. If such was the
beautiful reality, as pictured to the eye of an unim-passioned
observer, who shall describe the lovely
vision that was imprinted on the heart of a devoted
and favoured lover? No tongue can speak, nor
does it enter into the heart of man to conceive—
unless he be an accepted lover—how the soul
clings, and doats, and revels in such a passion, for so
bright an object! Not every heart has the capacity
to enjoy such a fulness of bliss. There was one who
did feel, and was worthy to enjoy it, and of him we
shall speak hereafter.
Louisa had lost her mother, and her father was
old. He had been in good circumstances; but age
most hopeless poverty. His exact situation was for
a long while concealed from the public. Few were
acquainted with the true situation of his affairs. He
had retired from business, had no visible income,
and was too infirm to make any personal exertions
to support his family. Yet there was a decent appearance
of comfort about his little mansion, which
precluded the idea of absolute want. Louisa was
always plainly, but neatly attired; and so much did
the simple style of her dress add to her native
graces, that many who knew the delicacy of her
taste supposed that she had adopted this mode of
dress from choice, and even from a refinement of
coquetry. Her little parlour was the scene of cheerfulness.
By and by things began to change; one
article of furniture after another disappeared;
Louisa joined the parties of her companions less
frequently; and those who called, were often refused
admittance, under the pleas that Miss Hutchinson
was engaged, or indisposed. At last, her only
servant was dismissed, and the truth was no longer
dissembled, that Louisa was not only the nurse of
her aged parent, but laboured night and day to procure
for him the common necessaries of life. She
was not ashamed of these employments, nor did
any think them disgraceful; on the contrary, the
number of her friends and admirers increased with
this new display of the loveliness of her character.
She continued to be the queen of hearts, the ornament
yet, in our country, but little of the miserable pride
of aristocracy; and an accomplished woman is not
spurned from society, because necessity obliges her
to become an active agent in the business of life,
and the pride and stay of those who depend on her
exertions. Many of Louisa's friends kindly offered
their assistance; and her young companions would
often aid her in the needle work by which she
gained a livelihood. It is even asserted, by those
who pretend to know all about such matters, that
her opportunities for entering into the blessed state
of matrimony increased with her misfortunes, and
that there was no day in her life, in which the
proudest youth in the town would not have been
happy to lead her to the altar. But her heart was
pledged, and she was of too noble a nature to purchase
affluence by the sacrifice of its best affections.
The supplies of friendship were scanty, and soon
exhausted. Charity, in its best form, affords but a
miserable relief. Its fountains are meagre and unsteady.
Under its kindest aspect it brings a distressing
sense of dependence. Louisa's father was
a weak and a proud man, in whose mind the decrepitude
of age had destroyed all the firmness of
manhood, while its foibles remained unchanged.
She refused, therefore, the assistance of some from
delicacy, and of others from the fear of offending her
father; some of her friends married, and left the
village; others became reduced like herself, until at
table supported solely by the labour of her own
hands. She had one friend, who forsook her not:
she had a conscience void of offence, a meek and
firm reliance in the Redeemer, and an unshaken
faith, that He who tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb, would not forsake the orphan girl who
watched over the bed of a dying parent.
Louisa had an accepted lover, who was worthy
of her affection; but he knew little of the real state
of her affairs. He was aware that her father was
poor, but not that he was in want. He well knew
that she had nothing to bestow but herself. He
had been absent from the village for several years,
in the service of a merchant, at a distant city, and
only saw Louisa in the short visits that he was occasionally
allowed to make. He, too, was indigent,
and their marriage depended on the contingency of
his becoming established in business. This was
another motive inducing Louisa to withdraw from
public notice, to conceal her extreme penury, and
to reject, rather than solicit, assistance. She was
unwilling that her lover should know that she was
labouring for a subsistence; not because she feared
that it would degrade her in his eyes, for she knew
that he had too much good sense to indulge such
feelings; but she could not consent to wound his
sensibility, or to place him and herself in so awkward
a situation as a knowledge of these facts would
have imposed.
Mr. Hutchinson became seriously ill. So long as
he had laboured only under the ordinary weakness
of old age, she could sit by him and work; but now
he was confined to bed, and her whole time was
consumed in the necessary care of the invalid. A
physician was called in; wine and other expensive
articles had to be purchased; poor Louisa found
herself surrounded by wants and difficulties too
great for all her exertions; and her courage began
to sink, when her parent asked for refreshments
which she could not give him, and, in the petulance
of dotage, reproached her for negligence of his wants.
Still, although a tear sometimes stole down her
cheek, her step was firm, and her face serene; she
uttered no complaint, but bent her knee in prayer,
bowed her heart in submission, and felt that peace
which the world cannot give nor take away.
Such was her situation, when she had gone to
the milliner, as she feared, for the last time; for
she knew not how to get materials, or to find time,
for a new effort. When she returned home, she
retired to her own room, and sunk down in an agony
of grief. The gradual but heavy pressure of poverty,
the long days of labour and the long nights of
watching, the solicitude of filial affection, the pang
of “hope deferred,” and all her other afflictions,
she had borne with a woman's fortitude, for they
were woman's peculiar trials, and thousands of her
sex have borne them without a murmur. But when
relief, and even affluence, appeared within her
that relief was to be purchased, presented itself on
the other, all her sensibilities were at once awakened.
Her beauty had been that possession which
the world had most admired; it had procured her
homage and adulation, and given her the sway of all
the hearts around her. Had she not prized it herself,
she would have been more, or less, than human.
She thought of him who had garnered up his hopes
in her affection; she knew not what portion of
the devoted and faithful love of Edward Linton she
owed to her personal charms, nor how that affection
might change, could he behold her disfigured, and
shorn of her beauty. She thought of her suffering
parent, and, with that courage which had heretofore
marked all her conduct, determined on the
sacrifice.
At the expiration of the half hour, the dentist
repaired to the miserable abode of the unhappy
girl. It was small, but had once been a comfortable
residence; it was now dilapidated and disfurnished.
Louisa received him with calm politeness,
and directed him to proceed at once to the operation.
He paused, and then slowly counted down
the stipulated sum. Finding that no objection was
made, he proceeded to extract two of her finest
teeth, and then withdrew. Louia's first emotion
was thankfulness for the seasonable relief, and joy
and pride that she could now soothe the dying pillow
of a parent. For the present, her cares admitted
As he summoned his strength for the last struggle,
he seemed to be favoured with that strong gleam
of intellectual light, which sometimes glows over
the departing soul, as the beams of the setting sun
burst forth before the evening closes. He felt and
acknowledged the sacrifices and cares of his daughter,
thanked and blessed her for all her kindness,
and breathed his last in peace of mind.
We have explained how Louisa became gradually
estranged from her friends, and left to struggle
alone against her afflictions. The news of her father's
death drew her former acquaintances to the
house of sorrow, and they were shocked at the full
discovery of her situation and sufferings. Every
office of kindness was cheerfully performed; Louisa
was taken to the house of a friend, where, sustained
no longer by those feelings which had heretofore
supported her, she sunk under a violent attack of
fever. In her dreams of delirium she thought only
of Edward Linton, her impassionate admirer, whose
love had been her pride, and whose constancy had
formed one of her greatest consolations. Her diseased
imagination pictured him ripened into maturer
manhood, risen from indigence to prosperity,
and grown callous to the love of his youth. As she
slowly regained her health, and vigour of mind, this
fearful dream still preyed upon her spirits; and when
she contemplated her faded features, and the sad
ravages made in her beauty, by the sacrifice she
her to determine to release him from his engagements.
She wrote him a feeling and delicate letter,
in which, after alluding to the recent loss of
her parent, she assured him that her own circumstances
were so changed as to render their union
impossible, conjuring him neither to answer her
letter, nor to seek an interview which could only
be painful to both. Thus was a noble minded girl,
whose whole life had been a continual sacrifice of
feeling to duty, misled, by the pride of beauty, into
an act which she believed to be disinterested, but
which in truth was unjust.
Edward was a man of strong mind, and generous
feelings. His first impulse was to hasten to
Louisa, for his heart was wrung, and his long cheished
hopes blasted, by her letter. But he, too, was
proud and acted on the same principle which had
governed her. He was poor, and she was, as he
supposed, still the pride of the village. He had
nothing to offer but himself, while her charms might
enable her to match herself with the wealthiest, or
the most honourable. Had he been rich, he would
have eagerly sought an explanation, but poor as he
was, he only wept over Louisa's letter, and determined
to submit. In another week he was on his
way to Europe, as supercargo of a fine ship. His
voyage was quick and prosperous. The war between
Great Britain and the United States, which
cargo at an advance far beyond the most sanguine
hopes of his owners. His homeward voyage was
short, and already the shores of his native land were
in sight, when he was captured by a British cruiser.
A prize master was placed on board, and the ship
ordered to Halifax. Three days after, by a bold
and well-concerted plan, he rose with his own men
upon the prize crew, obtained the mastery over
them, and carried the ship safely into New York.
His good conduct was munificently rewarded by
the owners, and he found himself in easy circumstances.
Two years after wards, as Dr. Nippers, the dentist,
sat one pleasant evening at his door, patting the
curly head of a little urchin who climbed on his
knee, a handsome carriage drove up, and a lady,
richly, but not gaudily dressed, alighted. She was
shown in due form into the doctor's study, the operating
chair was wheeled out into the middle of
the floor, and the worthy dentist stood ready to obey
the commands of his fair visiter, whose surpassing
beauty and graceful carriage struck him with the
same awe which would have been produced by the
advent of a supernatural being.
“Have I the pleasure of seeing Dr. Nippers?”
enquired the lady.
“That is my name, ma'am, at your service,” replied
the dentist, bowing obsequiously, but so awkwardly
as to upset a half a dozen phials.
“I have heard much of your great skill as a dentist.”
“My fame, ma'am,” rejoined the dentist, modestly,
“is perhaps greater than my merits; though I
flatter myself that I have been of some service to
the afflicted, in my line.”
“Do you recollect having purchased a pair of
teeth from a poor girl, a few years ago, for a large
sum of money?”
“Oh, very well, very well—that affair has been
on my conscience ever since. The poor girl was
suffering under some strange affliction, and I have a
thousand times reflected on myself, for not giving
her the money, and putting a couple of shark's fangs
in old Madame Flowerby's mouth. Poor thing!
I fear the loss of her teeth unsettled her intellects.”
“Why do you think so?”
“She shortly after left the village very suddenly,
and I then learned to my sorrow, that instead of
practising upon an humble girl, to whom the money
would have been a sufficient compensation, I had
by mistake robbed an accomplished young lady of
one of her chief ornaments. Some time after, I heard
that she was teaching a school in —; there I
followed her determined to make all the reparation
in my power. But the very day before I arrived
there, a young gentleman came and carried her
off—”
“And married her in spite of her teeth?” enquired
the lady, archly.
“I suppose so,” replied the good dentist, too unsuspicious
in his nature to recognise the victim of
his pullikens in the lady before him.
“I am that lady,” rejoined his visiter, “and I
have come to restore your money, and to beg you
to replace my teeth.”
“Most cheerfully! here they are, the identical
teeth. Madame Flowerby changed her mind about
them ten times in one week—in the next week she
died. I kept them as models, and beautiful ones
they are.”
The lady then rose, and after informing him
where she lodged, desired him to call the next day
and inquire for Mrs. Linton.
| THE DENTIST. The soldier's bride and other tales | |