University of Virginia Library

“Firstly, I enclose the two dollars
you gave me for travelling expenses. I met
Mr. Lyman on board the steamboat, and he gave me
five dollars, which he said he owed me for my aid in
the drawings he made for the New York architect.
Fine! After the wet time of parting was over, I was
in luck. Mr. Porter would not take any thing for
bringing me to the boat, — thirty good miles, — because
I helped him pick up apples one day after Jesse Porter
broke his arm. I was pretty hungry; but hearing they
charged half a dollar for supper, I bought some
crackers and cheese before I went on board. So I
came to the city for fifty cents. Such bustle and

confusion as there was on the wharf where we landed!
I made my way through it as well as I could, and
inquired the way to Chambers Street, not far, No. —,
where Mrs. Dawson lives. I saw the windows were
all closed, and so I sat my box of clothes down, and
sat on it. I began to feel both lonesome and hungry;
nothing seemed like morning — the fresh, beautiful
morning of the country. The sun shining on
chimneys and brick walls, instead of hill-tops and
sparkling waters; not a solitary bird singing; not
even a cock crowing. After a while, milkmen began
to appear. There was a different one for almost every
house, and each made a horrid outcry; and, after
a while, a woman came out of a cellar, and took a
measure of milk. Though they live in great houses,
this seems poverty to me. By and by, there came a
lively little driver with baskets full of bread. I remembered
Dr. Franklin's account of his buying a loaf
of bread and eating it as he walked through the
streets of Philadelphia, when first he went there;
and, though I do not expect to eat bread in kings'
houses, as he afterwards did, I thought there would
be no harm in following his example; so I bought a
sixpenny loaf of bread, and, with a draught of milk
from a milkman, I made a good breakfast. You see,
mother, I am determined to make my money last, if
possible, till I can earn more, and not call on you or
trouble our kind friend Mrs. Dawson. As soon as
her blinds were opened, I rung. The man who opened
the door smiled when I asked for Mrs. Dawson, and
said she would rise in about two hours. How long
those two hours were! But when they were over,
and I was summoned to her, she was as kind as ever.
She told me she had procured for me an excellent
place in a retail shop in Broadway, where, if I did as
well as my employer expected from her account of
me, I should receive enough, even the first year, to
pay my board. Before going there, she advised me to
secure a boarding-place; she had made inquiries for
this, and gave me references, and off I set. I went
from one to another. At one there was a multitude
of clerks, and a coarse, slatternly housekeeper; at
another there was a set of low traders. I went in
while they were at dinner, and a very slight observation
of their vulgar manners and conversation convinced
me they were not associates that I should
relish or you would approve. The next was full,
and the last was too filthy for any thing. As I
came off the steps quite discouraged, there was a
little fat lady walking before me in a gray silk
gown, and a white shawl, looking as neat as a new
pin. Two dirty shavers of boys had filled a squirt-gun
in the gutter, and had taken aim at the lady's
nice gown. I sprang upon them just in time,
wrenched the squirt-gun from their hands, and sent
it off out of sight. They began kicking and bawling;
and she, turning round, learned the mischief
they had intended. She was very thankful to me,
very good natured, and talkative. She told me the
gown was new, just come home, and she had put it
on for a wedding-visit, — a visit to her niece's husband's
first cousin; it was her best gown, too; she
had heard of the boys playing such tricks; boys
would be boys, &c., &c. O, mother dear! her
tongue goes by machinery. (Not father's!) She had
such a friendly way, and did not seem a very great
lady, and asked me so many questions, — my name,
where I came from, &c., — that I thought I would tell
her what I was in search of. This silenced her
for a moment; then she said, “Come home with me,
and we'll see what can be done. I'll talk to Plenty,
— Plenty is my sister, — and perhaps — but I won't
raise expectations yet. We live in Mercer Street,
retired and central too.”

“We were soon at her house, — a small, two-story
wooden building, that looks like a mere crack
between the two tall brick houses on each side of
it. I followed her into a little front room. There
was sitting an oldish lady, taking care of a little
blind child. The child uttered a cry of delight at
hearing the sound of my new friend's voice, returned
her half a dozen hasty kisses, and called her `aunty
Peace;' and the old lady, into whose hands she put
a piece of wedding-cake, said, `O, thank'ee; tell us all
about the wedding.' `Directly, directly,' replied my
new friend; and, bidding me sit down, and giving me
a generous bit of the wedding-cake, she bustled out
of the room, saying she would return in a few minutes.

She did, and brought her sister with her, —
her twin sister, — and Peace and Plenty stood before
me, looking almost precisely alike, fat and full, smiling
and abounding — two cornucopias. They could have
been called nothing but Peace and Plenty, or Milk
and Honey. The only difference I could see between
them was, that Peace had a dimple in one cheek only,
and Plenty in both; that Peace wore a `front,' and
Plenty her own gray hair. However, I suspect the
`front' was put on for high dress. They are droll
looking, but such pleasant faces! Nice, complete sets
of white teeth; and well they are so, for their mouths
are never both shut. Their eyes are rather small,
but bright and warm as sunshine in June, and their
cheeks are rather fat, — but there is not a wrinkle
near them, but a bright color on them. I did not
expect to find such people in a city, so kind, so plain,
so as if they were content to be themselves, and did
not aim to be like any body else.

“Well, dear mother, we had a great deal of talk,
which I would write, but have not time or paper.
The amount of it was that (suppose me to be blushing)

Miss Peace was pleased with my appearance;
that she felt moved towards me by my saving her
new gown and shawl; that, as soon as she knew my
wants, it occurred to her that, if Plenty felt as she
did, they could board me. Their house was pretty
full, to be sure; the old lady and her grandchild,
Nannie, occupied the back room, Peace and Plenty
the front chamber, her three nieces the back one,
and there was nothing left but a little place over the
entry, that they used for a clothes-press; but they
might take the clothes out, and put me in; I should
have to stand on my bed to dress, but I could keep
my clothes in boxes under it, and there was room to
put my arm between the wall and bed to get them,
and I could hang some things up, and it would be
handy reaching. I did make one suggestion, mother
— Where should I put a wash-basin?

“`I like that,' said Peace, and Plenty nodded her
approbation; indeed, I find it's always a voice and an
echo, no matter which speaks first.

“`There's a nice little closet for washing, in the
area,' she said; `it has a window, and room for a

wash-stand and a small tub; and there's a lock on the
door, and you shall have it all to yourself.'

“Now, but two points remained to be settled.
Miss Peace would make suitable inquiries about me
of Mrs. Dawson, because it was customary. It was
enough for her to look in my face; (blushing again,
dear mother.) The other point was the price of my
board. `The cost,' she thought, `would be about two
dollars; and her profits,' she said, with a smile, `she
would get out of little services I could render. It
would be handy having one mankind in the house.'

“Two dollars I can pay, as Holson has promised
me a salary of a hundred dollars a year, with two
weeks' vacation. So, mother, I felt very happy. Miss
Peace went with me to Mrs. Dawson's, without any
delay; and, after a short private interview, they were
both perfectly satisfied. Mrs. Dawson had heard of
the twin sisters, and was rejoiced that Providence had
directed me to so good a home; and my new friend's
face sparkled all over, at the good account our kind
benefactress had given of us. In addition to the low
board, — for I find it is very low here, — the sisters

have my washing done in the house. They have one
servant, and they say, that on washing-days they will
do a little more for her, and it will not come hard to
any one. It is all `live and let live' here. Their
nieces are three orphan girls; one but two years older
than little Lucy, whom I am to carry to school and
fetch home, when the days are stormy; one eight,
and one fourteen, thinner, more city looking than
Annie, — I mean in point of health, — but as unaffected
and frank as Annie herself; and, being just about
Annie's age, she seems very natural to me, and I
think we shall be quite friends. Her name is Mary
Hale.

“After getting all things settled in my press-room,
I went to Mrs. Dawson, who wished to introduce me
to Mr. Holson. He was very civil to our friend; but,
I must confess, I did not like his looks; and his manner
seemed to me both sly and fawning. He spoke
of the very uncommon terms on which I was coming;
of my rare good fortune — being a raw hand — in
obtaining a salary; said I must thank Mrs. Dawson
for it; Mrs. Dawson was one of his best customers —

hoped she would continue so; said he should expect
extra service for such extra salary; mentioned some
shops where no salary was paid, and others where
clerks paid for their places; and said, in rather a
lower voice, — still I heard him, — that dress was very
important to the impression of the shop; that clerks
should have a fashionable air; that my clothes were
country-made; that it was a disadvantage; but, for
Mrs. Dawson's sake, he would put up with a great deal.

“I was a little provoked, mother, but I tried to
remember that you had told me, again and again, not
always to expect smooth sailing; that life was a sort
of checker-work, and that I must be grateful for the
good, and make the best of the evil, and that what
seems evil to us often turns out, in the end, to be
good, &c., &c. I have far more good than evil in my
fortune. Nothing can exceed Mrs. Dawson's kindness;
and then my luck in my boarding-house! Mother, it
will be a home to me. Mr. Holson told me to come
to his shop in the evening, and he would give me his
instructions. The clerks surveyed me superciliously.
I heard the words `shabby,' and `down east,' and one

of them was ill-bred enough to touch his own neckcloth
and point to mine, and, at the same time, wink
to his companion. Mother, I felt mortified, plagued;
I am ashamed to confess it, but I did. I know
there was a want of manliness and independence in
this, and I am ashamed of it; but things look so
different in New York and in Salisbury! When I
left home, I felt as if you had provided every thing
I could want, — as if I were a little too smart, if any
thing, — and now! — But I am determined not to
give up to it. I will not sacrifice a principle to an
appearance. I will not make myself one of the
`clothes people!'

“While I was at tea, Mrs. Dawson's servant
brought me a note enclosing fifteen dollars — a present
from her to enable me, she says, to present myself
more acceptably in Mr. Holson's shop.

“This is very, very kind, very generous. But,
mother, I shall not accept it. In the first place, it
would be going right in the face of your instructions
— `I must depend on my own exertions.

Charities are for the helpless. A dependence on
gifts, if it does not make us mean and cringing,
does make us helpless.' This I learned from you;
and, from my own reflection, I am sure I shall respect
myself more a month hence, if I go before those
impertinent young men in my plain, rather coarsish
country clothes. So I'll face it out like a man.

“I spent the afternoon in walking round the city,
and in looking at the beautiful fountains. There
are three large ones, and are to be many more.
The water is thrown sixty feet into the air, and then
falls back in showers of jewels, as it seems when
the sun shines. I sat down in Union Park, and
looked and listened, till I fancied I felt the cool
breath of Rhigi by the brook-side. These fountains
in the city seem to me like a bit of lovely poetry
in a book of tiresome prose. They are a voice from
another land, a breath from home. I remained, sitting
near the fountain, refreshed and thoughtful. I
do not know whether it was dream or reverie, but I
was coming down Rhigi with Clapham; and then

we were all kneeling around dear little Lucy's bed,
and Clapham was with us. Suddenly I started up,
and saw the stars shining, and felt my cheeks wet
with the spray, or with tears, dear mother.”