 | Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others
of the family |  |
THE PARTING WORD.
IN telling a story about
a Printer, I am not
about detailing the
mysteries and difficulties
of his occupation,
although a feeling
and interesting sketch
might be made of the
business of his life,
with its care and toil
for the good of the
world. I love the
printers from association
and long habit; am proud now of their companionship;
and, when walking arm-and-arm with my friend,
the President of the Franklin Typographical Society, I
feel as well as if the individual in the hook of my arm
were the President of the United States. My intention
in this little tale is simply to give the incidents of a
printer's life, wherein his heart was concerned, and not
to meddle with his profession in any way, save to dignify
my hero by the association.
The “Freeman's Star” was located in Patny, the shire
town of Seaburn county, in our State, and it exerted a
great influence upon the mind and manners of the people.
Society took its tone from the printing-office. The magnates
and the humblest looked towards it with reverence, for
they had heard of its power as the “defender of the people's
rights,” and never deemed how much of humbug
there was in the profession. The editor was looked up to
as a great man, and people would touch one another as
he passed, and whisper, “That is the editor!” He had
been foreman of a daily office in the city, and his importance
was unbounded on the assumption of his new
honors. In a proportionate degree all hands in the office
were marked men. The single journeymen, the grown-up
apprentice from the neighboring town, and the demon
himself, were all marked individuals, and people treated
them deferentially for their connection with the “mighty
engine” that had such power. Their opinions, expressed
at times about the weather, or the elections, or the crops,
were listened to attentively, and everything that appeared
in the Freeman's Star was imputed to one or the other of
the “printers” by the particular friends of each. Let a
piece of village poetry appear, or a good story culled
from some city paper, and at once would be seen in it by
the different parties traces of the mind of each of their
favorites. They would have known it to be his if they
had seen it in the moon, if they were by accident located
in that planet and had met with it there.
It was in this office that I made the acquaintance
of the hero of my story — the grown-up apprentice —
who bore the uneuphonious name of Jabez Bee. He was
a spirited fellow, very intelligent, and as full of mischief
“as an egg is full of meat,” to use an expressive modernism.
He was a constant attendant upon the tavern, in
countrymen around him, he would astonish them by the
keenness of his wit and the extent of his information, and
many a marvellous story have his country friends carried
home “as latest news,” that originated in the teeming
brain of Jabez. Steamboats were blown up and railroad
accidents were as common then, in this way, as now,
when the melancholy realities need no draught upon the
fancy, for instances.
But he gained a character for wit at the expense of
his moral reputation, which is too often the case; and at
eighteen, though everybody liked him and laughed with
him, he was set down as not likely “to turn out very
well” — a great phrase in Patny. People cautioned
their sons and daughters about going in his company,
and “Evil communications corrupt good manners” was
written as a copy in every girl's and boy's writing-book
in town. But he laughed at them all, and the boys
joined him; and the girls, who, somehow or other, always
seem to set more by the wild and mischievous than by
the staid and prudent, loved Jabez very sisterly. He
was bold and generous — qualities which no true woman
can see in a man without admiring them.
Far more discerning than older ones in matters of soul,
they had discriminated long ago between the mischief
and wildness of Jabez and his malice and wickedness, and
a large balance was set down in their hearts in favor of
his good qualities. They saw a sympathetic smile or
tear where those who decried him saw but levity and
heartlessness. They smiled upon him for striving to
save the child's lamb from drowning in the well, and rejoiced
who was maltreating the widow's son.
The most beautiful girl in Patny was Susan Bray.
She was a charming little creature, with an eye as blue
as a violet in spring, a voice as soft as the evening bird's,
a cheek like the blush of the apple blossom, and a breath
as sweet as its perfume breathed over the pearly purity
of her teeth. Her form was slight and graceful, and as
lithe as the bending corn or the wavy pliancy of the
yielding grass. I am not good at describing beauty in
ladies. 'T is not my forte; but I am determined hereafter
to put myself under the hand of my friend Paul
Creyton, or some other master of art, and become better
versed in the science of drawing word-portraits. Enough
is it for my purpose to say that she was very beautiful,
and that over her beauty was thrown a fascination of
manner and a propriety that was peculiarly delightful.
She gained for herself from her admiring companions the
expressive soubriquet of “the lily of the vale,” and her
modesty and grace justified the title.
She was the daughter of Mr. Bray, the village blacksmith,
and having been educated in a distant town, her
return to Patny was like the rising of a new star or the
discovery of a new flower. The young men were delighted
with her manners, and the young women —
pleasant creatures — gave her their hearts willingly, for
they feared rivalry from her no more than they would
from the new moon. She moved in a circle that the bold
printer boy did not enter. The blacksmith was a hard
man, and the reputation of Jabez was such that it did
not commend itself very favorably to the old man's mind,
the time of her return, however, had Jabez Bee looked
upon the fair Susan admiringly, but at a distance. He
gazed upon her with a respectful feeling that had no
affinity with the lighter and laughing affection he felt
for the village girls of his acquaintance. He felt that
she was a superior being to the whole of them, and his
soul bowed with reverence at her shrine — hoping
nothing and asking nothing but to lay its silent offering
at her feet, as the simple votary brings garlands in the
still of the morning to hang upon the shrine of some
favorite saint. It was a beautiful feeling, and as pure
as beautiful. The love at first almost unconscious
became at length the absorbing feeling of his life. It
marked his conduct and conversation, and the unconfessed
passion he felt moulded the impetuous and the wild boy
into a dreamer and a visionary. He pored over books,
and the woods and glens and water-brooks were familiar
with his footsteps. He acted in short, dear reader, as
you, and I, and almost all others, have done, or might
have done, under like circumstances, made himself very
ridiculous, and the Freeman's Star literally groaned with
the efforts of his awakened muse; and well it might groan,
as everybody did that read what he wrote. The poetry
was more truthful than lovely, and its quantity, like
the Irishman's dance, compensated for its quality. The
change in his conduct was marked. Business was more
closely attended to, and the tavern frequented less. He
became a perfect marvel to his friends, who wondered
what had come over him, and as the spiritual knockings
had just come along, some, in levity, gave it as their
his grandmother, that had rebuked his gracelessness.
But though he was less lively than formerly, he was none
the less kind to all, and everybody loved him as well or
better than ever.
But fate, so called — that officiates as a sort of junior
Providence in the affairs of men — decided that a passion
so fostered and concealed should be known, and that all
the speculation with regard to Jabez Bee's mystery,
grandmother's ghost and all, should be swallowed up by
a knowledge of the fact.
There was to be a great picnic in Patny. The Freeman's
Star had announced it for a month in big type,
and in an editorial notice had apprized the people that it
was to occur on such a day, weather permitting — the
editor dwelling with great eloquence upon the happy
combination of beauty and cold chicken, pancakes and
poetry, crackers and conversation, cider and scenery, in
making up the sum total of its enjoyment. The day
came auspiciously; the sun was bright, and the air was
balmy; the lads and lasses laughed lavishly, and the
birds sang sweetly in the bushes. In a grove near, the
company held high carnival to Pan, and the arches
of the woods were vocal with the noise of mirth. Near
by was a charming little lake, hemmed in by trees and
bordered by sedges, dotted here and there by patches of
lily pads, amid whose deep green the water flowers
gleamed like stars, and this lake wooed many to its brink,
to admire its beauty, to plash in its cool water, or sail
upon its still bosom in a tiny boat that was at hand.
Jabez and Susan were of the party, and through the
beauty in everything — the trees were greener, the berries
were brighter, the air was balmier, and the music of
the pines had a new and sweeter melody. Susan was
one of a few that had wandered towards the lake, and
Jabez had watched her at a distance, fondly drinking in
with every faculty of his being her charms as they
became revealed to him, in her playful movements among
the trees; and her smiles, though not for him, were sunshine
to his heart. And now his heart, that interesting
organ, throbs wildly, as he sees her with playful recklessness
step upon the tiny boat and push it from the
shore. The treacherous twig to which the boat was tied
broke at the strain it received, and Susan Bray was afloat
and alone upon the waters of the lake. Each effort she
made to gain the shore was fruitless, when, her paddle
having become entangled in the lily pads, she was
thrown, pale as one of her kindred lilies, into the water.
Confusion immediately ensued, and rash endeavor to
save her only threatened her more sure destruction, when
Jabez Bee rushed madly to the scene, and in a minute
was by her side. The water was very deep, but, with
one arm grasping the boat and the other supporting his
fair burden, he held her above the current until assistance
came, when, completely exhausted with the exertion
used, he fainted as he reached the shore.
In such manner did the intimacy commence between
Jabez, the printer, and the fair Susan Bray, an
intimacy that resulted in a mutual affection as pure and
exalted as ever burned in the breast of more noted heroes
or heroines of romance. The heroic conduct and generosity
had won his, and they were mutually happy, of
course.
But the Freeman's Star waned in its brilliancy; its
four hundred subscribers did not pay; buckets and
apple-sauce, in which subscribers generally paid, had
ceased to be negotiable articles in the payment for paper
and ink; and the Star went down in darkness, leaving
poor Jabez minus employment, but with plus hope. Love
fed Hope, and Hope held out her candle, and Faith
grew strong within him that the future had great things
in store for him.
Lovers' partings have been so often described that the
parting of Jabez and Susan must be imagined; for, as
every one will at once perceive, it became necessary for
them to part. We will merely state with regard to it,
that it was tender and interesting to themselves, and also
to the miller's maiden sister, who watched the last kiss on
the door-step, when he tore himself away the night before
he went to Boston. But she did n't hear what he said.
“Dear Susan,” said he, “keep up a good heart, and I
shall return to you, don't fear; and I will prove myself
worthy of you, too, God bless you, and when we meet
again we will love each other all the better. `Absence
makes the heart grow fonder,' you know. So wipe your
eyes, Susan, dear, and give me some word that I may
remember when danger is nigh, and it will prove a love-charm
that evil and temptation cannot overcome.”
He pressed her to his beating heart as he spoke, and
put the imprint of a kiss upon her brow.
“Jabez,” said she, smiling through her tears, “your
temptation will beset your path, but my prayers shall be
offered for you, and the word I would have you remember
above all others is Fidelity. Let us be faithful to
each other. Remember, `fidelity.'”
He kissed the lips that uttered the word and vowed to
remember.
Fidelity! It is a strong word, and embraces in its
meaning the whole duty of man. All of love, truth,
honesty, is comprised in its signification. Faithful!
Of course he would be faithful; and how could he be
otherwise? In the ardor of his young love, it seemed
the easiest thing in the world.
And now he is in the city, a wondering and admiring
stranger; and, after considerable difficulty, a compositor
on a morning paper. Day by day, and night by night,
high up under the eaves, is he toiling, breathing the
fetid and smoky atmosphere of the printing-office. He
has become “the slave of the lamp — he and all the
other slaves.” Night, which brings rest to the world,
brings no rest to him. The holy Sabbath, with its sweet
influences, brings no solace — for him Christ has risen
in vain. The click of types at midnight is heard, like a
death-watch, denoting the flight of time. Telegraphs,
steamboats and railroads, combine for his discomfort.
The reckless and the unhappy are his companions, and
grace struggles in vain to grow in an atmosphere impregnated
with lamp-smoke and sin. It is a sacrifice of
liberty and health, of body and soul, for money.
Jabez has a strong hope in him, which sustains him.
He hears the ribald jest, often aimed at what he regards
for holy things. At first he is shocked; but the ingrain
generosity of his associates leads him to think less unfavorably
of their lack of morals, and he laughs at what at
first gave him pain.
“Fidelity!” was it a voice at his side that uttered
the cabalistic word in his ear, and that sunk down into his
heart? That word saved him. It was a good angel enshrined
in his memory that came to warn him of danger
and exhort him to faithfulness, and his feelings became
again pure and fresh as when he left their inspiration.
“Come, Jabez!” said a brother typo, “'t is Saturday;
for this day, at least, we are free; and now, my boy,
what say you to having a good time? Let 's go round
and see the folks.”
And with a laugh on his lip, and the fire of fun in his
eye, and a sense of freedom in his mind, he went with
his good-natured persuader — plunged with him into dens
where rum flowed like water, and the hoarse shout of
revelry smote his ear with the discordance of the bottomless
pit. It needed no friendly warning to save him, for
his spirit shrank instinctively at the sights he saw, and
the sounds he heard. One after another of these places
he visited, and each time with a dimming sense of their
abominations; the light of conscience became foggy in
the dun of tobacco smoke, and sensibility was blunted in
the frequency of the vile exhibitions that met his gaze.
Fidelity! That word came again to him, and the
scales fell from his eyes. The demon had lost his
power and the serpent was revealed in all his hideous-
From pleasure to pleasure, through temptation after
temptation, in the dance, in the saloons, in the theatre,
his secret monitor came to him like the voice of a firebell,
and his spirit grew strong under its admonition.
In seasons of quiet and peaceful enjoyment, too, the
word came to him approvingly, and his soul received it
as a beautiful token of unbroken love, and hope revived.
It must be confessed, I think, that never yet was
printer attended by so faithful a monitor, or by one that
was half so well heeded.
And now sickness pressed upon Jabez, and he thought
he was going to die. I believe that it always happens
that people in love, or homesick people, are more fearful
of death than others. It is your jolly debtor, who,
honest man, hopes, by paying the debt of nature, to pay
all the rest he owes, that is ready to die. The poor
printer was sad, and “Fidelity” was heard but faintly
in his dread to go. He was delirious. His mind wandered
amid early scenes again with Susan Bray. Her
voice he heard in his dreams exhorting him to fidelity.
Again they stood together upon the old door-step in
Patny, and he was pouring into her listening ear the
story of his temptations and his support, and received
from her sweet lips the deserved approval of his faithfulness.
The meeting-house came up in his dream of
bliss, and within its walls, robed in white, stood Susan
Bray, and by her side himself, arrayed in the bravery
of a holiday suit, a happy bridegroom. A new Star
arose in Patny, boasting innumerable subscribers, who
all paid in money, and not in buckets and apple-sauce.
himself its editor, and himself the most important man
the street. Alas! 't was but the vagary of a diseased
mind, soon dispelled by the officious obtrusion of a spoon
with medicine beneath his nose. Day by day he was
watched almost hopelessly. At last, however, a youthful
constitution triumphed over disease and medicine, a
fearful odds, and he became conscious. Bright eyes
were beaming over him; blue eyes, suffused with tears
and affection! Reader, can you guess whose eyes they
were? Right. You have guessed right the first time.
They were Susan Bray's, as bright and true as when,
two years before, he had left them at Patny, though they
had shed many tears over his prostrate form during his
unconsciousness, — as if he, or any printer that ever
lived, were worth such solicitude?
The first word they both pronounced was “Fidelity,”
and their eyes proclaimed the fidelity of their hearts.
It is now about four years since the foregoing scene
was enacted, and the other day I received No. 1 of a
new paper called the Freeman's Star, from Patny, edited
and printed by Jabez Bee. A letter accompanied the
paper, containing a request that I should visit him at
home, and that Susan, his wife, would be delighted to
see me. As soon as spring opens I shall go.
Success to the printers, say I; and when temptation is
besetting them, as it too often is, may they have a voice
to speak to their generous souls, exhorting them to
“Fidelity.”
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