9. IX.
A ROMANCE.—ONLY A MECHANIC.
In a sumptuously furnished parlor in Fifth Avenue,
New York, sat a proud and haughty belle.
Her name was Isabel Sawtelle. Her father was a
millionnaire, and his ships, richly laden, ploughed
many a sea.
By the side of Isabel Sawtelle, sat a young
man with a clear, beautiful eye, and a massive
brow.
“I must go,” he said, “the foreman will wonder
at my absence.”
“The foreman?” asked Isabel in a tone of surprise.
“Yes, the foreman of the shop where I work.”
“Foreman—shop—work! What! do you work?”
“Aye, Miss Sawtelle! I am a cooper!” and his
eyes flashed with honest pride.
“What's that?” she asked; “it is something
about barrels, isn't it!”
“It is!” he said, with a flashing nostril. “And
hogsheads.”
“Then go!” she said, in a tone of disdain—“go
away!”
“Ha!” he cried, “you spurn me then, because I
am a mechanic. Well, be it so! though the time
will come, Isabel Sawtelle,” he added, and nothing
could exceed his looks at this moment—“when you
will bitterly remember the cooper you now so cruelly
cast off! Farewell!”
Years rolled on. Isabel Sawtelle married a miserable
aristocrat, who recently died of delirium tremens.
Her father failed, and is now a raving maniac,
and wants to bite little children. All her brothers
(except one) were sent to the penitentiary for burglary,
and her mother peddles clams that are stolen
for her by little George, her only son that has his
freedom. Isabel's sister Bianca rides an immoral
spotted horse in the circus, her husband having long
since been hanged for murdering his own uncle on
his mother's side. Thus we see that it is always
best to marry a mechanic.
