University of Virginia Library

LETTER XXXI.

What do you mean, Hal, by such a strain
as this? I wanted no additional causes of disquiet.
Yet you tell me to write cheerfully; I
would have written cheerfully, if these letters,
so full of dark forebodings, and rueful prognostics,
had not come to damp my spirits.

And is the destiny that awaits us so very
mournful? Is thy wife necessarily to lose so
many comforts, and incur so many mortifications?
are my funds so small, that they will
not secure to me the privilege of a separate
apartment, in which I may pass my time with
whom, and in what manner I please?

Must I huddle with a dozen squalling children
and their notably noisy, or sluttishly indolent
dam, round a dirty hearth, and meagre
winter's fire? must sooty rafters, a sorry truckle
bed, and a mud incumbered alley be my
nuptial lot.

Out upon thee, thou egregious painter! Well
for thee thou art not within my arm's length.
I should certainly bestow upon thee a hearty—

kiss or two.—My blundering pen! I recall the
word. I meant cuff; but my saucy pen, pretending
to know more of my mind than I did
myself, turned (as its mistress, may hap, would
have done, hadst thou been near me, indeed) her
cuff into a kiss.

What possessed thee, my beloved, to predict
so ruefully. A very good beginning too! more
vivacity than common! But I hardly had time
to greet the sunny radiance—'tis a long time
since my cell was gilded by so sweet a beam:—
when a black usurping mist stole it away, and all
was dreary as it wont to be.

Perhaps thy being in a house of mourning
may account for it. Fitful and versatile, I know
thee to be. Changeable with scene and circumstance.
Thy views are just what any eloquent
companion pleases to make them. She, thou
lovest, is thy deity; her lips thy oracle. And
hence my cheerful omens of the future: the
confidence I have in the wholesome efficacy of
my government. I that have the will to make
thee happy, have the power too. I know I
have: and hence my promptitude to give away
all for thy sake: to give myself a wife's title to
thy company: a conjugal share in thy concerns:
and claim to reign over thee.

Make haste and atone, by the future brightness
of thy epistolary emanations, for the pitchy
cloud that overspreads these sick man's dreams.

How must thou have rummaged the cupboard
of thy fancy for musty scraps and flinty crusts to
feed thy spleen withall: inattentive to the dainties
which a blue-eyed Hebe had culled in the
garden of Hope, and had poured from out her
basket into thy ungrateful lap.

While thou wast mumbling these refractory
and unsavoury bits, I was banqueting on the rosy
and delicious products of that Eden, which
love, when not scared away by evil omens, is
always sure (the poet says) to plant around us.
I have tasted nectarines of her raising, and I
find her, let me tell thee, an admirable Horticulturist.

Thou art so far off, there is no sending thee
a basket full, or I would do it. They would
wilt and wither ere they reached thee; the atmosphere
thou breathest would strike a deadly
worm into their hearts before thou couldst get
them to thy lips.

But to drop the basket and the bough, and
take up a plain meaning—I will tell thee how I
was employed when thy letter came: but first
I must go back a little.

In the autumn of ninety seven and when death
had spent his shafts in my own family, I went
to see how a family fared, the father and husband
of which kept a shop in Front street,
where every thing a lady wanted was sold, and
where I had always been served with great dispatch
and affability.

Being one day (I am going to tell you how
our acquaintance began)—Being one day detained
in the shop by a shower, I was requested
to walk into the parlour. I chatted ten minutes
with the good woman of the house, and
found in her so much gentleness and good sense,
that, afterwards, my shopping visits were always,
in part, social ones. My business being
finished at the compter, I usually went back,
and found, on every interview, new cause for

esteeming the family. The treatment I met
with was always cordial and frank, and though
our meetings were thus merely casual, we
seemed, in a short time, to have grown into a
perfect knowledge of each other.

This was in the summer you left us, and the
malady breaking out a few months after, and
all shopping being at an end, and alarm and
grief taking early possession of my heart, I
thought but seldom of the Hennings'. A few
weeks after death had bereaved me of my friend,
I called these and others, whose welfare was
dear to me, to my remembrance; and determined
to pay them a visit and discover how it
fared with them. I hoped they had left the city,
yet Mrs. Henning had told me that her
husband, who was a devout man, held it criminal
to fly on such occasions, and that she, having
passed safely through the pestilence of former
years, had no apprehensions from staying.

Their house was inhabited, but I found the
good woman in great affliction. Her husband
had lately died after a tedious illness, and her
distress was augmented by the solitude in which
the flight of all her neighbours and acquaintances
had left her. A friendly visit could at no
time have been so acceptable to her, and my
sympathy was not more needed to console her,
than my council to assist her in the new state
of her affairs.

Laying aside ceremony, I enquired freely into
her condition, and offered her my poor services.
She made me fully acquainted with her
circumstances, and I was highly pleased at finding
them so good. Her husband had always

been industrious and thrifty, and his death left
her enough to support her and her Sally in the
way they wished.

Enquiring into their views and wishes. I
found them limited to the privacy of a small but
neat house, in some cleanly and retired corner
of the city. Their stock in trade, I advised
them to convert into money, and placing it in
some public fund, live upon its produce. Mrs.
Henning knew nothing of the world. Though
an excellent manager within doors, any thing
that might be called business was strange and
arduous to her, and without my direct assistance
she could do nothing.

Happily, at this time, just such a cheap and
humble, but neat, new and airy dwelling as my
friend required, belonging to Mrs. Fielder, was
vacant. You know the house. 'Tis that where
the Frenchman Catineau lived. Is it not a
charming abode? at a distance from noise, with
a green field opposite, and a garden behind; of
two stories; a couple of good rooms on each
floor; with unspoilt water, and a kitchen, below
the ground, indeed, but light, wholesome and
warm.

Most fortunately too that incorrigible creole
had deserted it. He was scared away by the fever,
and no other had put in a claim. I made
haste to write to my mother, who, though angry
at me on my own account, could not reject
my application in favour of my good widow.

I even prevailed on her to set the rent forty
dollars lower than she might have gotten from
another, and to give a lease of it at that rate for
five years. You can't imagine my satisfaction

in compleating this affair, and in seeing my
good woman quietly settled in her new abode,
with her daughter Sally, and her servant Alice,
who had come with her from Europe, and had
lived with her the dear knows how long.

Mrs. Henning is no common woman, I assure
you. Her temper is the sweetest in the world.
Not cultivated or enlightened is her understanding,
but naturally correct. Her life has
always been spent under her own roof; and
never saw I a scene of more quiet and order
than her little homestead exhibits. Though
humbly born, and perhaps, meanly brought up,
her parlour and chamber add to the purest
cleanliness, somewhat that approaches to elegance.

The mistress and the maid are nearly of the
same age, and though equally innocent and
good humoured, the former has more sedateness
and reserve than the latter. She is devout
in her way, which is methodism, and acquires
from this source nothing but new motives to
charity to her neighbours, and thankfulness to
God.

Much; indeed, all these comforts she ascribes
to me: Yet her gratitude is not loquacious.
It shews itself less in words than in the pleasure
she manifests on my visits; the confidence
with which she treats me; laying before me all
her plans and arrangements, and intreating my
advice in every thing. Yet she has brought
with her, from her native country, notions of
her inferiority to the better born and the better
educated, but too soothing to my pride. Hence
she is always diffident, and never makes advances

to intimacy but when expressly invited and
encouraged.

It was a good while before all her new arrangements
were compleated. When they were, I
told her, I would spend the day with her, for
which she was extremely grateful. She
sent me word, as soon as she was ready to receive
me, and I went.

Artless and unceremonious was the good woman
in the midst of all her anxiety to please. Affectionate,
yet discreet in her behaviour to her
Sally and her Alice, and of me as tenderly observant
as possible.

She shewed me all her rooms from cellar to
garret, and every thing I saw delighted me.
Two neat beds in the front room above, belong
to her and Sally. The back room is decked in
a more fanciful and costly manner.

Why this, my good friend, said I, on entering
it, is quite superb. Here is carpet and coverlet
and curtains that might satisfy a prince; You
are quite prodigal; and for whose accommodation
is all this?

O! any lady that will favour me with a visit.
It is a spare room, and the only one I have, and I
thought I would launch out a little for once.
One wishes to set the best they have before a
guest, though indeed, I dont expect many to
visit me, but it is some comfort to think one has it
in one's power to lodge a friend, when it happens
so, in a manner that may not discredit
one's intentions. I have no relations in this
country, and the only friend I have in the world,
besides God, is you, Madam. But still, it
may sometimes happen you know that one may

have occasion to entertain somebody. God be
thanked I have enough, and what little I have
to spare, I have no right to hoard up.

But might you not accomodate a good quiet
kind of body in this room, at so much a-year or
week?

Why, Ma'am, if you think that's best; but I
thought one might indulge one's self in living
one's own way. I have never been used to
strangers, and always have had a small family.
It would be a very new thing to me, to have an
inmate. I am afraid I should not please such
a one. And then, Ma'am, if this room's occupied,
I have no decent place to put any accidental
person in. It would go hard with me to be
obliged to turn a good body away, that might
be here on a visit, and might be caught by a
rain or a snow storm.

Very true. I did not think of that; and yet
it seems a pity that so good a room should be
unemployed: perhaps for a year together.

So it does, Ma'am, and I cant but say, if a
proper person should offer, who wanted to be
snug and quiet, I should have no great objection.
One that could put up with our humble ways,
and be satisfied with what I could do to make
them comfortable. I think I should like such
a one well enough.

One, said I, who would accept such accommodation
as a favour. A single person for example.
A woman: A young woman. A stranger
in the country, and friendless like yourself.

O! very true, Madam, said the good woman,
with sparkling benignity, I should have no objection
in the world to such a one. I should like

it of all things. And I should not mind to be
hard with such a one. I should not stickle
about terms. Pray, Ma'am, do you know any
such. If you do, and will advise me to take
her, I would be very glad to do it.”

Now, Hal, what thinkest thou? cannot I light
on such a young, single, slenderly provided woman
as this. One whose heart pants for just
such a snug retreat, as Mrs. Henning's roof
would afford her.

This little chamber, set out with perfect neatness;
looking out on a very pretty piece of verdure
and a cleanly court yard; with such a good couple
to provide for her; with her privacy unapproachable
but at her own pleasure; Her quiet
undisturbed by a prater, a scolder, a bustler,
or a whiner. No dirty children to offend the
eye or squalling ones to wound the ear. With
admitted claims to the gratitude, confidence and
affection of her hostess; might not these suffice
to make a lowly, unambitious maiden happy?

One who, like Mrs. Henning, had only one
friend upon earth. Whom her former associates
refused to commune with or look upon. Whose
loneliness was uncheered, except by her own
thoughts, and by her books. Perhaps now and
then at times when oceans did not sever her
from him, by that one earthly friend.

Might she not afford him as many hours of
her society as his engagements would allow him
to claim. Might she not, as an extraordinary
favour, admit him to partake with her the comforts
of her own little fire, if winter it be;
or, in summertime, to join her at her chamber
window, and pass away the starlight hour in the
unwitnessed community of fond hearts?

Suppose, to obviate unwelcome surmises and
too scrupulous objections, the girl makes herself
a wife, but because their poverty will not
enable them to live together, the girl merely
admits the chosen youth on the footing of a visitor.

Suppose her hours are not embittered by the
feelings of dependance. She pays an ample
compensation for her entertainment, and by
her occasional company, her superior strength
of mind and knowledge of the world's ways,
she materially contributes to the happiness and
safety of her hostess.

Suppose, having only one visitor, and he
sometimes wanting in zeal and punctuality,
much of her time is spent alone. Happily she
is exempt from the humiliating necessity of
working to live; and is not obliged to demand
a share of the earnings of her husband. Her
task, therefore, will be to find amusement. Can
she want the means, think'st thou

The sweet quiet of her chamber; the wholesome
airs from abroad; or the cheerful blaze
of her hearth, will invite her to mental exercise.
Perhaps, she has a taste for books, and besides
that pure delight which knowledge on its own
account affords her, it possesses tenfold attractions
in her eyes, by its tendency to heighten
the esteem of him whom she lives to please.

Perhaps, rich as she is in books, she is an economist
of pleasure, and tares herself away from
them, to enjoy the vernal breezes, or the landscape
of Autumn in a twilight ramble. Here
she communes with bounteous nature, or lifts
her soul in devotion to her God, to whose benignity

she resigns herself as she used to do to the
fond arms of that parent she has lost.

If these do not suffice to fill up her time, she
may chance to reflect on the many ways in
which she may be useful to herself. She may
find delight in supplying her own wants; by
maintaining cleanliness and order all about her;
by making up her own dresses, especially as
she disdains to be out done in taste and expertness
at the needle by any female in the land.

By limiting in this way, and in every other,
which her judgment may recommend, her own
expenses, she will be able to contribute somewhat
to relieve the toils of her beloved. The
pleasure will be hers of reflecting, not only that
her love adds nothing to his fatigues and cares;
not only that her tender solicitudes and seasonable
counsel, cherish his hopes and strengthen
his courage, but that the employment of her
hands makes his own seperate subsistence an
easier task. To work for herself will be no trivial
gratification to her honest pride, but to
work for her beloved, will, indeed, be a cause
of exultation.

Twenty things she may do for him which
others must be paid for doing, not in caresses,
but in money; and this service, though not
small, is not perhaps the greatest she is able to
perform. She is active and intelligent, perhaps,
and may even aspire to the profits of some trade.
What is it that makes one calling more lucrative
than another? Not superior strength of
shoulders or sleight of hand; not the greater
quantity of brute matter that is reduced into
form or set into motion? No. The difference

lies in the mental powers of the artist, and the
direction accidentally given to these powers.

What should hinder a girl like this from
growing rich by her diligence and ingenuity.
She has, perhaps, acquired many arts with no
view but her own amusement. Not a little did
her mother pay to those who taught her to draw
and to sing. May she not levy the same tribute
upon others that were levied on her, and make
a business of her sports.

There is, indeed, a calling that may divert
her from the thoughts of mere lucre. She may
talk and sing for another and dedicate her best
hours to a tutelage, for which there is a more
precious requital than money can give.

Dos't not see her, Hal. I do—as well as this
gushing sensibility will let me—rocking in her
arms and half stifling with her kisses or delighting
with her lullaby, a precious little creature—

Why my friend, do I hesitate? do I not write
for thy eye, and thine only? and what is there
but pure and sacred in the anticipated transports
of a mother.

The conscious heart might stifle its throbs in
thy presence, but why not indulge them in thy
absence, and tell thee its inmost breathings,
not without a shame-confessing glow, yet not
without drops of the truest delight that were
ever shed.

Why, how now, Jane? whence all this interest
in the scene thou pourtrayest? one would
fancy that this happy outcast, this self dependant
wife was no other than thyself?

A shrewd conjecture truly. I suppose, Hal,
thou wilt be fond enough to guess so too. By

what penalty shall I deter thee from so rash a
thing? yet thou art not here—I say it to my
sorrow—to suffer the penalty which I might
chuse to inflict.

I will not say what it is, lest the fear of it
should keep thee away.

And now that I have finished the history of
Mrs. Henning and her boarder, I will bid thee
—good night.