University of Virginia Library

15. XV.
BOARDING-HOUSE EXPERIENCE.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 191. In-line Illustration. Image of a very thin man in a nightgown and a top hat. He is sitting in front of a mirror preparing to shave.]

OUR author worked hard
with his pen until near
one o'clock, — completed
a song, and began a
sketch, designed to be
humorous, of which Mr.
Smith, — that is to say,
Killings, — should the
article suit the proprietor
of the panorama, was
the triumphant hero, —
when, being interrupted
by the arrival of Mr.
Toplink, he postponed
the completion of his
task till after dinner. Alice, who had been sitting by his side,
glided out of the room, unguided; and Martin, laying down his
pen with a yawn, suffered the tension of his mind to relax under
the genial influence of his social room-mate's conversation.

“If I 'd thought 't was meat-pie day I would n't have come
home,” said Mr. Toplink, brushing his hair. “Well, yes, I

would, too. We always have fun, meat-pie days; and we can
laugh, if we can't eat; that 's something. An't Wormlett a
case, though? He won't get mad at our jokes, 'cause it don't
pay. `Simeon, my son,' says he, `keep your temper; learn to
conquer your bad passions,' says he; `because,'” — Mr. Toplink
caricatured Mr. Wormlett's moralizing attitude, —“`because the
teaching of the Scriptur' is not only agin' it, but a man never
makes nothing by being angry, neither. Learn to keep your temper,
Simeon, my son,' says he, `and you 'll always have the
advantage over,' — fol-lol, did-dle-de, dum-de, O,” sang Mr. Toplink,
with a sudden change of manner, attitude and color.
“There was an old nigger, and his name was — Mr. Wormlett!
walk in! — don't be bashful!” he cried, with affected jocularity;
“I was just giving Mr. Merrivale and Alice a taste of my musical
capacities.”

Mr. Toplink was a good deal embarrassed by the unexpected
appearance of Mr. Wormlett; but, as the latter gave no indication
of having overheard what had been said, the facetious young
gentleman recovered himself, and politely invited him to a seat
on one of the beds.

“I 'm glad to see you having a sociable time,” said Mr. Wormlett,
with an indulgent smile. “Simeon, my son, shet the door;
always learn to shet the door after ye, my son. Sociability,” he
went on, jerking his head back, and extending his hand with a
dignified gesture towards Mr. Toplink, “sociability is good in its
place; there is a time for everything under the sun, saith the
preacher.”

“I am precisely of your opinion,” said Mr. Toplink, overflowing
with smiles.

“I says to my son Simeon here,” — Mr. Wormlett placed his

hand on Simeon's head, while that youthful prodigy writhed, and
twisted and grinned, as usual, — “`Simeon, my son,' I says,
`don't do a man no harm to laugh now and then, and make others
laugh at proper seasons. Be merry, my son,' I says, `only
don't let it interfere with business. If you 've got anything to do,
do it, and then laugh, and it 'll be good for you.' An't that
what I tell ye, Simeon?”

Simeon turned himself around, and, hanging his chin over his
right shoulder, in a painful attitude, said “Yes,” with a spasmodic
giggle.

“There is principles involved, you see,” pursued his father,
profoundly. “Business afore pleasure, always. That reminds me,
Mr. Merrivale, that your week is about up; and, the expenses
of the boarding-house being great, I am constrained to ask you
for a little money.”

Martin changed color as rapidly as Mr. Toplink had done on
the abrupt appearance of Mr. Wormlett at the door. The truth
was, he had not a shilling in his pocket, having expended all the
money he had left, after paying Mr. Wormlett the Saturday
before, in procuring some necessary comforts for Alice.

“I was in hopes,” said he, with visible trouble, “that you
would not expect anything from me until to-morrow. I shall
receive some money, probably, in the morning.”

“Probably!” repeated Mr. Wormlett, with a stern look and
with great rigidity of neck. “I hope I an't going to be disappinted
in you, Mr. Merrivale!”

“I hope not,” said Martin, with considerable heat about the
face.

“Hope not!” echoed the moralizer, with virtuous indignation.
Having learned from Mr. Toplink that The Beggar of Bagdad

was a failure, he was prepared to be severely upright in his dealings
with the unfortunate author. “It seems to me a man of
principle would n't speak in jest that way. Look here, for
instance; `Simeon, my son,' I says, `are you going to disremember
all the useful lessons I 've took so much pains to learn ye, and
turn out bad, — be wild and wasteful, and bring down the gray
hairs of your pa and ma in sorrow to the grave? What does
Simeon reply? `I hope not'? If he says that, he 's no son of
mine. This is the way, now, — `Simeon, my son, are you going
to turn out bad?' `No, sir,' says Simeon; and he means it. He
don't hope not, nor no such thing; he 's sure. That 's my philosophy,”
added Mr. Wormlett, turning with a grim look to Mr.
Toplink.

Mr. Toplink, smiling obsequiously, was of Mr. Wormlett's
opinion, as before.

“Money,” Mr. Wormlett went on, “is the great standard to
go by. Simeon, my son, can you tell me why I call money a
standard?”

Simeon, dislocating his jaw, and grinning over his shoulder,
could not tell.

“Money is a standard, 'cause it stands for something else,”
said his father, with the complacent air of a great moral teacher.
“What does it stand for, my son? I might better ask, what
don't it stand for? It stands for property, don't it? 'cause when
we estimate the valley of anything, we say it 's worth so much
money. It stands for respectability too, don't it, my son? To
be sure; for we always wants to know how much money a man
has got, so as to know jest how to treat him. It stands for common
sense; for common sense makes money and keeps it. It
stands for honesty; for if a man pays his debts you may always

know he 's honest; and if he don't pay,” — Mr. Wormlett
regarded Martin with a stern expression, — “it 's cause he an't
honest; that 's a certain case. An't it so, Mr. Toplink?”

The deferential Toplink was still of Mr. Wormlett's opinion.

“Your observations are exceedingly profound,” cried the fiery
author. “But, as they seem intended for me, I must tell you
that they are quite uncalled for. I am not aware that I have
yet given you any reason to suspect my honesty.”

“When a young man, a stranger, a person without money or
means,” replied Mr. Wormlett, with sage deliberation, “comes to
me and says, `I brought a letter from your sister, who recommended
me to get board with you,' — but fails to produce the
letter —”

“It is proof-positive of wilful deception, I suppose,” suggested
Martin, tempering his fury to a look and tone of withering
sarcasm.

“I can only say it looks suspicious,” returned Mr. Wormlett,
jerking his head to one side; “and I may add it would be a satisfaction
to see the letter.”

“You shall be gratified,” said Martin, taking the important
document from his pocket, and flinging it on the bed, with a
gesture of impatience and contempt. “It was rolled up in
some manuscripts by mistake, — a pardonable circumstance, I
trust.”

Mr. Toplink, who appeared to enjoy this altercation hugely,
snatched up the letter, and gave it with a chuckle to Mr. Wormlett.
The latter scrutinized the superscription with a sagacious
look, as if suspicious of a forgery; then tore the folds away from
the big wafer, opened the letter and examined its contents. His
brows gathered as he read; and suddenly he turned upon Martin

in a manner somewhat at variance with Mr. Toplink's statement
touching his philosophical self-control.

“I see!” he cried, raising his voice above its ordinary moralizing
key. “No wonder you kept this letter back; no wonder
you did n't like to have me know Lyddy's opinion of you; no
wonder it got into your manuscripts by mistake! Read that!”

With a grim look, he thrust Mrs. Dabney's letter into the unhappy
lodger's hands. Martin, astonished, read as follows:

“Now, what am I to think?” demanded the wrathful Wormlett,
appealing to Martin, Simeon and Mr. Toplink, collectively.
“I an't angry; I don't give way to temper; that don't pay, as I
tell my son Simeon here; but, — but I am justly indignant.
What am I to think now, Mister Merrivale?”

“What you please,” replied Martin, throwing the letter down
in disgust. “You may spare your insults, however. If I leave
your boarding-house this afternoon, I owe you nothing. I do not
see but that our difficulty is easily settled, after all.”

“Well, I don't mean to be too severe,” returned Mr. Wormlett,
a good deal shaken. “There is some reason in what you say; and
I shall be sorry to have you leave, Mr. Merrivale, — very sorry;
but I have told you the rules of the house —”

“And I 'll abide by them,” said Martin, briefly; “only let me
hear no more on the subject, if you please.”

Mr. Wormlett was abashed. The philosopher was confounded.
The great moralizer was nonplussed. Conscious of having transgressed
one of those sublime laws of action which he had preached
to Simeon from his early childhood; and perceiving that, in consequence
of a little undue heat and haste, he had sacrificed a
boarder who might possibly have proved profitable to the establishment,
besides losing not a little personal dignity; he quailed
visibly before the scornful eyes of Martin. To add to his discomfiture,
Mr. Toplink, pleasantly excited by the tragical termination
of the dispute, declared himself decidedly “of Mr. Merrivale's
opinion.” Yet Mr. Wormlett managed to retreat with considerable
pomp, under the cover of an impregnable moral maxim, —
looking wise and unconcerned, and laying down principles to Simeon
as they descended the stairs.

“The old giraffe! — the miserable buffoon!” said the exasperated
Toplink, in a whisper, slamming the door after him and
kicking it. “I never saw a man abused so as you have been in
my life,” — speaking in a bolder tone. “It 's shameful! Why,
I — I came very near tumbling the old fool down stairs!”

“I am glad you did n't,” observed Martin, dryly. “You
should learn to govern your noble impulses.”

“I knew 't would n't do no good to side with you,” returned
the apologetic Toplink, discerning a sting of irony in his friend's
words; “'t would only have made him worse. He 's the stupidist,
obstinatest, meanest old fogy ever was, — if I do say it.
Well, I won't say nothing bad about him, neither. It an't my
way. I must confess, though, that if I could have run one of
these things through him,” — taking down a pair of foils and
flourishing them in both hands, — “it would have been a satisfaction.”

“I am glad you did n't; and I beg of you never to think of
such a thing again,” said Martin.

“You won't leave this afternoon, will ye?” resumed the
friendly Toplink, in a regretful tone. “I can't bear to think of
such a thing. I wish I had the money, — I 'd lend it to you in a
minute. Shan't I ask Mr. Wormlett to wait on you till Monday?
He 'll do it, I know, if I ask him.”

“No, I thank you,” replied Martin, smothering his rage. “I
have no desire to stay.”

Thereupon Mr. Toplink appeared heart-broken, declaring that
the separation would be the cruellest thing he ever experienced,
and offering to do anything in the world for Martin, to prove his
friendship.

“You are very kind,” said Martin, resting his head upon his
hands. “But you can do nothing for me at present, — unless it
be to leave me alone a little while. You 'd better go down to
dinner, Mr. Toplink; the bell rang some time ago.”

Mr. Toplink seemed struck with the observation. His countenance
fell, and he was for a moment speechless. Before withdrawing,
however, he rallied sufficiently to repeat, in a feeble
manner, his assurances of devotion to Martin, and to make use of
some strong abusive terms touching the character of Mr. Wormlett.
After that he went down, and became extremely facetious,
at the dinner-table, on the subject of his room-mate's inability to
pay a week's board in advance.

Martin had been alone but a few minutes, when Alice, who
never liked to be in the chamber when Mr. Toplink was present,
groped her way from the garret, entered softly, and placed her
arms about the young man's neck, before he was aware of her
approach.

“Ah, my child,” said he, in a choked voice, “I was just
thinking of you. How light your step is!”

“It is because there is n't much of me, I suppose,” replied
Alice, speaking in a cheerful tone.

“I shall be glad when the rain is over, so that you can get out
doors once more,” replied Martin, tenderly. “This is the third
day of the storm; it is killing you, Alice, — you are looking very
pale. You must stay in the kitchen more, where there is a fire.”

“You are so kind to think of me, when you have so many
troubles of your own!” exclaimed the affectionate child. “What
have they been doing to you? I feel such a sharp pain when I
come near you! Tell me what it is; won't you?”

Martin answered, evasively, that Mr. Wormlett had been in, and
there had been a slight misunderstanding between them.

“That reminds me of such a funny picture I was having in
my mind just now,” said Alice, beginning to laugh. “There was
a great big silver dollar, — O, ever so big! — and it looked real
queer rolling along the ground. There were people all around it,
and on it, and under it; some were riding it, some were pushing it,
and it was running over some. There were rich people, ever so
grand, on the top; but, as it rolled, they kept dropping off, if they
did n't look out, while others clung to the side that was going up,
and took their turn riding. They were poor people that it run
over, and drove out of the way; and O, some of them got dreadfully
hurt and frightened. But those behind did n't mind at all;
they kept pushing and shouting, and trying to climb up; and
what made me laugh was to see the Wormlett family — the old
man and little Simeon and all — putting their shoulders to the
wheel with all their might, while you stood by and watched them
with a look of pity, till you felt the dollar rolling over your foot.”

The story served to amuse Martin for the moment; but his
perplexed mind was reverting to the gloomy prospect before him,
in spite of the child's endeavors to comfort him, when the good
Miss Tomes tapped lightly at the door and entered.

“Don't say a word,” said she, putting something in Martin's
hand. “I can spare it just as well as not. It 's for this dear
child, you know,” she added, kissing Alice. “I 'd give ten times
as much before I would have her go away.”

And the queer Miss Tomes, with her plain face and feeble curl,
of whom Mr. Toplink made so much fun in his good-natured way,
ran out of the room before Martin could ask what she meant.
Then, exceedingly astonished, he looked at the little roll of paper
she had left in his hand. It was a fragment of Mr. Wormlett's
“standard,” in the shape of a five-dollar bill.

Martin's feelings revolted at the thought of making use of the
good creature's money. But he remembered that it was not for
him, but for Alice. He thought of the storm, through which it
would be so hard to remove the child; he considered the difficulty
of finding another boarding-place; and he reflected that the five
dollars was only a loan, which, in the morning, or on Monday at
the furthest, he would be able to return. He accordingly
resolved to use the means which had been sent to his relief at so
critical a moment; and, overflowing with the kindliest emotions,
blessing the good Miss Tomes, for whose sake he could forgive and
pity and love even those whose low ambition was to roll the
almighty dollar through the world, he arose rejoicing, and, taking
Alice by the hand, led her cheerfully down stairs. There was a
sudden hush as they entered the dining-room; and Mr. Toplink,
blushing to the roots of his hair, made some hasty and inappropriate
remarks about the uncertain state of the weather.

After dinner Martin settled with Mr. Wormlett for another
week's board in advance, — a circumstance which drew forth from
that deep well of wisdom several buckets-full of sage counsel, on
the subject of keeping your credit good, if you mean to get along
in the world, make money and be respectable.

He also finished the sketch he was writing for Mr. Killings.
This, together with the song, he carried to the office of the Portfolio
the next morning, expecting to receive handsome compensation
for his labor. To his disappointment, however, he learned
that Mr. Killings had gone out of town, and would not return
until the following Monday. His pecuniary hopes met with a
similar check at the office of the Streamer of the Free. “White
Hairs and Auburn Tresses” had not been examined. Mr. Drove
blamed his assistant, who, he said, had not shown his face in the
office for three days; hinting strongly about employing Martin
to do certain things left undone by the negligent editor; and
requested that he might have a confidential talk with him early
the coming week.

Thus pass the days of cold rain and raw east wind. Thus the
first period of Martin's literary experience, with its blasted hopes
and wounded ambition, its misery and suspense, the death agony
and triumphant resurrection of the soul's energies, draws to a
close. And the still Sabbath dawns upon the world.

O, blessed be the day forevermore! Six days the noisy strife
of life — the struggle for money and pleasure, for power, and
fame, and daily bread — goes madly on; the wheels of toil and
trade spin round and round; their ceaseless clang and murmur fill
the earth; till man almost forgets that he is man, and deems that
money and pleasure, power, and fame, and daily bread, are the
highest, choicest blessings the immortal soul can know.

But the Sabbath comes; there is respite from strife; the
wheels of toil go round and round no more; their clang and murmur
die away, and there falleth a hush upon the air. Man is
reminded that he is man, and not a mere machine, sensuous of
bodily delights and intelligent of dollars. The chrysalis is made
conscious of its budding wings. The angel of Peace comes down,
sanctifying the sunlight and the gracious airs. And a still, small
voice speaketh unto all who will hear, saying, “O, man! thou
hast two natures and two lives. The first in thy experience is
the lower, the external, the mortal; the other is the higher, the
internal, the immortal. Arise, then, from the dust in which thou
creepest, and come up hither. Look from thy labor-soiled hands
upon the heavenly fields within thine own soul. Forget — O, forget
the care and confusion of the world, and bathe in those
golden streams of light and joy which flow ever into the heart
where love abides!” The voice speaketh ceaselessly, indeed; for
to the voice all days are Sabbath-days; but as yet only on the
seventh can man afford to pause from his labor and listen.

Then blessed be that day forevermore! But make it not a
gloomy season, O, fearful and austere friend! Let it be, as in
truth it is, a jubilee of the spirit. Let thy worship be cheerful
and sweet as the song of the birds, the rustle of green leaves,
or the music of running brooks.

How beautifully upon the city dawns this holy Sabbath! The
storm — the dreary storm, of four days' duration — is over.
In the still night the clouds rolled asunder, the changeless stars
looked forth from their calm azure depths, and the bright moon
shed her beams through shining rifts. And now the fresh rays
of the morning sun fall aslant upon the city roofs, and bathe the
chimney-tops in golden light.

In golden light, too, very soft and fair, they bathe the sad,
pale brow of Alice Thorne. She is up early this cool Sabbath
morning; and she sits by the window of the room, breathing
the fresh air, and wondering at the hush that pervades the
town. There is no sound of vehicles in the street, save when
the milkman's wagon rattles over the stones. Only now and then
are footsteps heard upon the pave, passing in the city's solitude.
The fishmonger, who comes in all sorts of weather, six times a
a week, and cries, “Nice fresh cod, haddock, halibut!” often
awaking Alice from her dreams, may be dead this morning, she
thinks, the street seems so lonely and solemn without him.

Thus, while Miss Tomes sleeps a dead and heavy sleep, — poor
creature! she has worked hard all the week, earning her small
wages in the shop by day, and sewing late at night upon some
garments for Alice, and this rest is what she needs, — the blind
girl sits by the open window, with the sunshine on her brow and
in her hair. She cannot see the damp roofs, nor the red chimneys,
nor the doves upon the eaves, nor the canary's cage and
homely flower-pot in the window opposite, nor the lovely azure
vault overhead. 'T is only to breathe the air, and wonder at the
hush, and feel the sunshine on her delicate brow, that she leans
pensively over the casement. Ah, what thronging thoughts
crowd upon that young and tender heart! Now her soul
seems all memory, and the past is a melancholy autumn, wherein
it dwells under a purple haze. But the sad pleasure such remembrance
brings cannot last. November rains, drenching, sullen,
and bitter cold, sweep away the warm October skies, the purple
haze and the melancholy airs. Sharp pangs shoot through the
blind girl's soul, as her father's fate, which haunts her day and
night, overshadows her again, this Sabbath morning, like a pall;

but pitying angels gather round, with faces bright with love, and
shine immortal radiance through the gloom, into the very depths
of her despair, kindling anew the smouldering embers of hope.

How late everybody sleeps, this quiet morning! In vain the
regal splendor of the day invites; the drowsy people go not
forth. A few bright faces may indeed be seen where the sunrise
glory floods the Common slopes, and the sweet south-west breathes
freshly from the hills. But rest thou well, O sleeper! Six days
hast thou labored and done all thy work, and on the seventh thou
canst afford this sloth. There is no money to be earned to-day;
then wherefore shouldst thou stir?

Yet Alice is not the only wakeful spirit in Mr. Wormlett's
house. The shaking grandfather, who sleeps in a little niche
under the roof, is out of his hole at daylight, shivering and whispering
to himself. He bethinks him of the fearful waste of charcoal
attendant on Susan's efforts to start the kitchen fire; and,
impelled by the instinct of saving, goes down to kindle it for her,
more economically. There, half an hour later, she finds him on
his knees before the stove, blowing his breath away, and muttering
angrily, because there is not, in the little handful of charcoal
he has buried in hard anthracite, sufficient vitality to light the
heap. How he gibbers and shakes and threatens with his impotent
hand and glassy eye, when, pushing him impatiently away,
she undoes all he has done, and uses just as much precious fuel
in kindling the fire anew as if he had never in his life strained
his poor old back, and expended his feeble breath, and filled his
knees with sharp pains and all his bones with aches, to prevent so
shameful a waste! Susan has no pity for the miserly grandfather.
She drives him from the kitchen without mercy; and the poor
exile can think of no sweeter consolation than that of stealing into

the parlor and hunting for pins on the carpet before the boarders
come in.

There is still another person astir in Mr. Wormlett's house.
Start not, reader! it is Mr. Toplink. Mr. Toplink is habitually slow
in the morning. His practice of late rising is indeed one of Mrs.
Wormlett's greatest trials. Sour looks and cold cakes for breakfast
have been faithfully resorted to as reformatory agents in his case,
but without avail. Eight o'clock is his hour, and nothing can move
him before that time on any working day. Regularly every Sunday
morning, however, he gets up early enough to compensate for
what Mrs. Wormlett terms his laziness during the remainder of
the week. When others rise seasonably, Mr. Toplink dozes; but
when laziness is popular, he bounds out of bed at dawn. Such is
the eccentricity of genius.

The first thing Mr. Toplink does, on reaching the floor, is to
put on his hat, and look at himself in the glass; after which, it is
his picturesque custom to pace to and fro between the beds, in the
twilight, like a ghost. Like a ghost as to apparel, but not as to
speech. Mr. Toplink laughs and gossips with himself in his best-natured
and most familiar manner. He also desires to know if
his room-mates are awake, whispering their names alternately
between the beds: “Leviston! Merrivale! I say, Leviston!
'Sleep, Merrivale? O, awake, are ye?” he adds, much relieved,
as Martin turns over to avoid being disturbed any more.
“Don't let me be in the way, if you want to go to sleep again.
I would n't disturb you for the world. Leviston is fast asleep;
an't ye, Leviston? Hollo! the sky is clear as a bell!” he continues,
in a low voice, looking out of the window. “It 's going
to be a beautiful day; an't ye glad? Never mind; you need n't
answer me, if you 're sleepy. I wonder what cats made such a

noise at about two o'clock? There was a fire at half-past twelve
— I 'd like to know where it was. Did n't you hear Crange go
tumbling down stairs? I would n't be a fireman, like him, for any
money.”

Having by this time banished sleep from the pillows of his
friends, much to his regret, he assures them, Mr. Toplink commences
the duties of the morning. Seating himself, in the simple
and unique attire of his shirt and hat, by one of the washstands,
he begins the operation of blacking a row of boots brought from
the closet and arranged in order at his left hand. For an hour
his sleepy room-mates hear him saw away industriously with the
brush, sucking in his breath between his teeth by way of accompaniment,
and stopping only to spit upon the leather, or to make
observations designed to interest his companions, — provided they
are awake. Having polished the entire collection of boots, — a task
he performs regularly every Sunday morning, and at no other time,
— he makes an elaborate and extensive lather, and shaves himself
under his hat before the broken looking-glass. This done, he
devotes half an hour to his razor, — honing it, strapping it on the
palm of his hand, splitting hairs with it, and wiping it carefully
with a silk handkerchief before putting it away. The next half-hour
is occupied in oiling, brushing and curling his hair, with
which Mr. Toplink takes great pains. Then follows the ceremony
of thorough ablutions with soap and water, succeeded by a critical
examination of shirts, socks and dickeys, with a little mending
here and there with bachelor's needle-and-thread, and an
occasional sewing on of buttons.

By this time Mr. Flinks is stirring in the next room. Every
Sunday morning, as regularly as Mr. Toplink blacks his boots,
Mr. Flinks gets out his fiddle, screws it into tune, resins the bow,

and regales his fellow-boarders with “concord of sweet sounds.”
Mr. Flinks is not an accomplished artist. His violin practice is,
in fact, limited to a single measure of a single tune. The first
strain of “Bounding Billows” he plays once, twice, a hundred
times, with incessant repetition, never arriving at cadence or
pause, but frequently adding to the horror of the monotony by
singing in unison,
over and over again, over and over again, with not the slightest
variation of any kind. Mr. Flinks has the ambition to be
thought a great player; and, believing that the girls in the attics
listen entranced to the exquisite strains of his violin, never fails
to keep his chamber-door open during the musical season. The
truth is, that “horrible fiddle,” as it is called, has been voted a
nuisance, repeatedly, by the unanimous voice of the boarders.

At half-past seven o'clock the “getting-up bell” rings. Soon
after, the boarders begin to collect in the parlor, driving forth
the shaking grandfather, whom they abhor. The room is cold,
and everybody looks blue, except Mr. Winksworth, whose countenance
— especially his nose — is constitutionally ruddy. It is
the popular notion that he has taken something internally to keep
him warm this morning; and Eliza, whom he attempted to kiss
behind the door, declares that she smelt his breath. Mr. Longstalk,
a lank and ghastly gentleman, walks the room to “keep up
a circulation,” rubbing his hands and shivering. Miss Dodge,
on the other hand, a young lady of five-and-forty summers, who
prides herself on her youthful spirits and warm blood, sits by an
open window and talks of the beautiful fresh breezes.

Eight o'clock — the breakfast hour — approaches, and the
boarders become voracious. Their conversation turns upon fish-balls
and coffee. They allude censoriously to the tardy movements
of the cook. They speak slightingly of the administration,
and one inquires if anything is really gained by keeping boarders
without their breakfast until the middle of the forenoon. Mr.
Crange, the fireman, says he has been up since the alarm at half-past
twelve, and is “nigh about starved.” He means to sit down
at the table the moment the clock strikes eight, whether the bell
rings or not. The clock strikes; he puts his head into the dining-room,
muttering; but, discovering Mrs. Wormlett in one of her
sour and unhappy moods, his heart fails him, and he concludes to
wait for the bell.

The bell rings at thirteen minutes past eight. The first faint
rattle thereof, showing that it is in the hands of young Simeon, is
the signal for a general rush. The clatter of chairs and the
jingle of cutlery and plates resound simultaneously with the welcome
ringing; and the famished boarders make eager incisions
into the hot biscuit and tawny fish-balls, and whittle up the
wabbling little balls of butter in a manner which would make a
stranger stare. The butter is not the best the grocery affords, by
many degrees of sweetness; the balls, moreover, are so arranged
as to turn and slip under the knife as it chips out its modest little
nips; yet they dwindle and decrease in a manner showing that the
boarders are not at all fastidious about the quality of the article
under discussion, nor in the least afraid to cut and come again.
In the mean time the muddy coffee is received from the pantry,
seasoned with coarse brown sugar and weak milk, and drank in
solemn silence, broken only by the clicking of dishes.

Martin is in his place at the table, with Alice between him and

the good Miss Tomes. Directly opposite sits the Rev. Mr.
Mowle, a broken-down minister, with his wife. This couple are
a study for the young author. During the week they are sociable
enough — Mrs. Mowle especially, who is a rapid and vehement
conversationist; but the long, sanctimonious faces they bring to
the table on Sunday are simply ludicrous. The reverend gentleman
is extremely pious and devout; yet, horribly dyspeptic as he
is, self-denial in matters of eating and drinking is a virtue
unknown to his poor stomach. He preaches you a dismal discourse
on total depravity, this cheerful morning, with nasal twang
and whine; and asks you “Why will you die?” at the same
time eating hot biscuit and fish-balls, and drinking unwholesome
coffee, which he knows will produce heartburn, constipation and
headache. The Lord, he says, has seen fit to afflict him in a
mysterious manner; and he delighteth in the catalogue of his
physical ills, sent upon him by Providence for some wise purpose,
which it is not for the understanding to question. Martin, who
has been so bold as to suggest that his affliction cometh not so
much from any special act of the Lord, as from the transgression
of natural laws, is looked upon as sceptical; Mr. Mowle shakes
his head at him, with much elongation of the corners of his
mouth, and Mrs. Mowle inquires, with deep solicitude, if he has a
praying mother. Miss Tomes, good creature, who has a dread of
the least seeming impiety, is grieved to see Martin smile at this
solemn question; for, although assured that he loves truth and
reverences religion, and aspires to live a pure and blameless life,
she fears that such levity will peril his soul.

Mr. Flinks is also at table. The air of “Bounding Billows”
has proved a regular sea-breeze in sharpening his appetite. Like
his fellow-boarders, he is silent for some time after sitting down;

but, after the second fish-ball, his thoughts flow forth in speech.
He feels a contempt for the sanctimonious faces of “Rev. Mr.
Mowle and lady,” — as they announced themselves on applying
to Mrs. Wormlett for board, — and is inclined to be facetious at
their expense. The tide of indignation he turns from the sceptical
Martin against himself by a wicked pun, whereat the redfaced
Winksworth looks redder in the face than ever, by force of
suppressed laughter, and Mr. Toplink chokes over his coffee.
Others smile; even Miss Tomes bites her lips to preserve her gravity;
but Mrs. Mowle turns up her eyes in holy horror, while her
reverend husband, moved by a stern sense of duty, asks, in a voice
of doleful pitch, if his dear friend supposes such remarks can be
pleasing to the Lord.

Mr. Wormlett sides with Mr. Mowle, and moralizes on the
subject. He don't know that jokes indulged in on Sunday do a
great deal of harm; but, as nothing is gained by them, as he sees,
would n't it be as well to omit them? “They 're jest like swearing
on other days,” he goes on, jerking his head to one side, and
elevating his knife. “I an't set nor bigoted; but I tell my boy
not to swear. I says to him, `What do you make by it?' I says.
`Money, or anything good to eat? No, Simeon,' I says; `no
such thing, Besides, it an't respectable; say nothing about the
danger to your soul when you die. So, Simeon, my son,' I says,
`never swear;' and, I may add, never joke and laugh on the Sabbath.
'T an't no use; you don't make nothing by it; so don't
run no resk; take example from your father, Simeon, and be
thoughtful.”

Simeon, who is waiting on the table, giggles, twitches, and spills
some coffee from a cup over Mr. Leviston's leg. That misanthropic
gentleman looks up suddenly with a fiery face, which

tickles Toplink excessively; but looks down again without a word,
and wipes his trousers with his handkerchief, while Mr. Wormlett
gravely reproves his son.

Mr. Agate, the printer, who is always late, now makes his
appearance, looking haggard, and casts dark glances up and down
the desolated table. The other boarders disperse, to meet again at
dinner. Some sit in the parlor, others go to walk, and a few retire
to their rooms to prepare for church. Miss Tomes attires Alice
in the new dress she made for her last week, and asks her if she
would like to go with her to Sunday-school.

“If you will not be ashamed of me,” murmurs the child.

“Ashamed of you, dear creature!” exclaims that good Christian,
with tears in her eyes, kissing Alice fondly.

Yet the book-folder has her share of pride, too, and is sensitive
to appearances. Her homely form is arrayed in rustling silk for
this Sabbath holiday, her rough hands are neatly gloved, and her
plain face looks out from the pink lining and artificial flowers of a
stylish bonnet. She carries her gilt-edged Bible with a dainty
grace; but at the same time she leads blind Alice lovingly by the
hand, and draws honeyed consolation from the thought that she
— the book-folder — is not ashamed of one of Christ's little ones.

On the way down stairs, Miss Tomes knocks at Martin's door.
She has before invited the young man to go to church with her,
and now she wishes to tell him where he can find her, after the
Sabbath-school. Martin laughs, and tells her he will not mortify
her by walking into one of your fashionable places of worship with
her in his seedy clothes. This reply is what she expected; indeed,
meek and lowly as she is this morning, I am not sure but her face
would take a hue of deeper crimson from her mortification than it
does from her bonnet's lining, should the invitation be accepted.

“You should not stay at home from church on account of your
dress,” she says, with a benevolent smile.

Mr. Toplink overhears the remark; and, after she is gone,
indulges in excessive merriment thereat.

“Don't think I mean to prejudice you,” he says, “but, 'pon my
word of honor, you could no more get that Tomes to church when
she was n't looking jest so, than you can get a cat into a stocking.
Only the Sunday before you came, she stayed to home all day for
a little stain on her bonnet-ribbon, which nobody 'd ever have
seen, if they had n't been looking for it. She discovered it after
she got all dressed, and was too proud to wear it, and too conscientious
to alter the rig of her bonnet on Sunday.”

As for Toplink himself, you should see him in full dress!
From the oiled curling of his hair to the polish of his boots, he is
magnificent. His Sunday suit is in the extreme of fashion.
What unexceptionable pants! What splendor of waistcoat and
fob-chain! What an exquisite cut and finish you observe in that
olive-colored frock! The slim Toplink is extensively padded,
and the swell of his chest is marvellous. His cravat has an
artistic tie, with vast extravagance of bows and ends; and the
largest style of dickey envelops his chin. With his straw-colored
gloves on, and with his dainty rattan carried genteelly in his fingers,
he is the very ideal of dapper dandyism; and, conscious of
his dazzling magnificence, he delights to strut about the room, and
ask, carelessly, “Come, Merrivale, an't you going to church?
What 's the use of being particular about dress?”

As Martin declined Miss Tomes' invitation, so he also declines
that of his agreeable friend Toplink. But, when the latter
is gone out, he dresses himself as neatly as possible, saunters
forth, walks around the Common, and finally mounts the steps of

a handsome church. He waits some minutes for a seat. The sexton
glances at his seedy coat and old white hat, and leaves him
standing in the porch until the more elegant strangers visiting
that place of worship have been shown to pleasant pews; then
Martin is hastily seated in an obscure corner, between a bent old
woman in faded black and a dilapidated gentleman with a broken
nose. And there, in the midst of a cold and gloomy congregation,
he listens to a sermon so formal and lifeless, that it seems a
wicked thing to stay in doors to hear it, with God's bright sunshine
and liberal air inviting the soul to worship in the woods and
fields.

After meeting, Martin's seedy coat and old white hat may be
seen in the midst of glossy beavers, rich broadcloths and glistening
silks, as the throng of church-goers moves slowly down the
street. Yet Martin is not ashamed; he glories in the thought
that costly apparel would make him no better, and that poor
clothes would make the showy crowd no worse. “True manhood
is in the heart,” he says, or thinks; “and this coat-worship
is base. Why should I blush because I am meanly clad? Let
me feel that my soul is arrayed in truth and purity, and I will
stand nobly erect; I will be proud of this attire, which these false
coat-worshippers despise.”

Even while these fine sentiments throb in Martin's brain, his
face suddenly flushes purple. He sees, coming directly towards
him, the charming Sophronia and her mother, in silks and velvets
magnificent. To escape is impossible. The blue eye of the
charmer is upon him. She becomes rosy-complexioned, smiles,
shakes her curls, and whispers to her mother. The young man is
gracefully recognized; the ladies pass on; and he, all in a tremor
of agitation, hastens around the corner, with a vague idea of

putting himself away somewhere out of sight. That poor old
suit, of which he was feeling so manly proud a minute since —
the burning consciousness that Sophronia and her mother have
seen him wear it in the street on Sunday fills him with mortification.
The human soul adores the absolute right, and in its calm
moments despises mere appearances; but few of us are strong and
courageous enough to live out our faith before the eyes of men.
Martin, I candidly confess, was not.

Baked-beans, swimming in pork-fat, constitute the great Sunday-dinner
in Mr. Wormlett's boarding-house. Of these the Rev.
Mr. Mowle has decided not to eat; for last Sabbath they distressed
him sore, and kept him from attending church in the afternoon.
Seeing the other boarders partake, however, he thinks he
may indulge sparingly, with impunity. A few harmless beans,
therefore, he tastes, which prove so deliciously persuasive that he
says to Mrs. Mowle “he don't feel as though another small
spoonful would hurt him,” and accordingly passes his plate for
more. The devil is certainly in the beans, tempting the reverend;
for the second spoonful proves more persuasive than the first; so
that he tries another, and another, and another still; and finishes
by eating more beans than any other man at the table. The
consequence is a violent attack of indigestion, over which the
sufferer groans and laments even unto the going down of the sun;
and in compensation for which he orders a late supper sent to his
room, and indulges in a large quantity of toast, several cups of
tea, and — a few more beans.

At the dinner-table Mrs. Mowle inquires if Martin has been to
church; and, on being told that he has, discovers evidence of improvement
in the fact, and commends him with a real motherly
spirit. Notwithstanding this encouragement, Martin goes not to

any place of worship in the afternoon, but spends the time in
reading “The Banditti of the Cavern,” a thrilling novelette,
recommended by his obliging room-mate. Miss Tomes takes
Alice out again. Mr. Toplink plays “High-low-Jack” with
Mr. Crange, the fireman, in his room, with the door locked;
and young Simeon looks through the key-hole and catches
them at it. Mr. Winksworth sits in the parlor all the afternoon,
as he did all the morning, looking over the top of a
newspaper, watching and listening. Several of the boarders
keep him company, idling away the hours over weak novels, in
languid conversation, and in sleep. Mr. Longstalk and Miss
Dodge, who occupy a corner of the sofa and have a great deal of
whispering to do behind their hands, are sadly embarrassed by
those pleasant eyes of his; but, if they look up, he looks down
instantly, and appears innocently engaged in perusing the convenient
newspaper.

Mrs. Wormlett works hard all day; the shaking grandfather
prowls about the chambers and yard; while Mr. Wormlett
walks solemnly to church with Simeon, moralizing profoundly by
the way.

Thus the blessed Sabbath passes, and the evening ensues. There
is a lively scene in the parlor, and Miss Dodge plays the accordeon
for the entertainment of the company. Martin walks the streets,
passing and repassing Mr. Dabney's house, and looking up at the
windows, and returns home just as Mr. Winksworth is going out
for the first time since yesterday. The latter invites him, in a confidential
whisper, to go and “get a punch” with him; but Martin
declines; and Winksworth, going alone, feels it his duty to drink
punch for two until some time past midnight, when he comes home
boozy, and, looking into the parlor, has the gratification of seeing

Mr. Longstalk alone with the ancient Miss Dodge, whose head is
on his shoulder. After that, he ascends the stairs with slow and
difficult steps, with his hand on the banisters, gets into bed
between the feathers and straw, and drops down into a dizzy gulf
of oblivion, spinning round and round like a top.

Martin retires in good season, but he does not sleep well. He
hears Mrs. Mowle up with the reverend, who is groaning and
moaning all night with internal pains. Mr. Toplink, who has
been absent since tea, comes home at twelve, and chuckles and
gossips with himself about the good time he has been having with
the girls; until Martin, incensed, has some thoughts of getting up
and smothering him with a pillow. Then there is an alarm of
fire. At the first stroke of the bell, Crange, who sleeps in the
next room, is heard to bound upon the floor and struggle into his
pantaloons and boots. Before half a dozen strokes have sounded,
he has jumped down stairs, taken two strides through the entry,
pulling on his coat by the way, and slammed the hall-door behind
him. Then his boots are heard running on the sidewalk below;
the sounds die away in the distance; an engine rushes through the
street, with noisy clang and clatter; and finally all is still. The
wild ringing of bells all over the city, and the snarling of
watchmen's rattles, has ceased; and a solemn hush pervades the
streets, while the calm, white moonlight sleeps upon the roofs.
Winksworth has retired; Toplink has talked and laughed himself
asleep; the reverend has respite from groaning; and Martin,
drowsing at length, dreams of hearing Caleb Thorne preach a
funeral sermon over somebody in Mr. Toplink's trunk, while Miss
Dodge plays on a sort of piano-accordeon, — an instrument with
bellows as large as a cupboard, — and sings from a hymn-book
containing Killings' Panorama songs.