A Little Girl of Long Ago by Amanda Minnie Douglas (e reader txt) 📖

brows. Was he really unconscious of the trouble?

"You go there a good deal, you know. Some of the men are not quite the company a young fellow should choose, mother thinks."

That was begging the main issue, of course.

"I don't see much of the older men. They're mostly smoking downstairs, and I don't care a bit for that. But their talk is often worth listening to. People who just keep in one little round have no idea how rich the world is growing intellectually, scientifically; and on what broad lines it is being laid."

"It is not the men altogether. Ben, you don't go anywhere else. Perhaps it would be wisdom to enlarge your acquaintance among girls, young ladies," and Joe gave a short laugh that betrayed the effort.

"I don't care a penny for girls in general," said Ben, with elderly gravity. "Delia sometimes asks them in; and we seldom have as good a time. She's a host in herself; and I've always liked her."

"You haven't had a very wide experience. And you are too young to make up your mind about--anything."

Ben started up suddenly and flushed. What a fine, strong, solid face he had! It wasn't the face of one turned about with every wind of doctrine; it was not as handsome as Jim's bid fair to be, but it had hardly a weak or selfish line in it. Ben had always been such a good, generous, steady boy.

"You don't mean," he began with a little gasp,--"Joe, you can't think that mother--that any one would object if the time came for me to--to marry Delia?"

"You are too young to think of such things, Ben," said his brother, gently.

"Why--I've been thinking of it ever since Mr. Theodore came home. We were talking one time about going to Europe--"

"Are you really engaged, Ben?"

The young fellow laughed and blushed.

"Well--I suppose not exactly," he answered slowly. "We've never come to that boshy stuff you find now and then in stories. But we know all about each other's plans; and we like so many of the same things; and we always feel so comfortable together, not a bit as if we were trigged up in Sunday clothes. I don't think she's the most beautiful girl in the world; but she has lovely eyes, and I've never seen a handsome girl I have liked as well. Steve chose his own wife, and so did John. Cleanthe's a splendid housekeeper; but she doesn't have time to read a newspaper. Dolly's well informed, and has something fresh to talk about. But it seems to me Margaret is always caring about society and etiquette, and who is in our set, and a hundred things that bore me. Phil has all his life been used to style, so Margaret's just the one for him. And why shouldn't I have just the one for me?"

Joe laughed heartily then.

"I'd wait a year or two," he answered drily. "You are not out of your time; and it is an unwise thing to take the responsibilities of life too early. Delia may fancy some one else."

"Oh, no, she won't," replied Ben, confidently. "We just suit. I can't explain it to you, Joe; but it is one of the things that seem to come about without any talking. Are some things ordained? I should be awful sorry to have mother object to it; but I know Dolly would stand by us when the time came."

"Well--don't hurry; and, Ben, take the little comments patiently. If mother was convinced that it was for your happiness, she would consent. We all know there are unwise marriages, unhappy ones, as well."

"Oh, we're not in any hurry! You see, Delia is really needed at home. The old aunt is awfully fond of her. And she's so interested in her stories. We have such fun planning them out; and she does some capital little sketches."

Joe nodded in a friendly manner, as if he did not altogether disapprove. But there was a belief that literary women could not make good wives. People quoted Lady Bulwer and Lady Byron; and yet right in the city were women of literary proclivities living happily with their husbands.

And Joe had found careless, fretful, indifferent wives and poor housekeepers among women who could not even have written a coherent account-book. Come to think, he liked Delia a good deal himself. And if she wasn't such a great worker, she did have the art of making a cheerful, attractive home, and putting everybody at ease.

The new woman and cooking-schools were in the far future. Every mother, if she knew enough, trained her daughter to make a good wife, to buy properly, to cook appetisingly if not always hygienically, to make her husband's shirts, and do the general family sewing, to keep her house orderly, to fight moths and mice, and to give company teas with the best china and the finest tablecloth.

To be sure there was a little seething of unrest. Mrs. Bloomer had put forth a new costume that shocked the feminine world, though they were complaining of the weight of heavy skirts and the various devices for distending them. Lucretia Mott and some other really fine women were advocating the wider education of the sex. Women were being brought to the fore as teachers in schools, and higher institutions were being discussed. There was a Mrs. Bishop who had preached; there were women who lectured on various subjects.

The sewing-machine was making its way; and the argument in its favour was that it would save a woman's strength and give her more leisure. But employment of any kind out of the house _was_ considered derogatory unless one had no father or brother to supply her needs.

Still, the old simple life was going out of date. There was more style; and some leaders of opinion professed to be shocked at the extravagance of the day. There was a sudden influx of people up-town. There were new stores and offices. One wondered where all the people came from. But New York had taken rapid strides in her merchant-marine. The fastest vessels in the China trade went out of her ports. The time to both California and China was shortened by the flying clippers. The gold of that wonderful land of Ophir was the magic ring that one had only to rub, if he could get hold of it, and work wonders.

But the little girl went on her quiet way. They were finding friends in the new neighbourhood; yet Daisy Jasper could not be superseded. Every letter was carefully treasured; and, oh, how many things she found to say in return.

They kept up the intimacy with the Deans, though Josephine seemed almost a young woman. Mr. Reed enjoyed the pleasant home wonderfully. Charles spent much of his leisure over music, of which he was passionately fond. He and Jim were not so intimate. Jim was going with a gayer lot of young fellows, while Charles was seriously considering his life-plans.


CHAPTER XIV

AMONG GREAT THINGS

Were people more enthusiastic in old New York than they are at the end of the century? We have done so much, we have had so many wonderful happenings since then. To be sure, Dickens had been over and made, people thought, a somewhat caustic return for the hospitable welcome; Harriet Martineau had made a tour, and gone home rather favourably impressed; and the winter before the intellectual circle--and it was getting to be quite notable--had honoured the Swedish novelist, Frederica Bremer, and been really charmed by her unaffected sweetness. If they were not quite ready to take up her theories for the advancement of women, they fell to reading the delightful "Neighbours" and "Home." And now there was to be another visitant, "The Swedish Nightingale."

For Mr. Barnum was still the prince of entertainers. Theatres waxed and waned, and new stars came to the front who had still their laurels to win; people strove for cards to the Steven's Terrace, just back of Columbia College on Park Place. Bleecker Street was not out of date, though Mrs. Hamilton Fish had gone up to Stuyvesant Square, and was gathering about her a political clique. There were card-parties and dances; there were Christy's Minstrels and the Hutchinson family; and some of the more intellectual circles had conversaziones where the best talent displayed itself. Still, Barnum could not be crowded out. No sarcasm withered him; and his variety was infinite. It was a safe place for mothers to go and take their children. The men had formed several ambitious clubs, and were beginning to entertain themselves.

Jenny Lind had already captivated Europe. Mr. Barnum judiciously brought interest up to fever heat. After the bargain was made known, and the young singer had taken her passage with her suite, a musical rage pervaded the very city. The streets leading to the wharf were thronged by crowds in the wildest enthusiasm. Triumphal arches were built across Canal Street, and as she came down the gang-plank of the steamer, shouts rent the very air.

The young traveller and poet, Bayard Taylor, had captured the prize offered for the finest ode to be sung at her first concert. Two hundred dollars seemed a large price at that time, as Tennyson had not been offered a thousand for a poem. So great was the inquiry for tickets, that they were sold at auction a few days previous. And Mr. Genin, a Broadway hatter, signalised himself by making the highest bid for a ticket,--two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Over one thousand tickets were sold on the first day.

The concert was to be at Castle Garden. At five, the doors were opened, and people began to throng in, though each seat had been secured to its proper owner; and by eight, the audience was in a perfect transport of expectation. It was said to be the largest audience assembled to listen to her. And when she was led on the stage by her manager, the enthusiasm was beyond description. It seemed to divine beforehand that the fair-haired Swedish songstress would meet all expectations; and she passed beyond it.

Ben had been caught by the enthusiasm, and squandered his savings on a ticket. He and Jim had been in the crowd around the hotel, that first night when the New York musical society had serenaded her, and she had bowed from the old stone balcony to the admiring crowds.

"There isn't any word to express it," declared Ben, at the breakfast-table the next morning. "Joe, you must hear her, and Hanny--all of you. Never mind the cost."

"Ben, you have lost your senses," said his mother, with a touch of her old sharpness. "As if we were all millionaires! And I have heard people sing before."

"Not anything like that. You can't imagine such melody. And the enthusiasm of the crowd is worth something!"

The little girl looked up wistfully. She was beginning to understand the value of money.

"Yes," returned Joe; "Hanny must hear her. I wouldn't have her miss it for anything. But the tickets won't be so high after a little."

They dropped to regular prices, but that was high for the times; and the rush continued unabated. New York broke out in a Jenny Lind furore. There were gloves, and hats, and shawls, and gowns, beautiful little tables, and consoles, and furniture of all sorts that bore her name. The bakers made Jenny Lind cake. What a time there was! Enthusiastic adorers took her carriage from its shafts, and dragged it from Castle Garden to the hotel. Was New York old in those days?