130 NOW-A-DAYS. Well! certainly ours is a wonderful age, And its record, when writ, will be no common page: And return while the season is yet at its best; Or take Palestine's thrice-hallow'd coasts in your way, By searching the matter right out on the spot! The orator's words of weird eloquence fall But what shall we say of the Telegraph wire, Which, alike o'er the desert, or under the wave, Bears its message of wonder, to kill or to save; Which, speeding on wings, not less viewless than thought, Speaks the word, quick and sure, that proud Science hath taught; And teaches the merchant the worth of his wares; In the hurry, sometimes, its own brain it gets muddled, Might we not have been spared the foul deeds of Cawnpore, While the first brands of treason yet reek'd in that land, In the breach and the battle, yet bravely have stood! But change we our theme, else we'll never get done.— 'Well!' some may exclaim, 'this is all nothing new;' And poor Conscience gets sadly abused in the press. And pepper is P.D., and mutton is dog, And nothing's indeed the true 'chip of the log!' If you think that your beef is just rather too coarse, Don't be sure that it isn't a rare bit of horse! When you're valued as ware, something higher than delf, That poor women might be in a genuine flurry, And not only themselves, but whole neighbourhoods worry? We dress faster, I said-that's the ladies, of course: In this race they invariably mount the first horse, And they're welcome to win! If you say then, 'What mean you?' They but follow the lead of ingenious Eugenie! At her motherly beck they've resign'd themselves martyrs, And, no doubt, in their dresses they've often caught Tartars! In my heart the sweet creatures I pity, I'm sure, Though pity's not always a warranted cure! Yet I cannot but fear that some winter monsoon May carry them right to the shores of the moon! Did they come back to see how the old world might fare, Till one groans that the 'Last Rose of Summer' seems gone; Swell the nice doctor's bill, by the family due. As the newest invention, I do not despair Of some head-dress, unique of each lady's own hair, While some daily design, the inventive power strains, But what are our aims?-Let us aim to advance, To cherish each nobler and loftier part; To cause fancy's young delicate leaves to unfold, The rich, solid ore of those giants of mind Who have bless'd, and instructed, and gladden'd mankind. Let us seek, as reward, some increased store of mense, Of wit, and of wisdom, of knowledge, and sense; Let the treasure alone one and all seek to find, Be a vigorous, healthy, and purified mind; And the darts of his sarcasm fly hot and fast, M. G. M. HOME LIGHT. CHAPTER L Mr Stanwood was a broken merchant; prosperous and influential once, but now forgotten upon 'Change. His wife was a confirmed invalid; and Ollie, the third and last member of his small family, was an elderly woman who had served them in better days, and now acting as cook, chambermaid, nurse, and financier at once, had but one aim in life, to prop the falling glory of the Stanwoods. Yet there were others who belonged to the family, but, up to the time of our narrative, had taken little part in its discouragements and sorrows. Alas, it had no joys! Mrs Stanwood remained in her darkened room week after week; Mr Stanwood sat below, in his easy-chair with the torn damask cover, and read books of romance and poetry week after week; and week after week in the kitchen, poor old Ollie toiled like a giantess to produce for them a suitable degree of comfort with the scanty means at her command. Hope, faith, and with them cheerfulness, had forsaken the household, when its wealth, and luxury, and troops of friends had departed. Let to-day be no worse than yesterday, was the only prayer of those discouraged souls; they never thought of improving matters, and making to-day better than yesterday. Change they dreaded, and trembled before the very sound; for in their memory it was wholly associated with loss. But a change was impending: Mr Stanwood thought of it among his books, and Mrs Stanwood among her pillows, and Ollie among her accounts; all shrank from mentioning what they felt sure would bring new trial and sorrow; yet the matter must be discussed, and one morning Mr Stanwood, summoning his energies, entered his wife's room, firmly resolved to break the disagreeable subject. Groping his way through the dark, close room, he began with his usual inquiry, 'How do you feel this morning, my dear? Any more comfortable?' Oh no,' in a feeble voice. I have had a little less neuralgia, but I am so weak, and ache so with lying here. I thought no one would ever come: it is half-an-hour past the time for taking my drops.' And she whined through a long list of aches, and fears, and wishes; while Mr Stanwood, seeking vainly for the phial which contained his wife's po tion, began opening a window-shutter, and cheerily streamed in the morning sun. 'My dear husband, are you crazy? you blind me, with this raging headache, too! pray, pray shut out that dreadful light.' Then I cannot find your drops.' 'Well, let them go; oh dear! I am not sure they do me any good. Did Ollie speak to you of my breakfast?' She did not; what will you have?' 'Not much of anything. I have no appetite; ask her to cook up something that I will relish, and to be sure my coffee is strong, and to have it rich with cream, and ask her if she has not some calf's-foot-jelly; that may possibly cool my mouth. That's all, except a biscuit or a piece of toast; she can bring both, and I will eat whichever looks most tempting: it is a dreadful thing not to have any appetite." So it is, love; but I am glad you are not hungry now, because-probably you remember what day this is?' 'How should I? all the days are alike to us. Yet Mrs Stanwood remembered very well. 'It is the first of April, and Bessie is coming home to live; she left us for boardingschool, you know, some time before our reverse of fortune, and must remember her home as it once was; the change will be a disappointment to the poor young thing.' And Mr Stanwood's voice trembled. Many a time his heart yearned for the absent child who was suffering banishment on account of her mother's nerves; and now he feared that the unattractive home would estrange her from him even more than absence had done. Well, Charles, what do you expect of me?' asked Mrs Stanwood, in an injured tone. 'Let her come; we have done our best; have sold my jewellery to pay the last school bills; what can she ask more?' Of course I expect nothing, but Then please go and see about my breakfast. Ah! suffering is hard enough without neglect.' But do you not think we might have a fire in the parlour, and have the piano tuned; and that you could feel well enough to be down-stairs when Bessie arrives, and welcome her?' 'I, in that cold room, not heated before this winter?' Mrs Stanwood gained her voice from very indignation. 'No, Charles, we cannot afford so many fires; and as for the piano, I broke it purposely; there is no need of establishing dangerous precedents in the beginning; and to hear piano music with my poor nerves would be distressing. Bessie may as well understand at once that she must yield a few of her own wishes to others' necessities.' Mr Stanwood did not often work himself into sufficient courage for maintaining any point, and knowing his own weakness, resolved to make the most of the present opportunity. You are aware, my love, that Bessie has lived in utter estrangement from us; that she has been deprived of those sweet home influences, and all those manifestations of parental love, which make the charm of childhood. You have not felt able to correspond with her, and it is hard for a man to write letters which interest a child, and hard for a child to maintain much interest in strangers; truly, I cannot see that we have the smallest claim upon the poor girl's love.' 'We have claims upon her duty; often, during her infancy and childhood, I have comforted myself with the thought that she would grow up to repay all my anxiety and care; and some time I might lean upon her, as she leaned upon me then: the time has the first time, seemed to him somewhat crowded for an invalid's fare; and opening his book, he wondered if Bessie must content herself with such unsavoury meals as his own invariably were; and if she would be very much dismayed at first sight of her home; and if she could possibly love him, and care for him, and comfort his old age. CHAPTER II. 'Where are they? Where's somebody? Mother! Ollie? Where's the parlour? Can this be the house?' 'Bessie! dear child! the same bright curls and ringing voice that made our home bright when you were a child.' Then you are my father; I thought so! and I am home, and you are glad to see me? But where's mother? And why did you not come to meet me?' 'I hardly thought of it; forgive me, we are not used to arrivals. Your mother is up ́stairs, sick.' 'Sick! and you did not send for me?' 'She is always sick, my child; you will have plenty of nursing.' 'Oh! may I take care of her? I was afraid the house would be full of servants, and that I must sit up primly and be a lady. Shall I go up-stairs now? Yes-do not wait to ask-I will surprise her.' And she flew to her mother's room. 'Dear, dear, blessed mother, my own mother, I'm so glad to get back to you!' and every word was sealed with twenty kisses. Mrs Stanwood sneezed. 'How do you do, Bessie? I'm glad you have come; we need you enough-there, that will do;' she sneezed again. Stand farther off, love; you must learn to be considerate. I am an invalid, you know, and your cold damp garments might give me my death.' 'Dear mother, it is the sunniest April day you ever knew, and I waited long enough below, talking with papa, to drive all the chills away, I should think; but you are sensitive. Do let me open the shutter and see how you look.' Equally curious to mark what changes time had made in her child's appearance, Mrs Stanwood nerved herself to bear the intolerable light, and Bessie prattled on. 'Why, you're a perfect beauty? What a shame to be shut up in this dark room all the time. No, I shall not wholly close the shutter; for one does not gain a mother every day, and I want to realise your existence, as I can only do by having you before my eyes. What a nice, kind gentleman father is; but I did not expect to find him so old: perhaps he worries about you; how long have you been sick, mother?" 'For more than seven years.' And this is why everything looks so dismally down-stairs; such funny, old, faded furniture and carpets, and such dusty curtains and ragged chairs you never saw, or dreamed of except in a novel; the elegant, great rooms make these things look more comfortless. I will soon bring about a change.' 'My poor child, your father is a bankrupt; our property, our friends, our hopes, our hap piness all went together. I do not complain; and you must learn, like your father and myself, to submit to the dispensations of Providence.' 'You surprise me; but if we are so poor, how does it happen that we still live in so fine a house?' Your father's failure was the result of no mismanagement or speculation, but of losses at sea; and his creditors were so pleased with the honourable manner in which he yielded everything to their demands, that they presented me with the house in which we lived. I hope to remain here until a release comes from my suffering.' Then you expect better things?' 'Yes, Bessie; I expect to die." 'Oh, mother, not yet! not for years and years! Wait and see what I can do with our home; see how, before long, I will have everything fresh and bright; and how completely I will cure you, and have your beautiful face for the best ornament in my parlour. My parlour, my home, mother, father-you cannot guess what blessed words they are to me; how I have longed to say them, and have envied the poorest beggar that spoke of parents and a home.' 'We must talk about those plans of yours, Bessie; I hate change, so does your father; if you spoil aught, there are no means of replacing it, so do not attempt any experiments yet. Pour out my drops now, love; and give me that tart to remove the taste from my mouth; there, close to the shutter, hang up the green shawl against the crevice; then go down-stairs, and I will try to sleep. CHAPTER III. 'Why, Ollie, you dear soul! I had almost forgotten you. Here, don't wait to wipe your hands, let me give you a kiss, as I used when you put me to bed years ago, You have grown old, Ollie.' 'Well I might, miss, with all the care, and trouble, and sickness, and poverty, and 'I would not talk about such things; you will grow young again, now I have come home to make everything go smoothly and look bright. How do I look, Ollie? Are you disappointed in me? and do you suppose mother was? for she didn't seem so very glad as I thought perhaps she would be, though she was kind, and said something about being pleased upon my return.' "You have not changed, Miss Bessie, in one thing; you always did rattle off a string of questions, and give no one a chance to reply. How do you look?-like an angel, in this poor, old, faded room.' 'Do not slander my home, Ollie, or I shall have to change domestics; though I daresay you have been toiling for about nothing ever since my father failed. Tell me now exactly how you manage, and how poor we really are. 'It would break your heart, Miss Bessie; I'd rather not.' 'You do not know what a stout little heart I have; so speak the worst. What do you think, Ollie! some mischievous boy has nailed a dressmaker's sign upon our side |