Chapter 17
Do women dress for men? to please the opposite s.e.x? or for each other's eye? "You know just how it is yourself." Poh! What do men, generally speaking, know of woman's dress? Absolutely nothing! I boldly a.s.sert that not one man in twenty, going out to a call, party, or even a concert or opera, knows the cut and color of the dress of his wife accompanying him.
Woman dresses for women's inspection. Whatever she does for fear or favor of man else, woman dresses for her own s.e.x.
"What will Mrs. Codfish say when she sees this turned dress?"
"Old Codfish," her husband, is worth at least fifty thousand dollars, and here is Mrs. Copyman, whose husband is as poor as "Job's turkey," standing in dread of that woman's criticism!
Not one male in a thousand can detect a well turned dress, but I defy the most cunning dressmaker to alter, retrim, frill, and "furbelow" a dress that the female eye won't detect at a glance!
"I rather pay the butcher's bill than the doctor's," says the father.
"O, horrors! Just see that girl swallow the meat! Why, it will make your skin as rough as a grater and as greasy as an Indian's!" exclaims the mother.
Miss Primrose keeps our village school; she who wears the trailing skirts, and was seen to cut a cherry in two parts before eating it, at the party last week. She almost went into convulsions--not of laughter, as I did--to see Kitty Clover astride a plank, with her brother on the opposite end, playing at "See-saw."
"Here we go up--up--uppy; and here we go down--down--downy," they were singing in unison, when "ding, ding, ding!" went the school-bell, followed by a scream from Miss Primrose.
With glowing cheeks--that's from the exercise--and downcast eye, from fear of Miss Primrose's anger, Kitty came demurely into the school-room before recess was half over.
After a long lecture about her "masculine behavior," "horrid red countenance," and "rumpled dress," and "dishevelled hair," poor Kitty is sent to her form to "sit up straight, and not forget that she is a young lady hereafter."
[Ill.u.s.tration: "HERE WE GO UP--UP--UPPY; AND HERE WE GO DOWN--DOWN--DOWNY."]
And what of her brother who was on the other end of the plank? O, he is a boy! "That's what's the difference!"
LOVE AND THOROUGHWORT.
"He'll never die for love, I know, He'll never die for love, nor wear Upon his brow the marks of care."
This is a true story, written for this work, but published, by permission of the author, in the "American Union."
"So you believe me totally incapable of truly loving _any_ girl, do you?"
"I most a.s.suredly do," was my positive answer.
My friend, George Brown, turned and walked away a few paces, looking thoughtfully to the ground. He was a splendid looking man, about twenty years of age; my late school-fellow, my present friend and confidant. He was, what I did not flatter myself as being, a great favorite with the ladies. Handsome, tall, manly, of easy address, a fine singer and dancer, the only impediment to his physical perfection was, when the least excited, a hesitancy of speech--almost a stammer. Finally he turned and walked back to me, saying,--
"Now, Ad, if you will agree
"First let me hear your proposition."
"You have long desired to visit Bangor?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Let us harness 'Simon' early some fine morning for that delightful city; go by the way of B. and O., stop and see Jenny, who I have learned by roundabout inquiry resides with her aunt in the latter place. And," he added, triumphantly, "see for yourself if she isn't a girl to be loved."
"O, no doubt Jenny Kingsbury 'is a girl to be loved;' so was Addie, and so was 'Ria, and a dozen others, whom you have sworn you loved so devotedly.
O George, out upon your affections."
"Will--will--you go? That's the question."
"Yes--I will go--because I wish to visit Bangor very much," was my reply; and the time was at once set for the journey, which was to occupy two days.
Mrs. Brown, the mother of my friend George, was a devout Christian. She believed in her Bible. Moreover, she was an excellent _nurse_, and next to her Bible, believed in _thoroughwort_. Thoroughwort tea, or thoroughwort syrup, was her panacea for all the ills, physical or moral, that ever was, or could be, detailed upon poor humanity.
"Before you start, boys--"
"Boys! Where are your _men_?" interrupted George.
"Hear me!" continued Mrs. Brown. "Before you start for Bangor to-morrow morning, do you take a good drink of that thoroughwort syrup in the large jar on the first shelf in the pantry. It'll keep out the cold; for there'll be frost to-night, I think, and at five o'clock in the morning the air will be sharp. O, there is nothing equal to _thoroughwort_ for keeping out the cold."
"Anything to eat in that pantry?" asked George, with a wink tipped to me.
You see I was to sleep with him that night, preparatory to an early start for Bangor.
"Yes, some cold meat, bread, and a pie. But don't forget to first take a dose of the thoroughwort syrup. Addison, you bear it in mind, for George is awful forgetful, especially about taking his thoroughwort." And Mrs.
Brown detained us fully fifteen minutes, as she rehea.r.s.ed the remarkable qualities of her favorite remedy,--"particularly for keeping out cold."
"Mother thinks that condemnable stuff is meat, drink, and clothing,"
remarked George, as we sought the pantry at an early hour on the following morning, not for the thoroughwort, but for sandwiches, pies, and the like.
"Let me take a taste of the 'stuff,'" I said, as I noticed the jar so conveniently at hand.
"O, no; not on an empty stomach. It will make you throw up Jonah if you do," exclaimed George, with an expression of disgust distorting his features. "Eat something first, and then, if you want to taste the condemned 'stuff,' do so, and the Lord be with you," he added, pitching into the eatables.
Having made away with the pie, and much of the sandwiches, we turned our attention for a moment to the thoroughwort syrup. I took a taste, and George spilled a quant.i.ty on the shelf, "that mother may know we have been to the jar," he remarked, as we left the pantry.
It was not yet five o'clock when we drove noiselessly away from the door.
If I remember rightly, we were not _noiseless_ after that. The morning was delightful, slightly cool,--but that was no impediment to our warm blood, owing to the thoroughwort,--and we sped on in an exuberant flow of spirits. "Simon" was in excellent travelling order, and went without whip or spur. We should have reached the village of B., where we were to breakfast, and bait Simon, by eight o'clock, but George would insist on making the acquaintance, _nolens volens_, of half the farmers on the road, ostensibly to inquire the way to B.
"Hallo!" he shouted, reining up Simon before a small farm-house. Up flew a window, and out popped a nightcapped head.
"What d'ye want?" called a feminine voice. It was now hardly daylight, and the person could not distinguish us.
"Excuse me, madam, for disturbing your slumbers; but can you inform a stranger if this is the right road to B.?" asked George, in his most pleasing manner.
"O, yes; keep right on; take the first left hand road to the top o' the hill; then go on till yer--"
We drove away, not waiting for the rest.
"Do you suppose that old woman is talking there now, with her nightcapped head poked out of the window?" asked George, as we reached the hotel at B.
"For shame!" said I. "Waking up all the people on the road, to inquire the way, with which you were perfectly familiar!"
From B. our route lay along the western bank of the beautiful Pen.o.bscot. I need not detain you while I rehea.r.s.e the delightful scenery _en route_ to Bangor; the variegated and gorgeous splendors of the autumnal leaves; the bending boughs, from the abundant ripened fruit, in colors of red, orange, and yellow on one hand, and on the other the bright, gla.s.sy waters of the broad river, dotted here and there by the white sails of boats and vessels lying becalmed in the morning suns.h.i.+ne.
We reached the village of O., and George made inquiry for the residence of Mr. Kingsbury.