Sociable Visiting

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Title:     Sociable Visiting
Author: Eliza Leslie [More Titles by Leslie]

"Shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it."--ADDISON.

After a residence of several years at their country-house in the vicinity of Philadelphia, circumstances induced Mr. Heathcote to establish himself again in the city. This removal gave great satisfaction to his family, particularly to his wife and to his two elder children, Harriet and Albert, as they all had very good reasons for preferring a decided town-life to the numerous conveniences of ruralizing at a villa both in winter and summer. They were called on in due time by all their former city friends; most of whom, indeed, had sedulously kept up their acquaintance with the Heathcote family by frequent visits to them during their long sojourn in the country.

By all these friends, the Heathcotes were invited to tea in form, sometimes to large parties, sometimes to small parties, and sometimes to meet only the family circle. And Mrs. Heathcote had made a return for these civilities by giving an evening party, which included the whole range of her friends and acquaintances, while her husband got rid of his similar obligations by a series of dinners.

These duties being over, and the family settled quietly down into every-day life, the invitations for particular times became less frequent; gradually subsiding into pressing entreaties from their friends to waive all formality, and to come sociably and take tea with them whenever they felt an inclination, without waiting for the ceremony of being regularly asked. These intimations were at once declined by Mrs. Heathcote, who declared herself "no visitor," her large family (for she had eight children) giving her always sufficient occupation at home. Such excuses, however, were not admitted from Harriet, who was handsome, lively, and intelligent, and much liked by all who knew her. She was fond of society, and had no objection to visiting in all its branches. Her days were generally passed in constant and rational employment, and though her evenings were pleasant enough at home, still she liked variety, and thought it would be very agreeable to visit her friends occasionally on the terms proposed; and she anticipated much quiet enjoyment at these extemporaneous tea-drinkings. We must premise that the sociable visits performed by our heroine did not, in reality, all follow each other consecutively, though, for the sake of brevity, it is expedient for us to relate them in that manner. Between some of them were long intervals, during which she, of course, received occasional invitations in regular form; and a due proportion of her evenings was spent in places of public amusement. Our present design is merely to give a sketch of the events which ensued when Harriet Heathcote, taking her friends at their word, availed herself of their earnest entreaties to visit them sociably: that is, without being either invited or expected.

In compliance with the oft-repeated request of her old acquaintances, the two Miss Drakelows, to spend a long afternoon with them, coming early and bringing her sewing, our heroine set out on this visit at four o'clock, taking her work-basket in her hand. The Miss Drakelows, indeed, had urged her to come immediately after dinner, that they might have the longer enjoyment of her company; and Harriet, for her part, liked them so well (for they were very agreeable girls), that she had no apprehension of finding the visit tedious.

On arriving at the house, the servant who opened the door informed her that both the young ladies were out. Harriet, much disappointed, was turning to go home again, when their mother, old Mrs. Drakelow, appeared at the door of the front parlour, and hastening forward, seized her by both hands, and insisted on her coming in, saying that Ellen and Fanny had only gone out shopping with Mrs. Eastwood (their married sister), and that she was in momentary expectation of their return. Harriet found it so difficult to resist the entreaties of the old lady, who was always delighted to see visiters, that she yielded and accompanied her into the parlour.

"Well, my dear Miss Harriet," said Mrs. Drakelow, "I am really very glad that you have come, at last, just as we wished you, without any ceremony. I always think a visit the more agreeable for being unexpected. Do take off your cloak. My daughters will be at home in a few minutes, and I dare say they will bring Mrs. Eastwood with them, and then we will make her stay to tea. We shall have a charming evening."

Miss Heathcote took out her work, and Mrs. Drakelow resumed her knitting, and endeavoured to entertain her guest by enumerating those among her own acquaintances that persisted in using knitting-sheaths, and those that could knit just as well without them by holding the needles in a different manner. She also discussed the relative merits of ribbed welts and rolled welts, and gave due honour to certain expeditious ladies that could knit a pair of large stockings in three days; and higher glory still to several that had been known to perform that exploit in two days.

In truth, the old lady was one of those dull wearisome people, that are only tolerated because they are good and respectable. She had no reading; no observation, except of trifles not worth observing; no memory, but of things not worth remembering, and her ideas, which were very limited in number, had all her life flowed in the same channel. Still, Mrs. Drakelow thought herself a very sensible woman, and believed that her conversation could not be otherwise than agreeable; and therefore, whenever she had an opportunity, she talked almost incessantly. It is true, that when her daughters were present, she was content to be comparatively silent, as she regarded them with great deference, and listened to them always with habitual admiration.

Evening came, and the young ladies did not return; though Mrs. Drakelow was still expecting them every moment. Finally, she concluded that Mrs. Eastwood had prevailed on them to go home and take tea with her. "So much the better for me," said Mrs. Drakelow, "for now, my dear Miss Harriet, I shall have you all to myself." She then ordered tea to be brought immediately, and Harriet saw nothing in prospect but a long, tedious evening with the prosing old lady; and she knew that it would be at least nine o'clock, or perhaps ten, before her brother came to see her home.

The evening, as she anticipated, was indeed tedious. Mrs. Drakelow took upon herself "the whole expense of the conversation," talked of cheap shops and dear shops, and specified the prices that had been given for almost every article of dress that had been purchased by her daughters or herself during the last year. She told a long story of a piece of linen which her friend Mrs. Willett had bought for her husband, and which went to pieces before it was made up, splitting down in streaks during the process of stroking the gathers. She told the rent that was given by all her acquaintances that lived in rented houses, and the precise price paid by those that had purchased their dwellings. She described minutely the particulars of several long illnesses that had taken place among her relations and friends; and the exact number of persons that attended their funerals when they died, as on those occasions she said she made it a rule always to count the company. She mentioned several circumstances which proved to demonstration, that the weather was usually cold in winter and warm in summer; and she gave a circumstantial history of her four last cats, with suitable episodes of rats and mice.

The old lady's garrulity was so incessant, her tone so monotonous, and her narratives so totally devoid of either point or interest, that Miss Heathcote caught herself several times on the verge of falling asleep. She frequently stole anxious glances at the time-piece, and when it was nine o'clock she roused herself by the excitement of hoping every moment for the arrival of Albert.

At length she heard the agreeable sound of the door-bell, but it was only a shoemaker's boy that had brought home a pair of new shoes for Mrs. Drakelow, who tried them on, and talked about them for half an hour, telling various stories of tight shoes and loose shoes, long shoes and short shoes. Finally, Albert Heathcote made his welcome appearance, and Harriet joyfully prepared for her departure; though the old lady entreated her "to sit awhile longer, and not to take away her brother so soon."

"You cannot imagine," said Mrs. Drakelow, "how disappointed the girls will feel, at happening to be from home on this afternoon above all others. If they had had the most distant idea of a visit from you to-day, they would, I am sure, have either deferred their shopping, or made it as short as possible. But do not be discouraged, my dear Miss Harriet," continued the good old lady, "I hope you will very soon favour us with another sociable visit. I really do not know when I have passed so pleasant an evening. It has seemed to me not more than half an hour since tea."

About a fortnight afterwards, Miss Heathcote went to take tea, sociably, with her friend Mrs. Rushbrook, who had been married about eighteen months, and whom she had known intimately for many years. This time, she went quite late, and was glad to be informed that Mrs. Rushbrook was at home. She was shown into the parlour, where she waited till long after the lamp was lighted, in momentary expectation of the appearance of her friend, who had sent down word that she would be with her in a few minutes. Occasionally, whenever the nursery door was opened, Harriet heard violent screams of the baby.

At length Mrs. Rushbrook came down, apologized to Miss Heathcote for making her wait, and said that poor little George was very unwell, and had been fretful and feverish all day; and that he had just been got to sleep with much difficulty, having cried incessantly for more than an hour. Harriet now regretted having chosen this day for her visit (the baby being so much indisposed), and she offered to conclude it immediately, only requesting that the servant-man might see her home, as it had long been quite dark. But Mrs. Rushbrook would not listen to Harriet's proposal of going away so soon, and insisted on her staying to tea as she had intended; saying that she had no doubt the baby would be much better when he awoke. At her pressing instances, Miss Heathcote concluded to remain. In a short time Mr. Rushbrook came home, and his wife detailed to him all the particulars of the baby's illness. Harriet, who was accustomed to children, saw that in all probability the complaint would be attended with no serious consequences. But young married people are very naturally prone to take alarm at the slightest ailment of their first child: a feeling which no one should censure, however far it may be carried, as it originates in the best affections of the human heart.

Though Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook tried to entertain their visitor, and to listen to her when she talked, Harriet could not but perceive that their minds were all the time with the infant up-stairs; and they frequently called each other out of the room to consult about him.

After tea, the baby awoke and renewed its screams, and Mr. Rushbrook determined to go himself for the doctor, who had already been brought thither three times that day. Finding that it was a physician who lived in her immediate neighbourhood, Harriet wisely concluded to shorten her unlucky visit by availing herself of Mr. Rushbrook's protection to her own door. Mrs. Rushbrook took leave of our heroine with much civility, but with very evident satisfaction, and said to her at parting, "To tell you the truth, my dear Harriet, if I had known that you designed me the pleasure of a visit this evening, I would have candidly requested you to defer it till another time, as poor little George has been unwell since early in the morning."

Harriet's next sociable visit was to the two Miss Brandons, who had always appeared to her as very charming girls, and remarkable for their affectionate manner towards each other. Being left in affluent circumstances at the decease of their father (the mother died while they were children), Letitia and Charlotte Brandon lived together in a very genteel establishment, under the protection of an unmarried brother, who was just now absent on business in the West. Harriet had always imagined them in possession of an unusual portion of happiness, for they were young, handsome, rich, at their own disposal, with no one to control them, and, as she supposed, nothing to trouble them. She did not know, or rather she did not believe (for she had heard some whispers of the fact), that in reality the Miss Brandons lived half their time at open war; both having tempers that were very irritable, and also very implacable, for it is not true that the more easily anger is excited, the sooner it subsides. It so happened, however, that Miss Heathcote had only seen these young ladies during their occasional fits of good-humour, when they were at peace with each other, and with all the world; and at such times no women could possibly be more amiable.

On the morning before Harriet Heathcote's visit, a violent quarrel had taken place between the two sisters, and therefore they were not on speaking terms, nor likely to be so in less than a fortnight; that being the period they generally required to smooth down their angry passions, before they could find it in their hearts to resume the usual routine of even common civility. There was this difference in the two ladies: Charlotte was the most passionate, Letitia the most rancorous.

When Harriet arrived, she found the Miss Brandons alone in the back parlour, sitting at opposite sides of the fire, with each a book. Charlotte, who was just the age of Harriet, looked pleased at the sight of a visiter, whose company she thought would be preferable to the alternative of passing the evening with her sister in utter silence; and she had some faint hope that the presence of Miss Heathcote might perhaps induce Letitia to make some little exertion to conceal her ill-humour. And therefore Charlotte expressed great pleasure when she found that Harriet had come to spend the evening with them. But Letitia, after a very cold salutation, immediately rose and left the room, with an air that showed plainly she did not intend to consider Miss Heathcote as in part her visiter, but exclusively as her sister Charlotte's.

Charlotte followed Letitia with her eyes, and looked very angry, but after a few moments, she smothered her resentment so far as to attempt a sort of apology, saying, "she believed her sister had the headache." She then commenced a conversation with Harriet, who endeavoured to keep it up with her usual vivacity; but was disconcerted to find that Charlotte was too uncomfortable, and her mind evidently too much abstracted, either to listen attentively, or to take the least interest in anything she said.

In a short time the table was set, and Charlotte desired the servant to go up-stairs and ask Miss Letitia if she was coming down to tea, or if she should send her some. The man departed, and was gone a long while. When he returned--"Is Miss Letitia coming down to tea?" asked Charlotte anxiously; "Miss Letitia don't say," replied the man. Charlotte bit her lip in vexation, and then with something that resembled a sigh, invited Harriet to take her seat at the table, and began to pour out. When tea was about half over, Letitia made her appearance, walking with great dignity, and looking very cross. She sat down in silence, opposite to Harriet. "Sister," said Charlotte, in a voice of half-suppressed anger, "shall I give you black tea or green? you know you sometimes take one and sometimes the other." "I'll help myself," replied Letitia, in a voice of chilling coldness. And taking up one of the tea-pots she proceeded to do so. As soon as she put the cup to her lips, she set it down again with apparent disgust, saying--"This tea is not fit to drink." Charlotte, making a visible effort to restrain herself, placed the other tea-pot within her sister's reach; Letitia poured out a few drops by way of trial, tasted it, then pushed it away with still greater disgust than before, and threw herself back in her chair, casting a look of indignation at Charlotte, and murmuring,--"'Tis always so when I do not preside at the tea-table myself."

Charlotte sat swelling with anger, afraid to trust herself to speak, while Harriet, affecting not to notice what was passing, made an attempt to talk on some indifferent subject, and addressed to Letitia a few words which she did not answer, and handed her some waffles which she would not take. Never had Harriet been present at so uncomfortable a repast, and heartily did she wish herself at home, regretting much that she had happened to pay a visit during this state of hostilities.

After the failure of both sorts of tea, Letitia sat in silent indignation till the table was cleared, leaning back in her chair, eating nothing, but crumbling a piece of bread to atoms, and pertinaciously averting her head both from Charlotte and Harriet.

When tea was over, Harriet hoped that Letitia would retire to her own room, but on the contrary the lady was perversely bent on staying in the parlour. Charlotte and Harriet placed themselves at the sofa-table with their sewing, and Letitia desired the servant-man to bring her one of the new table-cloths that had been sent home that morning. Then making him light a lamp that stood in the corner of the mantel-piece, she seated herself under it on a low chair, and commenced silently and sedulously the task of ravelling or fringing the ends of the table-cloth, while Charlotte looked at her from time to time with ill-suppressed resentment. Now and then, Harriet, in the hope of conciliating Letitia into something like common civility, addressed a few words to her in as pleasant a manner as possible, but Letitia replied only by a cold monosyllable, and finally made no answer at all. Charlotte was too angry at her sister to be able to sustain anything that could be called a conversation with Miss Heathcote, and Harriet, rather than say nothing, began to describe a very entertaining new novel that had lately appeared, relating with great vivacity some of its most amusing scenes. But she soon found that Charlotte was too much out of humour with her sister to be able to give much attention to the narrative, and that her replies and comments were distrait and mal-à-propos.

Letitia sat coldly fringing the table-cloth, and showing no sort of emotion, except that she threw the ravellings into the fire with rather more energy than was necessary, and occasionally jogged the foot that rested on a cushion before her; and she resolutely refused to partake of the refreshments that were brought in after tea.

Miss Heathcote sat in momentary dread of an explosion, as she saw that the angry glances of Charlotte towards the lady fringing the table-cloth, were becoming more frequent and more vivid, that her colour was heightening, and the tremor of her voice increasing. Our heroine was heartily glad of the arrival of her brother about nine o'clock, an hour earlier than she expected him. He explained, in a few words, that being desirous of returning to the theatre to see a favourite after-piece, he had thought it best to come for his sister as soon as the play was over, rather than keep her waiting for him till near eleven, before which time it was not probable that the whole entertainment would be finished. Charlotte, who was evidently impatient for an outbreak, saw Miss Heathcote depart with visible satisfaction, and Letitia merely bowed her head to the adieu of our heroine, who, vexed at herself for having volunteered her visit on this ill-omened day, felt it a relief to quit the presence of these unamiable sisters, and "leave them alone in their glory."

The black girl that had brought down her hood and cloak, ran forward to open the street door, and said in a low voice to Harriet, "I suppose, miss, you did not know before you came, that our ladies had a high quarrel this morning, and are affronted, and don't speak. But I dare say they will come to, in the course of a few weeks, and then I hope you'll pay us another visit, for company's scace."

When Harriet equipped herself to pass a sociable evening with the Urlingford family, who were among the most agreeable of her friends, she could not possibly anticipate any contre-tems that would mar the pleasure of the visit. She arrived about dusk, and was somewhat surprised to find the whole family already at their tea. Mrs. Urlingford and the young ladies received her very cordially, but looked a little disconcerted, and Harriet apologized for interrupting them at table, by saying, that she thought their tea-hour was not till seven o'clock.

Mrs. Urlingford replied, that seven o'clock was their usual hour for tea, but on that evening they had it much earlier than usual, that it might be over before the arrival of some of their musical friends, who were coming to practise with her daughters.

"Really, my dear Harriet," pursued Mrs. Urlingford, "I am rejoiced that you happened to fix on this evening for favouring us with an unceremonious visit. Though I know that you always decline playing and singing in company, and that you persist in saying you have very little knowledge of music, yet I think too highly of your taste and feeling not to be convinced of your fondness for that delightful art, and I am certain you will be much gratified by what you will hear to-night, though this is only a private practising; indeed a mere rehearsal. Next week we will have a general music-party, the first of a series which we have arranged to take place at intervals of a fortnight, and to which we intend ourselves the pleasure of sending invitations to you and all our other friends. This, of to-night, is, I repeat, nothing more than a rehearsal, and we expect only a few professional musicians, whose assistance we have secured for our regular musical soirées. I am very glad, indeed, my dear Harriet, that you chance to be with us this evening. As I said, we have tea earlier than usual, that the music may begin the sooner, and at ten o'clock we will have coffee and other refreshments handed round."

By this time, the table was newly set, fresh tea was made, and some additional nice things were produced. Harriet, who was very sorry for having caused any unnecessary trouble, sat down to her tea, which she despatched in all possible haste, as she knew that Mrs. Urlingford must be impatient to have the table cleared away, previous to the arrival of the musicians, who were now momentarily expected. Just as Harriet was finishing, there came in a German that played on the violon-cello, and was always very early. On being asked if he had taken tea, he replied in the affirmative, but that he would have no objection to a little more. Accordingly he sat down and made a long and hearty meal, to the evident annoyance of the family, and still more to that of Harriet Heathcote, who knew that the table would long since have been removed, had it not been detained on her account. There was nothing now to be done, but to close the folding-doors, and shut in the German till he had completed his repast, as others of the company were fast arriving. And though Harriet had been told that this was merely a private practising, she soon found herself in the midst of something that very much resembled a large party; so many persons having been invited exclusive of the regular performers. She understood, however, that nobody had been asked to this rehearsal, who had not a decided taste for music.

Our heroine, for her part, had no extraordinary talent for that difficult and elegant accomplishment; and, after taking lessons for about a year, it was considered best that she should give it up, as her voice was of no great compass, and there was little probability of her reaching any proficiency, as an instrumental musician, that would compensate for an undue expense of time, money, and application. Therefore, Harriet had never advanced beyond simple ballads, which she played and sang agreeably and correctly enough, but which she only attempted when her audience consisted exclusively of her own family; and none of her brothers and sisters had as yet shown any taste for that sort of music which is commonly called scientific.

The Urlingfords, on the contrary, could all sing and play; the girls on the harp, piano, and guitar; and the boys on the flute, and violin. They all had voices of great power, and sung nothing but Italian.

The evening was passed in the performance of pieces that exhibited much science, and much difficulty of execution: such pieces, in short, as Dr. Johnson wished were "impossible." Being totally at variance with the simplicity of Harriet's taste, she found them very uninteresting, and inconceivably fatiguing, and after a while she had great difficulty in keeping herself awake. Of course, not a word was uttered during the performance, and the concertos, potpourris, arias, and cavatinas succeeded each other so rapidly that there was no interval in which to snatch a few moments of conversation. It is true the purport of the meeting was music, and music alone.

Miss Heathcote almost envied a young lady, who, having learnt all her music in Europe, had come home with an enthusiasm for feats of voice and finger, that on all these occasions transported her into the third heaven. She sat with her neck stretched forward, and her hands out-spread, her lips half open, her eyes sometimes raised as in ecstasy, and sometimes closed in overpowering bliss. But Harriet's envy of such exquisite sensations was a little checked, when she observed Miss Denham stealing a sly glance all round, to see who was looking at her, and admiring her enthusiasm. And then Harriet could not help thinking how very painful it must be (when only done for effect) to keep up such an air and attitude of admiration during a whole long evening.

Our heroine was also much entertained in the early part of the performance, particularly during a grand concerto, by observing the musician who officiated as leader, and was a foreigner of great skill in his profession. In him there was certainly no affectation. To have the piece performed in the most perfect manner, was "the settled purpose of his soul." All the energies of his mind and body were absorbed in this one object, and he seemed as if the whole happiness of his future life, nay, his existence itself, depended on its success. The piece was proceeding in its full tide of glory, and the leader was waving his bow with more pride and satisfaction than a monarch ever felt in wielding his sceptre, or a triumphant warrior in brandishing his sword. Suddenly he gave "a look of horror and a sudden start," and turning instantly round, his eyes glared fiercely over the whole circle of performers in search of the culprit who had been guilty of a false note; an error which would scarcely have been noticed by any of the company, had it not been made so conspicuous by the shock it had given to the chief musician. The criminal, however, was only discovered by his injudiciously "hiding his diminished head." Better for him to have been "a fine, gay, bold-faced villain."

Harriet could not help remarking that though the company all applauded every song that was sung, and every piece that was played, and that at the conclusion of each, the words "charming," "exquisite," "divine," were murmured round the room, still almost every one looked tired, many were evidently suppressing their inclination to yawn--some took opportunities of looking privately at their watches; and Mr. Urlingford and another old gentleman slept a duet together in a corner. The entrance of the coffee, &c., produced a wonderful revival, and restored animation to eyes that seemed ready to close in slumber. The company all started from the listless postures into which they had unconsciously thrown themselves, and every one sat up straight. As soon as she had drunk a cup of the refreshing beverage, Miss Heathcote was glad to avail herself of her brother's arrival and take her leave; Mrs. Urlingford, congratulating her again on having been so fortunate as to drop in exactly on that evening, and telling her that she should certainly expect her at all her musical parties throughout the season.

And Harriet might perhaps have gone to the first one, had she not been so unluckily present at the rehearsal.

On the next uninvited visit of our heroine, she found her friends, the three Miss Celbridges, sitting in the parlour with their mother, by no other light than that of the fire, and all looking extremely dejected. On inquiring if they were well, they answered in the affirmative. Her next question was to ask when they had heard from Baltimore, in which place some of their nearest relations were settled. The reply was, that they had received letters that morning, and that their friends were in good health. "Well, girls," said Harriet, gayly, "you see I have taken you at your word, and have come to pass the evening with you sans ceremonie."

The Miss Celbridges exchanged looks with their mother, who cast down her eyes and said nothing; and one of the young ladies silently assisted Harriet in taking off her walking habiliments. There was an air of general constraint, and our heroine began to fear that her visit was not quite acceptable. "Is it possible," thought she, "that I could unconsciously have given any offence at our last meeting?" But she recollected immediately, that the Miss Celbridges had then taken leave of her with the most unequivocal evidences of cordiality, and had earnestly insisted on her coming to drink tea with them, as often as she felt a desire, assuring her that they should always be delighted to see her "in a sociable way."

The young ladies made an effort at conversation, but it was visibly an effort. The minds of the Miss Celbridges were all palpably engrossed with something quite foreign to the topic of discussion, and Harriet was too much surprised, and too much embarrassed to talk with her usual fluency.

At length Mr. Celbridge entered the room, and after slightly saluting Miss Heathcote, asked why the lamp was not lighted. It was done--and Harriet then perceived by the redness of their eyes, that the mother and daughters had all been in tears. Mr. Celbridge looked also very melancholy, and seating himself beside his wife, he entered into a low and earnest conversation with her. Mrs. Celbridge held her handkerchief to her face, and Harriet could no longer refrain from inquiring if the family had been visited by any unexpected misfortune. There was a pause, during which the daughters evidently struggled to command their feelings, and Mr. Celbridge, after a few moments' hesitation, replied in a tremulous voice: "Perhaps, Miss Heathcote, you know not that to-day I have become a bankrupt; that the unexpected failure of a house for which I had endorsed to a large amount, has deprived me of the earnings of twenty years, and reduced me to indigence."

Harriet was much shocked, and expressed her entire ignorance of the fact. "We supposed," said Mrs. Celbridge, "that it must have been known universally--and such reports always spread with too much rapidity." "Surely," replied Harriet, taking the hand of Mrs. Celbridge, "you cannot seriously believe that it was known to me. The slightest intimation of this unfortunate event, would certainly have deterred me from interrupting you with my presence at a time when the company of a visitor must be so painfully irksome to the whole family."

She then rose, and said that if Mr. Celbridge would have the kindness to accompany her to her own door, she would immediately go home. "I will not dissemble, my dear Miss Heathcote," replied Mrs. Celbridge, "and urge you to remain, when it must be evident to you that none of us are in a state to make your visit agreeable to you, or indeed to derive pleasure from it ourselves. After the first shock is over, we shall be able, I hope, to look on our reverse of fortune with something like composure. And when we are settled in the humble habitation to which we must soon remove, we shall be glad indeed to have our evenings occasionally enlivened by the society of one whom we have always been so happy to class among our friends."

Mr. Celbridge escorted Harriet to her own residence, which was only at a short distance. She there found that her brother, having just heard of the failure, and knowing that she intended spending the evening at Mr. Celbridge's, had sent her from his office a note to prevent her going, but it had not arrived till after her departure.

Among Miss Heathcote's acquaintances was Mrs. Accleton, a very young lady recently married, who on receiving her bridal-visits, had given out that she intended to live economically, and not to indulge in any unnecessary expense. She emphatically proclaimed her resolution never to give a party; but she did not even insinuate that she would never go to a party herself. She also declared that it did not comport with her plans (young girls when just married are apt to talk much of their plans) to have any regularly invited company; but that it would always afford her the greatest possible pleasure to see her friends sociably, if they would come and take tea with her, whenever it was convenient to themselves, and without waiting for her to appoint any particular time. "My husband and I," said Mrs. Accleton, "intend spending all our evenings at home, so there is no risk of ever finding us out. We are too happy in each other to seek for amusement abroad; and we find by experience that nothing the world can offer is equal to our own domestic felicity, varied occasionally by the delightful surprise of an unceremonious visit from an intimate friend."

It was not till after the most urgent entreaties, often reiterated, that Harriet Heathcote undertook one of these visits to Mrs. Accleton. After ringing at the street-door till her patience was nearly exhausted, it was opened by a sulky-looking white girl, who performed the office of porteress with a very ill grace, hiding herself behind it because she was not in full dress; and to Harriet's inquiry if Mrs. Accleton was at home, murmuring in a most repulsive tone that "she believed she was."

Our heroine was kept waiting a considerable time in a cold and comfortless, though richly-furnished parlour, where the splendid coal-grate exhibited no evidences of fire, but a mass of cinders blackening at the bottom. At length Mrs. Accleton made her appearance, fresh from the toilet, and apologized by saying, that expecting no one that afternoon, she had ever since dinner been sitting up stairs in her wrapper. "About twelve o'clock," said she, "I always, when the weather is fine, dress myself and have the front-parlour fire made up, in case of morning-visiters. But after dinner, I usually put on a wrapper, and establish myself in the dining-room for the remainder of the day. My husband and I have got into the habit of spending all our evenings there. It is a charmingly comfortable little room, and we think it scarcely worth while to keep up the parlour-fire just for our two selves. However, I will have it replenished immediately. Excuse me for one moment." She then left the room, and shortly returning, resumed her discourse.

"I determined," said she, "from the hour I first thought of housekeeping, that it should be my plan to have none but white servants. They are less wasteful than the blacks; less extravagant in their cooking; are satisfied to sit by smaller fires; and have fewer visiters. The chief difficulty with them is, that there are so many things they are unwilling to do. Yesterday my cook left me quite suddenly, and to-day a little girl about fourteen, whom I hired last week as a waiter, was taken away by her mother; and I have just now been trying to persuade Sally, the chambermaid, to bring in the coal-scuttle and make up the fire. But she has a great objection to doing anything in presence of strangers, and I am rather afraid she will not come. And I do not much wonder at it, for Sally is a girl of a very respectable family. She has nothing of the servant about her."

"So much the worse," thought Harriet, "if she is obliged to get her living in that capacity."

After a long uncomfortable pause, during which there were no signs of Sally, Mrs. Accleton involuntarily put her hand to the bell, but recollecting herself, withdrew it again without pressing the spring. "There would be no use," said she, "in ringing the bell, for Sally never takes the least notice of it. She is principled against it, and says she will not be rung about the house like a negro. I have to indulge her in this laudable feeling of self-respect, for in everything that is essential she is a most valuable girl, and irons my dresses beautifully, and does up my collars and pelerines to admiration."

So saying, Mrs. Accleton again left the parlour to have another expostulation with Sally, who finally vouchsafed to bring in the coal-scuttle, and flinging a few fresh coals on the top of the dying embers (from which all power of ignition had too visibly fled), put up the blower, and hurried out of the room. But the blower awakened no flame, and not a sound was heard to issue from behind its blank and dreary expanse. "I am afraid the fire is too far gone to be revived without a regular clearing out of the grate," said Mrs. Accleton, "and I doubt the possibility of prevailing on Sally to go through all that. Anthracite has certainly its disadvantages. Perhaps we had better adjourn to the dining-room, where there has been a good fire the whole day. If I had only known that you intended me the pleasure of this visit! However, I have no doubt you will find it very comfortable up stairs."

To the dining-room they accordingly went. It was a little narrow apartment over the kitchen, with a low ceiling and small windows looking out on the dead wall of the next house, and furnished in the plainest and most economical manner. There was a little soap-stone grate that held about three quarts of coal, which, however, was burning; a small round table that answered for every purpose; half a dozen wooden-bottomed cane-coloured chairs; and a small settee to match, covered with a calico cushion, and calculated to hold but two people. "This is just the size for my husband and myself," said Mrs. Accleton, as she placed herself on the settee. "We had it made on purpose. Will you take a seat on it, Miss Harriet, or would you prefer a chair? I expect Mr. Accleton home in a few minutes." Harriet preferred a chair.

The conversation now turned on housekeeping, and the nouvelle mariée gave a circumstantial detail of her various plans, and expressed some surprise that, notwithstanding the excellence of her system, she found so much difficulty in getting servants to fall into it. "I have the most trouble with my cooks," pursued Mrs. Accleton. "I have had six different women in that capacity, though I have only been married two months. And I am sure Mr. Accleton and myself are by no means hard to please. We live in the plainest way possible, and a very little is sufficient for our table. Our meat is simply boiled or roasted, and often we have nothing more than a beefsteak. We never have any sort of dessert, considering all such things as extremely unwholesome." "What is the reason," thought Harriet, "that so many young ladies, when they are first married, discover immediately that desserts are unwholesome; particularly if prepared and eaten in their own houses?"

Mrs. Accleton made frequent trips back and forward to the kitchen, and Harriet understood that tea was in agitation. Finally, Sally, looking very much out of humour, came and asked for the keys; and unlocking a dwarf side-board that stood in one of the recesses, she got out the common tea-equipage and placed it on the table. "You see, Miss Harriet, we treat you quite en famille," said Mrs. Accleton. "We make no stranger of you. After tea, the parlour will doubtless be warm, and we will go down thither." Harriet wondered if the anthracite was expected to repent of its obstinacy, and take to burning of its own accord.

Mr. Accleton now came home, and his wife, after running to kiss him, exclaimed: "Oh! my dear, I am glad you are come! You can now entertain Miss Heathcote while I go down and pay some attention to the tea, for Sally protests that she was not hired to cook, and, if the truth must be told, she is very busy ironing, and does not like to be taken off. This is our regular ironing-day, and one of my rules is never, on any consideration, to have it put off or passed over. Method is the soul of housekeeping."

Mr. Accleton was naturally taciturn, but he made a prodigious effort to entertain Harriet, and talked to her of the tariff.

It was near eight o'clock before Sally condescended to bring up the tea and its accompaniments, which were a plate containing four slices of the thinnest possible bread and butter, another with two slices of pale toast, and a third with two shapeless whitish cakes, of what composition it was difficult to tell, but similar to those that are called flap-jacks in Boston, slap-jacks in New York, and buckwheat cakes in Philadelphia.[84] In the centre was a deep dish with a dozen small stewed oysters floating in an ocean of liquor, as tasteless and insipid as dish-water. The tea also was tasteless, and for two reasons--first, that the Chinese herb had been apportioned in a very small quantity; and secondly, that the kettle had not "come to a boil."

[Footnote 84: Query? Which epithet is the most elegant, flap or slap? We rather think "the flaps have it."]

"We give you tea in a very plain style," said Mrs. Accleton to Harriet; "you see we make no stranger of you, and that we treat you just as we do ourselves. We know that simple food is always the most wholesome, and when our friends are so kind as to visit us, we have no desire to make them sick by covering our table with dainties. It is one of my rules never to have a sweetcake or sweetmeat in the house. They are not only a foolish expense, but decidedly prejudicial to health."

The hot cakes being soon despatched, there was considerable waiting for another supply. Mr. and Mrs. Accleton were at somewhat of a nonplus as to the most feasible means of procuring the attendance of Sally. "Perhaps she will come if we knock on the floor," said Mrs. Accleton; "she has done so sometimes." Mr. Accleton stamped on the floor, but Sally came not. Harriet could not imagine why Sally's pride should be less hurt by coming to a knock on the floor than to a ring of the bell; but there is no accounting for tastes. Mr. Accleton stamped again, and much more loudly than before. "Now you have spoiled all," said his wife, fretfully; "Sally will never come now. She will be justly offended at your stamping for her in that violent way. I much question if we see her face again to-night."

At last, after much canvassing, it was decided that Mr. Accleton should go to the head of the stairs and venture to call Sally; his wife enjoining him not to call too loudly, and to let his tone and manner be as mild as possible. This delicate business was successfully accomplished. Sally at last appeared with two more hot cakes, and Mrs. Accleton respectfully intimated to her that she wished her to return in a few minutes to clear away the table.

Mr. Accleton, who was a meek man, being sent down by his wife to reconnoitre the parlour fire, came back and reported that it was "dead out." "How very unlucky," said Mrs. Accleton, "that Miss Heathcote should happen to come just on this evening! Unlucky for herself, I mean, for we must always be delighted to see her. However, I am so fond of this snug little room, that for my own part I have no desire ever to sit in any other. My husband and I have passed so many pleasant hours in it."

The ladies now resumed their sewing; Mrs. Accleton talked of her plans, and her economy, and Sally; and Mr. Accleton pored over the newspaper as if he was learning it all by heart, even to the advertisements; while his wife, who had taken occasion to remark that the price of oil had risen considerably, managed two or three times to give the screw of the astral lamp a twist to the left, which so much diminished the light that Harriet could scarcely see to thread her needle.

About an hour after tea, Mrs. Accleton called her husband to the other end of the room, and a half-whispered consultation took place between them, which ended in the disappearance of the gentleman. In a short time he returned, and there was another consultation, in the course of which Harriet could not avoid distinguishing the words--"Sally refuses to quit her clear-starching." "Well, dear, cannot I ask you just to do them yourself?" "Oh, no! indeed, it is quite out of the question; I would willingly oblige you in anything else." "But, dear, only think how often you have done this very thing when a boy." "But I am not a boy now." "Oh, but dear, you really must. There is no one else to do it. Come now, only a few, just a very few." There was a little more persuasion; the lady seemed to prevail, and the gentleman quitted the room. A short time after, there was heard a sound of cracking nuts, which Mrs. Accleton, consciously colouring, endeavoured to drown by talking as fast and as loudly as possible.

We have said that Mr. Accleton was a meek man. Having finished his business down-stairs, he came back looking red and foolish; and after awhile Sally appeared with great displeasure in her countenance, and in her hands a waiter containing a plate of shellbarks, a pitcher of water, and some glasses. Mr. Accleton belonged to the temperance society, and therefore, as his wife said, was principled against having in his house, either wine, or any other sort of liquor.

The arrival of Albert Heathcote put an end to this comfortless visit; and Mrs. Accleton on taking leave of Harriet, repeated, for the twentieth time, her regret at not having had any previous intimation of it.

Our heroine could not but wonder why marriage should so soon have have made a change for the worse, in the lady with whom she had been passing the evening, and whom she had known when Miss Maiden, as a lively, pleasant, agreeable girl, not remarkable for much mind, but in every other respect the reverse of what she was now. Harriet had yet to learn that marriage, particularly when it takes place at a very early age, and before the judgment of the lady has had time to ripen by intercourse with the world, frequently produces a sad alteration in her habits and ideas. As soon as she is emancipated from the control of her parents, and when "her market is made," and a partner secured for life, all her latent faults and foibles are too prone to show themselves without disguise, and she is likewise in much danger of acquiring new ones. Presuming upon her importance as a married lady, and also upon the indulgence with which husbands generally regard all the sayings and doings of their wives in the early days of matrimony, woman, as well as man, is indeed too apt to "play fantastic tricks when dressed in a little brief authority."

Next day, Harriet was surprised by a morning visit from Mrs. Accleton, who came in looking much discomposed, and, after the first salutations, said in a tone of some bitterness, "I have met with a great misfortune, Miss Heathcote. I have lost that most valuable servant, Sally. The poor girl's pride was so deeply wounded at being obliged to bring in the waiter before company (and as her family is so respectable, she of course has a certain degree of proper pride), that she gave me notice this morning of the utter impossibility of her remaining in the house another day. I tried in vain to pacify her, and I assured her that your coming to tea was entirely accidental, and that such a thing might never happen again. All I could urge had no effect on her, and she persisted in saying that she never could stay in any place after her feelings had been hurt, and that she had concluded to live at home for the future, and take in sewing. So she quitted me at once, leaving me without a creature in the house, and I have been obliged to borrow mamma's Kitty for the present. And I have nearly fatigued myself to death by walking almost to Schuylkill to inquire the character of a cook that I heard of yesterday. As to a chambermaid, I never expect to find one that will replace poor Sally. She was so perfectly clean, and she clear-starched, and plaited, and ironed so beautifully; and when I went to a party, she could arrange my hair as well as a French barber, which was certainly a great saving to me. Undoubtedly, Miss Heathcote, your company is always pleasant, and we certainly spent a delightful evening, but if I had had the least intimation that you intended me the honour of a visit yesterday, I should have taken the liberty of requesting you to defer it till I had provided myself with a cook and a waiter. Poor Sally--and to think, too, that she had been ironing all day!"

Harriet was much vexed, and attempted an apology for her ill-timed visit. She finally succeeded in somewhat mollifying the lady by presenting her with some cake and wine as a refreshment after her fatigue, and Mrs. Accleton departed in rather a better humour, but still the burthen of her song was, "of course, Miss Heathcote, your visits must be always welcome--but it is certainly a sad thing to lose poor Sally."

Our heroine's next attempt at a sociable visit was to her friend Amanda Milbourne, the eldest daughter of a large family. As soon as Harriet made her entrance, the children, with all of whom she was a great favourite, gathered round, and informed her with delighted faces, that their father and mother were going to take them to the play. Harriet feared that again her visit had been ill-timed, and offered to return home. "On the contrary," said Mrs. Milbourne, "nothing can be more fortunate, at least for Amanda, who has declined accompanying us to the theatre, as her eyes are again out of order, and she is afraid of the lights. Therefore she will be extremely happy to have you spend the evening with her." "It is asking too much of Harriet's kindness," said Amanda, "to expect her to pass a dull evening alone with me; I fear I shall not be able to entertain her as I would wish. The place that was taken for me at the theatre will be vacant, and I am sure it would give you all great pleasure if Harriet would accept of it, and accompany you thither." This invitation was eagerly urged by Mr. and Mrs. Milbourne, and loudly reiterated by all the children, but Harriet had been at the theatre the preceding evening, the performances of to-night were exactly the same, and she was one of those that think "nothing so tedious as a twice-seen play," that is, if all the parts are filled precisely as before.

Mrs. Milbourne then again felicitated Amanda on being so fortunate as to have Miss Heathcote to pass the evening with her. "To say the truth," said the good mother, "I could scarcely reconcile myself to the idea of your staying at home, particularly as your eyes will not allow you to read or to sew this evening, and you could have no resource but the piano." Then turning to Harriet, she continued, "When her eyes are well, it may be truly remarked of Amanda, that she is one of those fortunate persons 'who are never less alone than when alone;' she often says so herself."

Accordingly Harriet was prevailed on to go through with her visit. And as soon as tea was over, all the Milbourne family (with the exception of Amanda) departed for the theatre.

Harriet produced her bead work, and endeavoured to be as amusing as possible, but her friend seemed silent, abstracted, and not in the vein for conversation, complaining at times of the pain in her eyes, which, however, looked as well as usual. Just after the departure of the family, Amanda stole softly to the front-door and put up the dead-latch, so that it could be opened from without. After that, she resumed her seat in the parlour, and appeared to be anxiously listening for something. The sound of footsteps was soon heard at the door, and presently a handsome young gentleman walked in without having rung the bell, and as he entered the parlour, stopped short, and looked disconcerted at finding a stranger there. Amanda blushed deeply, but rose and introduced him as Captain Sedbury of the army. Harriet then recollected having heard a vague report of an officer being very much in love with Miss Milbourne, and that her parents discountenanced his addresses, unwilling that the most beautiful and most accomplished of their daughters should marry a man who had no fortune but his commission.

The fact was, that Captain Sedbury, after an absence of several months at his station, had only arrived in town that morning, and finding means to notify his mistress of his return, it had been arranged between them that he should visit her in the evening, during the absence of the family, and for this purpose Amanda had excused herself from going to the theatre. He took his seat beside Amanda, who contrived to give him her hand behind the backs of their chairs, and attempted some general conversation, catching, at times, an opportunity of saying in a low voice a few words to the lady of his love, whose inclination was evidently to talk to him only.

Harriet Heathcote now found herself in a very awkward situation. On this occasion she was palpably what the French call Madame de Trop, a character which is irksome beyond all endurance to the lady herself, if she is a person of proper consideration for the convenience of others. Though conscious that they were wishing her at least in Alabama, she felt much sympathy for the lovers, as she had a favoured inamorato of her own, who was now on his return from Canton. She talked, and their replies were tardy and distrait; she looked at them, and they were gazing at each other, and several times she found them earnestly engaged in a whisper. She felt as if on thorns, and became so nervous that she actually got the headache. The dullness of Mrs. Drakelow, the sick baby of Mrs. Rushbrook, the feuds of the Miss Brandons, the failure of Mr. Celbridge, the music-practising of the Urlingfords, the maid Sally of the Accletons, had none of them at the time caused our heroine so much annoyance as she felt on this evening, from the idea that she was so inconveniently interrupting the stolen interview of two affianced lovers. At last she became too nervous to endure it any longer, and putting away her bead work, she expressed a desire to go home, pleading her headache as an excuse. Captain Sedbury started up with alacrity, and offered immediately to attend her. But Amanda, whose eyes had at first sparkled with delight, suddenly changed countenance, and begged Harriet to stay, saying, "You expect your brother, do you not?"

"Certainly," replied Harriet, "but as the distance is short, I hope it will be no great encroachment on Captain Sedbury's time. And then," she added with a smile, "he will of course return hither and finish his visit, after he has deposited me at my own door."

Amanda still hesitated. She recollected an instance of a friend of hers having lost her lover in consequence of his escorting home a pretty girl that made a "deadset" at him. And she was afraid to trust Captain Sedbury with so handsome a young lady as Miss Heathcote. Fortunately, however, Harriet removed this perplexity as soon as she guessed the cause. "Suppose," said she to Amanda, "that you were to accompany us yourself. It is a fine moonlight night, and I have no doubt the walk will do you good, as you say you have not been out for several days."

To this proposal Amanda joyfully assented, and in a moment her face was radiant with smiles. She ran up stairs for her walking equipments, and was down so quickly that Harriet had not much chance of throwing out any allurements in her absence, even if she had been so disposed. The captain gave an arm to each of the ladies, and in a short time the lovers bade Miss Heathcote good night at the door of her father's mansion.

Harriet now comprehended why her friend Amanda "was never less alone than when alone."

Three weeks afterwards, when Miss Milbourne and Captain Sedbury had effected a runaway marriage, and the parents had forgiven them according to custom, Amanda and her husband made themselves and Harriet very merry by good-humouredly telling her how much her accidental visit had incommoded them, and how glad they were to get rid of her.

We have only to relate one more instance of Harriet Heathcote's sociable visits. This was to her friends the Tanfields, a very charming family, consisting of a widow and her two daughters, whom she was certain of finding at home, because they were in deep mourning, and did not go out of an evening.

Harriet had been detained by a visiter, and it was nearly dark when she reached Mrs. Tanfield's door, and was told by the coloured man who opened it, that all his ladies had set out that morning for New York, having heard that young Mr. Tanfield (who lived in that city) was dangerously ill. Harriet was sorry that her friends should have received such painful intelligence, and for a few moments could think of nothing else, for she knew young Tanfield to be one of the best of sons and brothers. Her next consideration was how to get home, as there was no possibility of staying at Mrs. Tanfield's. Her residence was at a considerable distance, and "the gloomy night was gathering fast." She thought for a moment of asking Peters, the black man, to accompany her; but from the loud chattering and giggling that came up from the kitchen, (which seemed to be lighted with unusual brightness), and from having noticed, as she approached the house, that innumerable coloured people were trooping down the area-steps, she rightly concluded that Mrs. Tanfield's servants had taken advantage of her absence to give a party, and that "high life below stairs" was at that moment performing.

Fearing that if she requested Peters to escort her, he would comply very ungraciously, or perhaps excuse himself, rather than be taken away from his company, Miss Heathcote concluded on essaying to walk home by herself, for the first time in her life, after lamplight. As she turned from the door, (which Peters immediately closed) she lingered awhile on the step, looking out upon the increasing gloom, and afraid to venture into it. However, as there seemed no alternative, she summoned all her courage, and set off at a brisk pace. Her intention was to walk quietly along without showing the slightest apprehension, but she involuntarily shrunk aside whenever she met any of the other sex. On suddenly encountering a row of young men, arm in arm, with each a segar in his mouth, she came to a full stop, and actually shook with terror. They all looked at her a moment, and then made way for her to pass, and she felt as if she could have plunged into the wall to avoid touching them.

Presently our heroine met three sailors reeling along, evidently intoxicated, and singing loudly. She kept as close as possible to the curbstone, expecting nothing else than to be rudely accosted by them, but they were too intent upon their song to notice her; though one of them staggered against her, and pushed her off the pavement, so as almost to throw her into the street.

Her way home lay directly in front of the Walnut Street Theatre, which she felt it impossible to pass, as the people were just crowding in. And she now blessed the plan of the city which enabled her to avoid this inconvenience by "going round a square." The change of route took her into a street comparatively silent and retired, and now her greatest fear was of being seized and robbed. She would have given the world to have met any gentleman of her acquaintance, determining, if she did so, to request his protection home. At last she perceived one approaching, whose appearance she thought was familiar to her, and as they came within the light of a lamp, she found it to be Mr. Morland, an intimate friend of her brother's. He looked at her with a scrutinizing glance, as if he half-recognised her features under the shade of her hood. Poor Harriet now felt ashamed and mortified that Mr. Morland should see her alone and unprotected, walking in the street after dark. She had not courage to utter a word, but, drawing her hood more closely over her face, she glided hastily past him, and walked rapidly on. She had no sooner turned the corner of the street, than she regretted having obeyed the impulse of the moment, lamenting her want of presence of mind, and reflecting how much better it would have been for her to have stopped Mr. Morland, and candidly explained to him her embarrassing situation. But it was now too late.

Presently there was a cry of fire, and the State House bell tolled out north-east, which was exactly the contrary direction from Mr. Heathcote's residence. Immediately an engine came thundering along the street, accompanied by a hose, and followed by several others, and Harriet found herself in the midst of the crowd and uproar, while the light of the torches carried by the firemen glared full upon her. But what had at first struck her with terror, she now perceived to be rather an advantage than otherwise, for no one noticed her in the general confusion, and it set every one to running the same way. She found, as she approached her father's dwelling, that there was no longer any danger of her being molested by man or boy, all being gone to the fire, and the streets nearly deserted. Anxious to get home at all hazards, she commenced running as fast as she could, and never stopped till she found herself at her own door.

The family were amazed and alarmed when they saw Harriet run into the parlour, pale, trembling, and almost breathless, and looking half dead as she threw herself on the sofa, unable to speak; and she did not recover from her agitation, till she had relieved the hurry of her spirits by a flood of tears.

It was some minutes before Harriet was sufficiently composed to begin an explanation of the events of the evening.

"It is true," said she, "that I have not been actually molested or insulted, and I believe, after all, that in our orderly city there is little real danger to be apprehended by females of respectable appearance, when reduced to the sad necessity of walking alone in the evening. But still the mere supposition, the bare possibility of being thus exposed to the rudeness of the vulgar and unfeeling, will for ever prevent me from again subjecting myself to so intolerable a situation. I know not what could induce me again to go through all I have suffered since I left Mrs. Tanfield's door.--And this will be my last attempt at sociable visiting."

* * * * *

We submit it to the opinion of our fair readers, whether, in nine cases out of ten, the visits of ladies do not "go off the better," if anticipated by some previous intimation. We believe that our position will be borne out by the experience both of the visiters and the visited. Our heroine, as we have seen, did not only, on most of these occasions, subject herself to much disappointment and annoyance, but she was likewise the cause of considerable inconvenience to her entertainers; and we can say with truth, that the little incidents we have selected "to point our moral and adorn our tale," are all sketched from life and reality.

[The end]
Eliza Leslie's short story: Sociable Visiting

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