GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK
Philadelphia, January 1850

AUNT RACHEL stopped knitting, and looked over the top of her spectacles straight into my face. Now, I never could abide with comfort this sort of perusal: it is so much more searching than any questioning in words, that you feel as if every secret of your heart were understood, and yet have no chance to vindicate yourself or to reply, because you do not know what dangerous committal you might make. Aunt Rachel looked on without moving her lips. I – whistled. What else could a body do?

"Thee is musical today," said the old lady, at length, and quietly resumed her knitting. And it was none of your modern ornamental or fanciful affairs that she was engaged upon, but good, substantial men's hose, intended for Friend Folke, to whom, thirty years before, she had pledged herself, in presence of God and the Friends, to do the whole duty of a wife. Faithfully had she kept her promise, and faithfully he his likewise. It seemed, indeed, as if there were but one thought between them; that they understood each other as by instinct or intuition. And what Rachel said or did not say, I know Nathan said or would not say. While Rachel occasionally looked over her spectacles, it appeared to me that Nathan was peeping also out of the one stocking of his, which she held in her lap, its length growing momently under her busy fingers. Strange fancies take possession of one's imagination. Nathan seemed to me to rise out of that stocking, as the giant rose out of the copper-kettle in the Arabian tale. I saw him at full length, in that coat of antique and formal cut, with other garments to correspond; his placid face beaming – no, not beaming, but expressing, in a more subdued tone, perfect happiness. And then Nathan's face, in the vision, assumed the staring look which Rachel had just relinquished. Then I wondered if he ever – kissed his wife!

The thought was too ludicrous. It was like the mantle of George Fox thrown over a statue of Venus, or any other incongruous absurdity. Rachel and Nathan Folke kissing each other! I would as soon expect to see Arch street meeting putting on the airs of the opera-house. I laughed outright – out loud – at my own thoughts; and Friend Rachel said –

"Thee has merry fancies this morning, Joseph; but I am impressed with the conviction that they are more light than useful. Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child." "Good morning, aunt," said I, starting to my feet "Farewell," she answered; and the pleasant tone in which she said that word dwells still on my memory.

Dear old lady! she was long since consigned to the earth, with as little ostentation as she had moved upon it. Nathan sleeps beside her. And in the memory of "friends," their images rest, like dear visions of departed moral beauty. No portraits of them are extant; they were too consistent in their profession and 'practice to submit to any such vain perpetuation of the features of the mere creature. The. "fleshly tabernacle," they said, would fullfill its work and be dissolved – why preserve its resemblance?

My mother, sorely to Rachel's grief, married at an early age, "out of meeting." Her husband was worthy of her love, but she wedded only to bury him. He did not even live to see his child, and thus was I born fatherless. The widow had forfeited her membership of the Society of Friends by her marriage; and although an acknowledgment of the "error" would have restored her, she declined during her husband's short life, out of deference to his wishes, known, though unexpressed. She had counted the cost and the consequences, and decided to abide by them. After his death, respect for his memory deterred her from what she considered would have been a reflection upon him. Once only Aunt Rachel mentioned the subject – my mother rather hinted than detailed her reasons. "What thee thinks is right, is right for thee," said Rachel; and there the matter dropped. My mother, however, followed her early associations and education; and, without any formal application, resumed her place among the worshipers in meeting and among the social circles of the friends of her youth. She was deeply afflicted, and who so well as they with whom she had grown up could minister to her consolation? Not long did she need it; for she early followed my father. Thus was I left an orphan. My guardian, by his will, was a gentleman not of the Society of Friends; but, with excellent good sense, he permitted me to remain in the custody of my mother's connections. And as I came to age, the Quaker habits of costume and manners subdued a disposition which might have led me into reckless fashionable extravagance and folly. Dear Aunt Rachel! how much of what is best in my character do I owe to the influence of her precepts and example. Nor was Uncle Nathan without his share in the formation of my character, and the inculcation of correct principles. Am I vain in my estimate of myself? No matter – Mr. Godey will preserve my incognito.

Well, to my story. On the morning on which Aunt Rachel, as before recorded, surveyed me over the tops of her glasses, I had, very much to her astonishment, after sitting a few moments in silence, said – "Aunt, I am going tonight to see Kean."

"And what is Kean, Joseph?" she asked.

Dear, unsophisticated old lady! I am sure she had never read a play-bill in her life. I pitied her ignorance with a boy's impertinence; and proceeded, by way of farther enlightenment, to say –" I am going to the theatre."

And then came the look which I have described. She said nothing in opposition; but her mild and searching look seemed to chide me as much as if she had said, "Joseph, I perceive thee has kept be company. Evil communications corrupt good manners, and never in this house could such thoughts have happened to thee." I wondered if she knew my erratic movements. In childhood and youth, I was struck with the apparent universal knowledge of the old ladies; and subsequent years have not decreased my admiration. So take care, young man. Your mother does "know you are out," however well you think you have concealed the fact. And, like Aunt Rachel, many women forbear to say all they think, or to remark upon all that they know.

I went to the theatre, wisely keeping out of the way of my uncle and aunt through the day, to avoid the interdict which I thought might be the result of their deliberations. What a world of wonder opened upon me on that eventful evening! Many times I had passed the open doors of the vestibule of Chestnut street theatre, and envied those whom no Aunt Rachel prevented from boldly walking in. The statues in the niches in front of the building had, on many a day, fixed my curiosity as to what manner of amusement such figures could possibly portend. Altogether – though, of course, from my reading, I could not fail to have some notion of the drama and the stage – the subject had been one of bewilderment to me. Rooks spoke of the drama as a refined and intellectual amusement. Strange specimens of refinement, it seemed to me, hovered about the purlieus of the "Temple of the Muses." But now my doubts were to be resolved. I walked to the box-once with as much of the air of an habitue as I could assume; but, as I entered, I saw my coat for almost the first time in my life – saw it, I mean, with something of the same feeling with which Adam and Eve discerned that they were naked. It was not cut for such a place as that into which I was entering.

I called for a pit-ticket, and the box-keeper held out his hand. I understood – how distinctly are trifles remembered! – that this was not one of the places where s man's honesty is taken for granted. When he received my money – those were the half-dollar days of the pit – he gave me the ticket. Armed with this bit of pasteboard, I was passed in. The full light was not yet exhibited, but – it was one of Kean's nights, remember – still I was dazzled. There was a dense crowd, and I wedged myself with difficulty into a seat. Above and around were s sea of faces, and clouds of ribbons and laces. It was early, and a buzz of animated conversation filled the house. As for me, I sat in wrapped astonishment gazing at the drop-curtain. Presently, the orchestra began to assemble; and after the usual notes of preparation, amid the shouts and calls of the pit, they played an overture, with which I should have been well content for my half-dollar's worth. The play – it was Richard III. – completely entranced me. Others, who were in the habit of frequenting the house, had admiration only for Kean, and tolerated the other leading performers. But not a man walked upon that stage that night who did not excite my admiration. I gazed upon the rank and file, ten men strong, which represented the two armies, with awe-struck wonder; and had, indeed, so much applause and sympathy for the underlings, that my praise of the hero of the night fell far behind that which was showered upon him by the audience. There seemed to me, I remember, a species of injustice in giving the whole credit to one, to the disadvantage, as it appeared to my democratic notions, of the rest.

To the tragedy succeeded a song as an interlude, and the whole was crowed by a "laughable farce." In this latter, I was completely delighted; and it surprised me that many of the audience should be so careless of receiving their money's worth that they left the house at the close of the first piece. I had not then learned that of this description of amusement, as of all others, men may tire; and when the curtain fell on the huddled conclusion of the little comedy, leaving impossibilities arranged to the entire satisfaction of all the dramatis persona, like Oliver Twist, I could have begged for more. I was astonished to find that the hour was midnight; and as I hurried home, began to feel the reproaches of conscience after my stolen pleasure. Many things had I seen that night which I could not reconcile to my ideas of right and propriety. But I argued that they were not necessary accompaniments of the drama, and I forgot my fears of reprimand, in conning over impossible schemes to "elevate the theatre."

As I approached my uncle's house, I began to wonder how I was to obtain an entrance. This was a consideration which had not entered my mind when planning the evening's amusement. But I was surprised to find a carriage before the door, and to notice lights moving over the house. The latch turned at my touch – and this at midnight Awe crept over me as I entered; and, I know not why, but I passed directly to my aunt's chamber. All was still; the door was partly open, and through the crack I perceived that there were a number of persons in the room – the family, and four or five others whom I recognized as intimate friends.

I entered unnoticed, and drew near the bed. My aunt, supported by pillows, seemed to be in a calm and deep sleep. The women's eyes around were red with weeping, and the faces of the men indicated that they struggled with strong emotions of grief: I thought. Not a word was spoken. No one seemed disposed to move, Nothing disturbed the perfect repose of that sick chamber. How long this lasted I cannot tell, but it was long enough for my mind to do the thinking of a lifetime. Are. we masters of our own imaginations?

While I looked upon the woman who lay before me, all consciousness of the presence of any person save her and myself, passed away. Presently, I lost all recollection and observation of the place in which I was. I was back again at the theatre. Again the bright lamps glared around me. Again I heard the calls of the noisy, half-grown boys, and men as childish as they. Again the music, with its crash of sounds, stilled all other disturbances. Again I saw the tiers of faces piled above me; again the clouds of laces and ribbons, the gaudy flutter of vanity and folly. But amid it all, methought wherever I turned, my aunt's placid, inquiring face was earnestly gazing into mine.

The play proceeded. In, every scene was the countenance of the dying woman. The mocking hate of Richard was rebuked by the dying gentleness of the Quaker matron. In the tent scene, her face was among the procession of the murdered who visited the warrior in his dreams – silent, sad, reproachful. And when Richard bounded from his couch, I was amazed to see that he had undergone a transformation. He was Richard no longer, but myself! I groaned aloud, and shuddered visibly. Nathan Folke placed a chair, and gently seated me in it. He had passed a long life in looking death in the face; and now he only .sorrowed that Rachel was going before him. It was sorrow not for her, but for himself.

I covered my face with my hands, but could not shut out the hateful pageant. Scene after scene passed before me. Sometimes I forgot Rachel, and was again entirely enwrapt in the drama. But suddenly that face would reappear, when least expected. I opened my eyes and gazed about the room. There stood Nathan Folke, his broad hat shadowing his eyes, and concealing the upper part of his face; but I could perceive that his lips and chin quivered nervously. A strong man was struggling with the natural emotions and impulses of grief. A. Christian was schooling his heart to say, " Thy will be done."

Again the chamber scene faded away. The "interlude," a comic song, or, to speak more properly, a duet, filled my ear I saw the gipsy bonnet of the actress, and Nathan's broad-brim became a peasant's hat. Under the gipsy appeared my aunt's pale features, and Nathan took the place of the peasant actor. And they – Nathan and Rachel – sang the duet!

I started – frightened – for I had felt a laugh creeping over my face. Nathan and Rachel Folke singing a comic song! My movement called Nathan's attention again to me. I was rubbing my eyes. "Thee had better go to-bed, Joseph," said he, in a kind and low voice. I looked upon my aunt. She still remained apparently asleep and unconscious. "Thee had better go to-bed," Nathan Folke e repeated, "and if there is any change for the worse, we will call thee."

I obeyed, mechanically; for to stay in the apartment longer was more than I dared to do. The strange and new excitement in which the first part of the night had been passed, overmastered all my efforts to keep its scenes from haunting my imagination. And the mixing of dying woman among the gilt pasteboard and tinsel of the stage, was a thing so terrible, that I feared to trust myself longer where any could observe my emotions. I retired to my chamber, but not to sleep. Painfully, strangely did the hours pass until daylight. Heartily rejoiced was I when the wholesome and natural light of the sun tool; the place of the unnatural glare which had haunted me through the hours of darkness. Was my aunt living or dead ?

I heard a well-known, measured step in the passage, and sprang to the door as my uncle passed. "Rachel has. passed the crisis," he said, in a voice choked with grateful emotion, "and the physician says she will recover." I threw myself upon the bed and slept until noon.

Aunt Rachel broke the silence. "I forgot to ask thee, Joseph," she said; "but did thee see Kean?"

The blood rushed to my face. I looked up, and Rachel wore her wild, inquisitorial look. Her blue eyes were piercing me through and through. The breath of a whistle came to my aid, but I swallowed it, and bit my lips to cure that propensity. Aunt Rachel was waiting for an answer.

I began at the beginning, and told her the whole. She listened, sometimes with a smile – she laughed outright when I told her of the duet – but oftener there was a sad expression on her face.

"It was painful pleasure for thee, Joseph; but it has taught thee wisdom. We knew about the theatre, be thy vision in the chamber was a visitation which we could not Know till thee told us. May it do thee good."

And it has done. me good. Sometimes I attempt to read a play-bill, but Aunt Rachel's Eyes invariably come between sight and the staring capital letters; and I pass. I am a haunted man – haunted by AUNT RACHEL'S EYES; but when my own conscience does not reprove me, the EYES do not. would not lose the vision for a world.

TIME rolled on. Aunt Rachel still kept her habit of looking over the tops of her spectacles at me;. and not withstanding the theatrical lesson, I am very much afraid, as I review my life, that the occasions for these inquisitorial glances did not diminish in frequency. Perhaps I grew more independent, and cared less for these silent admonitions. All proper respect is certainly to be paid to age, but our seniors cannot reasonably expect that we should see everything through their spectacles. The young look their present in the face, and look forward to the future with hope. The old look upon youth and its doings with a retrospective glance; and there is a world of difference between the appearances of things from two such opposite points of view.

"Joseph," said Aunt Rachel to me, one evening, "I think thee is too young."

"Well, aunt," I answered, "that is a fault which will mend daily. But too young for what does thee mean?"

"And furthermore, Joseph, I think she is too young."

"Who?" I asked.

But Aunt Rachel did not answer. Her eyes were fastened as intently on her work as if her angers alone could not follow the path over which, from calf to toe, they had traveled ninety-nine times. She was at work on the first half of the fiftieth pair of stockings which she had knit for Uncle Nathan. How long life seems when we count the trifles – laborious trifles which make up its sum. I wondered if she – for I did know who Aunt Rachel meant – would ever live to knit forty-nine and a half pairs of stockings for me!

Old people mistake – and they mistake quite as often as the young. Now the truth was, that I had never ventured to put my childish attachment for Sally Gray in any definite shape until Aunt Rachel spoke to me. I was fond of chatting with her; and she was as fond of me, I suppose; and there it might have ended, blown over like other childish things, and passed out of recollection. But Aunt Rachel, in her too great caution, set us upon doing the very thing we should not have thought of so early by several years. The moon rose that very night upon a boy and a girl – Joseph and Sally, to wit – as firmly affianced as ever couple imagined themselves. And we went to rest that night – at least, I am sure I did – perfectly satisfied with the moon and stars, the earth, and the solar system entirely. Our fate we regarded as fixed beyond all peradventure. We were henceforth to be "all" to each other. Mothers and fathers, and uncles and aunts, and all such intrusive individuals, Were ruled out of our kingdom; and we declared ourselves in a state of suspended independence, prepared for wedlock as soon as we

should be legally capable. Morally and naturally we held ourselves all ready. I cannot say whether Aunt Rachel suspected this juvenile betrothal or not. Her eyes peered at me often, as if she not merely suspected, but knew everything.

Sally had a more difficult life of it. It was her fortune – I was about to write misfortune – to have an elder sister; and this elder had passed her teens, and traveled through more than a moiety of the twenties, without ever having heard anything like such a "declaration" as Sally had listened to from your humble servant. But the maiden was Sally's sister; and as the circumstance of being born of' the same parents and nurtured under the same roof must beget some kind of attachment even for the most unlovely, Sally loved this sister. Sometimes wiseacres wonder how brothers and sisters can quarrel. I have none to quarrel with; but observation of families that have fallen under my eye, has made me feel surprise how brothers and sisters tolerate each other at all. So many unkind and un-sisterly things are done and said, and so many mutual liberties are taken which no one else would venture upon, that natural affection must be more than a fiction to overmaster natural anger.

Sally – the little simpleton – let this older and more artful girl wheedle her whole wonderful secret out of her. Young lovers – female lovers – must have a confidant. And Prudy – her name was Prudence – pity it had not been more her nature – listened like a weasel sucking an egg, till she had the whole marrow of the thing. Every expression of countenance; every oh! ah! and alas! every moonstruck movement and utterance – everything I did say, and many things that I did not, were poured into Prudy's listening ears. The artful hussy!

I think Prudy resembled her mother. Not that the mother was not well enough. Old women – by which I mean old matrons, mothers of families and heads of households – have a right to certain antiquated and supercilious notions about young love and romance. They are correct and sensible in preferring the smoke of fried bacon to the perfume of a rose, and in making more of a recipe for preserving plums or pickling pork than of a letter amatory or declaratory. It is their vocation to be practical and commonplace; but nobody's unmarried daughter has any business to be like her mother in these respects. It is a delightful compliment to say of a young lady, "she is what her mother was at her age;" but a young girl – and Prudy considered herself young – if like her mother without the above qualification, is like, sex excepted, a boy with n man's hat on.

As I came home one day, a visitor was just going away from the house; and Aunt Rachel, with old-fashioned and sincere politeness, had come to the door to say "Farewell." She brushed down both sides of her neat apron – a graceful movement in an old lady – looked up and down the street; caught a sight of me, and retreated suddenly within doors. I looked after the retiring caller. There was not, at that time, a bonnet, shawl, or cloak on the women's side of the. meeting, that I did not know by sight. I could identify the wearer as far as I could see her. It is only your careless observers, whose notions of individuality have been blurred over and confused by gaudy colors and changing fashions, who cannot discern the difference between one Friend's bonnet and another, and read the characters and individualities of each in the folds, or in the absence of folds.

It was Sally's mother; and, of course, a call from her was an event, just at this juncture, when I fancied all the world was in some way affecting the loves of Sally and myself, or affected by them. I went into aunt's room, predetermined to turn her own tactics against her, and read her face; but the old lady did not this time look up. She was just "toeing off" that ninety-ninth stocking. I thought I saw the twinkle of a smile playing round her lips, like the flickers of flame in a sheet of tinder; but she did not raise her eyes. She worked at the stocking with painful precision – like a person diverted from her occupation by foreign thoughts, and laboring to concentrate her attention. I walked out; but stealing a peep over my shoulder, I detected my aunt's face raised at my exit, and, to use a colloquial expression, "full of laugh."

I was insulted. It was evident that I was insulted. Like every other boy who fancies himself in love, I determined within myself that all men ' and women who have outlived "the freshness of their affections" should be voted obsolete, and consigned to some receptacle for senility, where the old women could darn stockings and fondle babies, and the old men be amused with yesterday's newspaper. I saw, or thought I saw, that our loves were reaching a crisis; and sallied off that very evening to make a right manly., formal call upon "my Sally." I was determined valiantly to assert my manhood, and claim my right to be considered full grown in mental as well as bodily stature. Sally's sister Prudy opened the door, and met me, I thought, with a most quizzical expression of countenance. Indeed, it appeared as if every object I met, inanimate as well as breathing, was laughing at me. "How do'!" said the mother; "and how's thee aunt?"

She thought, or pretended to think, that Aunt Rachel had sent me upon an errand. I answered as such questions are usually answered, and seated myself in a chair which Prudy handed me. Sally was not there. For a few moments we had a silent meeting.

"How does thee get on at school now?" asked the old lady.

School! Why is it that old folks must murder one's manly aspirations? I was getting more uneasy every moment.

"Does thee master chastise with a whip?" said the merciless old woman.

With all my efforts to pass myself off as a man, I was compelled to answer as a boy to these and many other questions which the mother propounded and Prudy enjoyed. At last came the climax. could not ask in direct terms, but ventured to remark, "I do not see Sally this evening."

"No," said Prudy, "she is up stairs dressing a doll!"

I can't remember what else was said. Prudy went out; and I heard a voice very like Sally's, though in alto, answering some request, very sharply and testily "I won't, I tell thee; so there now!" And very soon I took my leave, feeling more foolish than I ever did upon any other occasion which I can remember. As to Aunt Rachel's eyes, I tried to give them a wide berth that evening; but they were not to be escaped, and I thought that they never peered at me more roguishly. A guilty conscience, it is said, needs no accuser; and a consciousness of foolishness wants no reminder. Heigho! Rut the road through the debateable years when one is neither man nor boy, the days of the hobbledehoy, are dull enough.

I had a mind to desert Sally. What, said conscience, and break your plighted word'? Forget the moonlit vows, and all the mutual protestations ? All the novels I had read by stealth, at school, under the cover of my dictionary, did not contain a single precedent which could authorize such a course. It might be the death of Sally; for, though she could not come down when that plague of a Prudy asked her, I was not to doubt her true, true love. Something must be conceded to maidenly delicacy. So passed many days. I found I was the butt of Prudy and the two old ladies; and I began at last strongly to suspect of Sally also. Aunt Rachel's eyes grew more awfully eloquent every day; and even Nathan Folke – staid, sober, un-funny Nathan Folke – began to look as if he could say something, if he would. But you may do what you please to a young girl when her "own true love" is not, as Patrick says, "to the fore." She may even join in ridicule of him in his absence. Give him an hour's chance alone, however, and he will make it all straight. I did. How I did it remains to be told.

* * * * * * * *

It was a queer place that we were peeping stealthily into, Sally and I. Two or three greasy-looking men, unkempt and unshaven, were handling bits of paper as if they did not precisely understand the purport and character of that commodity. They were constables.

Behind a desk sat a portly-looking man, who appeared as if he tolerated the place and its circumstances for the same reason that many a worse place is endured – the profit it gave him. Among the other furniture of the office was a woman with her head bound up, and a surly-looking fellow, between whose coarse, rude hands and her broken head there seemed to be, or, I should say, to have been, an uncomfortable and unhealthy proximity. It was the old story – "intoxicated and disorderly." The alderman had heard, and the case had been decided, and the woman who had eagerly striven for the man's punishment, was now pleading with justice to know what was to become of her when he went to the lock-up. This was truly a pleasant introduction for those who seek magisterial aid to get into the trap of matrimony.

Some of the officials had shown us a broken chair apiece, on which we sat – trembling. At any rate, I trembled; and I suppose Sally would have done so also, if she had not been too much occupied in keeping her frock-which her mother had strictly charged her to " keep tidy" out of contact with the sand on the floor, the spent cigars, and other matters which indicate that some aldermen's offices ate not precisely the places which Cowper describes as " sacred to neatness," It was a nice place, this, to bring our romance – a most repulsive "Gretna." As to the "Green," that we brought with us, The morning business disposed. of, the worthy magistrate looked up, and inquired – "Well, young man?"

I was in no haste to answer. The officials looked upon us with curious eyes, and Sally hung her head in mute embarrassment.

" Come, what is it, my lad?" the alderman repeated.

I stammered out, in a whisper, across the desk, the errand we came upon, and made some inquiry about the private office. The thing, as it stood, was not quite to my taste; but we were pressed for time, and had moved suddenly,

" How old are you, sir ?" said the magistrate, in a tone in which fun and surprise struggled for the predominance.

"The young man is nineteen on the fifth day of next fourth month," said a calm voice behind me. I turned, and there stood – Nathan Folke!

Of course, we were not married that time. And as to farther interviews with Sally, they were out of the question. How Nathan Folke got upon our track is a point I never ascertained; but I suspect Prudy (the torment) might tell. The endless and merciless jokes that Aunt Rachel inflicted upon me from that day forward! Tongue cannot tell them; for tongue never spake them – but those eyes, those eloquent eyes! Whenever I ventured upon any remark in her presence which soared above the commonest commonplace, I always looked with fear and trembling toward Aunt Rachel. If she quietly proceeded in her stocking, I took assurance to proceed; but the slightest indication of a peep over the spectacle rims, always put down my effervescence. Dear old lady – she saved me many a folly.

"But" – methinks I hear some romantic young lady inquiring – "you said, just now, that you were not married that time – when were you?"

Never, my dear – that is, never to Sally. I have a wife of my own, and several children, now, but they are nothing to her. A few years after the time of our "elopement," on one fourth day, in Friends' Meeting – Sally had enough of the alderman with me – I saw her married; and, among Friends, I signed the certificate of the fact. And when I looked up, after inscribing upon the parchment Joseph Jenkins, 'in a fair, round hand, what should I meet, beaming with Edmund Kean, alderman's offices, one hundred and ten pairs of men's knit hose, and other miscellanies – what should I meet, I say, but – AUNT RACHEL'S EYES!

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