Democratic Sentinel, Volume 5, Number 52, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 January 1882 — CROOKED WAYS. [ARTICLE]

CROOKED WAYS.

Like a good many young men and women, too, for that matter —I was once badly afflicted with cacoethes tcribendi. Of course greater evils might have befallen me; I might have been seized with a passion for whisky or gambling; but, still, my cacoethes scribendi was serious enough. During my college days the symptoms showed themselves plainly ; but the malady did not assume its true and awful proportions until I had taken by degree. Then, forsooth, it fastened upon me like a leech, and, before many months elapsed, it overmastered me completely. In accordance with my mother’s wish, I went to Dundas, ostensibly to read law withmyuncle, but it was a mere pretense of law-ready ing, for the mornings that I ought to have spent over Blackstone were devoted to composition of a novel and the afternoon to the polishing of some poems. Uncle Dick shook his head gravely and remonstrated, sometimes in sadness and sometimes in anger. “ That scribbling will never amount to anything,” he would say, contemptuously. This was hard to bear; but my lofty aspirations sustained me, and, firm in my belief of ultimate success, I scribbled on and ever, and bombarded all the magazines in the country with my manuscript. The magazines did not open their columns to me, and I fell back at last upon the weekly newspapers, and especially upon the Boston Weekly Palladium. That journal printed my essays, and a certain assistant editor, whose initials were “F. B. 8.,” sent me polite notes from time to time. It was something to see my productions in print; it would have been more had these productions once m a while brought in a check. But they never did ; they elicited only polite notes from F. B. S. Finally I wrote a letter to the assistant editor upon the- subject, and by return post I received a reply. It was sent to my private box at the postoffice, but, to my great amusement, was directed to “jane Bell” instead of “John.” My handwriting was not very distinct, and perhaps a trifle feminine, and the signature, upon which I rather prided myself, certainly left it an open question whether John or Jane were meant. The note, too, began : “ Miss Bell : In reply to your question, I would say that this journal pays its regular corps of writers. We are glad to receive your articles, and perhaps later may make adequate compensation therefor ; but, as a young writer, it would be wiser for you to think at present only of securing a foothold. You have an excellent chance of success in the end ; but much patience is necessary at the outset. “ Please say whether I shall direc future communications to John Bell, Miss Bell or Mrs. Bell. At present Ido not venture to give you any title. “ Very truly yours, “F. B. SCREVEN.” This letter at once amused and piqued me. It was pleasant and rather encouraging, but it was plain the writer set me down as an impecunious young woman, whereas the truth was I had a very fair income of my own, and was a six-foot, mustached specimen of masculinity. The idea of playing the role of Miss Jane Bell tickled my fancy, and, therefore, giving my imagination free rein, upon the spur of the moment I sat down and wrote as follows : “F. B. Screven ; At present I also am in a quandary, for I do not know whether I ought to address you as madame, monsieur, or mademoiselle. The last title is mine just now, although of course I feel at liberty to change it when I choose, or rather when the proper opportunity offers itself. Perhaps matrimony would be a more profitable speculation than literature. Do not, however, suppose I am dependent npon my pen for my bread and butter. In this case, I fear, the butter w ould be very thin indeed. No; the fates have given me most of the luxuries of life ; but these, of course, do not satisfy me. The reason why I wrote as I did about payment for my articles was simply because I thought if they were good enough to print they were good enough to be paid for. It seems I was mistaken ; but, to show you that I take your ad vice, I send you another essay. I will at least try to secure a foothold, and pray that greater success may follow. “I am, dear Madame, Monsieur, or Mademoiselle Screven, sincerely yours, “Jane Bell.”’ Laughing in my sleeve, I sent this communication on, and planned that, if the assistant editor sent me a friendly reply, I would open a correspondence in my role of Miss Jane Bell and fool F. B. Screven as never a man had been fooled before. Judge, then, of my dismay, when I received a letter, in what I knew was Screven’s writing, but not written on office paper, and signed Frances Bertram Screven. “ A woman, by Jove 1” I exclaimed, there and then in the postoffice, whereat a small boy, who was standing nigh, nearly swallowed in astonishment the postage-stamp he was licking. I thrust the letter in my pocket and did not read it until I was safely at home. Thus the missive ran : “ Dear Miss Bell : Your piquant letter prompts me to write you a reply, not as an assistant editor, but as a wornman like yourself, who is toiling up the steep path that leads to Parnassus. I might have known you were a woman, and a young one at that, because, although there is a touch of masculine strength in your essays and poems, still there is, too, a sweetness that is only feminine. I think that women more oiten have this flavor of masculinity than men have anything of that tenderness which is essentially and purely Were I in a position of authority, I should very soon dismiss the cut-and-dried hack-writers whose contributions, although smooth and polished, lack the freshness, the spontaneity, which is characteristic of the contributions we sometimes receive from unknown writers, and notably from you. But you see lam merely an assistant editor, and a person of no consequence at all, except as I am useful to do the work, all the glory of which goes to the distinguished individuals whose names are emblazoned at the head of the paper. There! that sounds bitter, I am afraid; but, my dear Miss Bell, the fates have not been so kind to me as to you, and it is not for fame I wnte, but for the wherewithal to keep me fed and clothed. What makes it perhaps harder is that I have known what it is to have my bread and butter fresh and sweet aye, and honey with it, too—and, there-

fore, the thin slices that are doled out to me now taste the drier, by. c<aa,parison. “ Forgive me for boring yon with so much about myself. Pray, write to me again. Your luxurious stationery, with faint, delicate perfume pervading it, is in itself a delight. Sincerely yours, “Miss Frances Bertram Screven.” As I read this letter I felt myself a scoundrel. My first impulse was to write a letter of confession to Miss Screven; but the desire to keep up the correspondence and try my hand at composing letters that should be sweetly feminine overcame my scruples, and I sent off the following reply; “Dear Miss Screven: Instead of boring me, the glimpse you gave me of your life interested me more than I can tell. But, at the same time, the contrast between your life and mine made me envious. Perhaps your lot is a hard one, but it is at least brave and independent. Here am I, an only daughter, petted and spoiled to a shameful degree, and bound by fetters of luxury. Yes, I envy you. Sitting this morning in my silly, pink-curtained boudoir, with a Dresden shepherdess simpering at me from the top of my escritoire, I feel my idle, luxurious life hemming me and overpowering me, as the perfume of tuberoses makes heavy and sickening the atmosphere of a room that should be flung open to the fresh air and sunshine. I would change places with you to-day if I could.” When I reached this point of my letter, I read over approvingly what I had written. Arrived at the lines descriptive of my imaginary boudoir, I smiled as my glance fell upon a boot-jack one corner and the shaving apparatus-j in another. Glancing at the place/ where the Dresden shepherdess ought to have been, my eye fell instead upon a pipe, which I took down and filled, and then resumed my writing with considerable complacency: ‘ ‘ This may sound to you rather schoolgirlish, and I may as well confess that it is not many years—perhaps months would- be more accurate—-sinee I left the precincts of a finishing-school. Fin-ishing-school, indeed ! Much I learned there beside the art of doing u» my hair! However, the defects of my ed-’ ucation I must remedy myself, and I try every day to devote a few hours to serious study. But it is very hard to se ' elude myself long enough to accomplish anything. People call; I must go to garden-parties; I must drive out with my mother; I must hold solemn conclave with the milliner and dress-maker; in short, I have constant demands of a most frivolous nature upon my time. “All this you will probably laugh at, and, lest I write yet more foolishly, I will bring my letter to a close. If you are not quite disgusted with me, do write again soon. Faithfully yours, “Jan® Bell.” I may as well confess that I thought this letter a successful imitation of some of the epistles that I had myself received from feminine hands. It sounded enthusiastic and very “missish,” and I sent it off that afternoon with a bold heart. “Jack,” quoth my uncle, who met me as I came from the postoffice, “I verily believe you are making an ass of yourself over some girl. I don’t believe it is the muses you are courting; it is no muse ; it is a miss. ” And with this he passed on, chuckling at his own wit. As the days went on, however, my uncle’s words seemed in a fair way to prove true. I thought only of Miss Screven. My novel I left untouched, and my rhyming dictionary accumulated dust slowly, but surely. Fled were my visions of astonishing the world with my genius. I lived only for the inail from Boston. ; \ As I reread the letters .L received from Miss Screven, I can make some excuse for my infatuation. They were frank and outspoken, and sometimes, indeed, tinged with cynicism; but through there breathed a sympathy, a tenderness, that touches me even now as I read them over. Finally, at my solicitation, she sent me her photograph, which showed her to be, a regular-feat-ured, large-eyed woman of rather a serious cast of countenance indeed, but with a lurking smile in her mouth, that I could not but confess was a large one. She was not a beauty, I saw that, but she had an earnest, interesting face that grew upofa me every day. Little by little I gave myself up to thoughts of her by day and dreams of her by night. Her letters I awaited with a feverish impatience, and if one were delayed I was in torment. I make no excuses for my folly, dear sir or madam ; but pray do not forget (that I was only one-and-twenty then, and hn4 fed myself plentifully with novels and poetry. And this was my first love ! Coventry Patmore says in one of his poems: Well, heaven be thanked, my first love Ab, heaven be thanked, all first loves do ! This was a sentiment I could not echo, for at that time it seemed to me that if I were separated from my fair unseen sweetheart my life would be stale, flat and unprofitable. The correspondence was kept up fell the summer and autumn; but in December there befell what was to me an awful calamity. Miss Screven did not write. I sent imploring letter after-letter, but no response gladdened me. “Has she jilted you?’ r said Uncle Dick, heartlessly, when he noted my pale face. In truth, I could not sleep nor eat; I was consumed with fear and anxiety. What could, liave befallen her? I endured it just ten days, and then I packed my sachel and went to Boston. Bah! what a day it was when I got there. It had snowed a little, and then a thin, cold rain began to drizzle down despairingly. The weather suited me better then the garish splendor of the hotel, and I wandered forth that evening, half-unconsciously wending my way toward the street in which Miss Screven boarded. I found myself opposite the house. From an upper window a light struggled feebly between the closed shutters and thrilled me through and through. Perhaps she was thete, fl! and alone, uncared for, save by the mercenary landlady, or, worse still; by a slatternly servant I went up the"Prfepfi and rang the belt A slip of a girl opened the door to me, and I handed her my card, saying mechanically, “Ask Miss Screven if she will see me. ”

I trusted that the name John Bell would, perhaps, lead her to suppose that I was a cousin or the father of her friend. The slip of a servant-maid looked at the card, and then looked at'file. “Frances Screven? ” she said, interrogatively. “Yes,” I replied. Then I took the card, ran my pencil through the engraved name, and scrawled my illegible signature below - it -The -servant took the card again and skurried away, leaving me standing alone in the cold, dark entry. It was several xiiinutes before she reappeared, and then it was only to say in a singing tone, ' ‘ Three flights up; first door to the right.” I went up the three flights, and rapped at the first door to the right. * A voice called out, “ Oome in.” I entered a medium-sized, plainlyfurnished room that was obacco. with which was mingled a faint smell of whisky. There were twNMMNkchairs, a large table covered with a faded cloth, and an old-fashioned Ifeflfeehair lounge, from which, as lentered, a young man rose. He was thin and hol-low-eyed, and a beard of several days’ growth made him look, to say the least, unkempt. “Mr. Bell, I presume,” he said, offering me his hand, and then drawing up a chair for me. “I have called to see Miss Screven,” Baid I,

“ Have you, indeed ?” he replied, in a m. at onee.. It was her husband! She has deceived me! . - “ May I ask if you are any relation”!® Miss Jane Bell, of Dundas, Washington county, N. Y., Poetoffice box 462?” he continued, in the same sneering way. I stuttered and stammered, tried to lie, and nearly choked myself to death. I wanted to be diplomatic; I wanted to shield her from his anger. “Who the devil are you, anyway?” he exclaimed. “I—l am John Bell,” I answered; “and I have called to see your sister. Is she ill?” “ I haven’t any sister,” said he nonchalantly; “that is, I am my own sister, and she has just escaped pneumonia. ” The truth flashed upon me. “You are an impostor, sir,” I exclaimed. “ Your sister doesn’t think so,” said he complacently, j. “I haven’t any sister,” said I, in my turn. He wheeled sharply about: * Who is Miss Bell, then?” “I am all the Miss Bell that exists,” I answered grimly. “ What! ” he exclaimed, “ you are the petted darling who wanted to be a poet and an essayist and Lord only knows what all? You are the only child of wealthy parents? You are the lovely creature who sits in a pink boudoir and writes verses with a gold pen and on perfumed paper?” “Yes,” said I desperately. Screven dropped into a chair and roared. “ A sell all round ! ” said he. And then- he laughed until he cried, jyhile I quietly stole away back to the luted, sadder but a wiser man.