A sound of the prompter’s whistle, sharp and stridulous.

The scenes move,—they dispart. The Crescent City, with its squares and gardens filled with verdure, its stately steeples, and its streets lying lower than the river, and protected only by the great Levee from being converted into a bed for fishes,—the Crescent City, under the swift touch of our fairy scene-shifters, divides, slides, and disappears.

A new scene simultaneously takes its place. It represents a street in New York. Not one of the clean, broad, well-kept avenues, lined on either side with mansions, beautiful and spacious. It is a trans-Bowery Street, narrow and noisome, dirty and dismal. There the market-man stops his cart and haggles for the price of a cabbage with the care-worn housewife, who has a baby in her arms and a two-year-old child tugging at her gown. Poor woman! She tries to cover her bosom as the wayfarer, redolent of bad tobacco, passes by with a grin at her shyness. There the milkman rouses you at daylight by his fiendish yell, nuisance not yet abated in the more barbarous parts of the city. There the soap-man and the fish-man and the rag-man stop their carts, presenting in their visits the chief incidents that vary the monotony of life in Lavinia Street, if we except an occasional dog-fight.

One of the tenements is a small, two-story brick house, with a basement beneath the street-level, and a dormer window in the attic. A family moved in only the day before yesterday. They have hardly yet got settled. Nevertheless, let us avail ourselves of the author’s privilege (universal “dead-head” that he is!) and enter.

We stand in a little hall, the customary flight of stairs being in front, while a door leads into the front sitting-room or parlor on the left. Entering this room, the first figure we notice is an apparently young man, rather stout, with black whiskers and hair, and dressed in a loose sack and pantaloons, in the size and cut of which the liberal fashion of the day is somewhat exaggerated. He stands in low-cut shoes and flesh-colored silk stockings. About his neck he wears a choker of the most advanced style, and tied with a narrow lustring ribbon, gay with red and purple. As his back is partly turned to us, we cannot yet see who he is.

A woman, in age perhaps not far from fifty, with a pleasant, well-rounded face, and attired in a white cambric wrapper, richly embroidered, her hair prudently hidden under a brown chenille net, stands holding a framed picture, waiting for it to be hung. It is Marshall’s new engraving of Washington. The lady is Mrs. Pompilard, born Aylesford; and the youth on the chair is her husband, the old, yet vernal, the venerable yet blooming, Albert himself. It is more than ten years since he celebrated his seventieth birthday.

Having hung the picture, Pompilard stepped down, and said: “There! Show me the place in the whole city where that picture would show to more advantage than just there in that one spot. The color of the wall, the light from the window are just what they ought to be to bring out all the beauties. Let us not envy Belmont and Roberts and Stewart and Aspinwall their picture-galleries,—let us be guilty of no such folly, Mrs. Pompilard,—while we can show an effect like that!”

“Who spoke of envying them, Albert? Not I, I’m sure! The house will do famously for our temporary use. Yet it puzzles me a little to know where I am to stow these two children of Melissa’s.”

“Pooh! That can be easily managed. Leonora can have a mattress put down for her in the upper entry; and as for the five-year-old, Albert, my namesake, he can throw himself down anywhere,—in the wood-shed, if need be. Indeed, his mother tells me she found him, the other night, sleeping on the boards of the piazza, in order, as he said, to harden himself to be a soldier. How is poor Purling this morning?”

“His wound seems to be healing, but he’s deplorably low-spirited; so Melissa tells me.”

“Low-spirited? But we mustn’t allow it! The man who could fight as he did at Fair Oaks ought to be jolly for the rest of his life, even though he had to leave an arm behind him on the battle-field.”

“It isn’t his wound, I suspect, that troubles him, but the state of his affairs. The truth is, Purling is fearfully poor, and he’s too honest to run in debt. His castles in the air have all tumbled in ruins. Nobody will buy his books, and his publishers have all failed.”

“But he can’t help that. The poor fellow has done his best, and I maintain that he has talents of a certain sort.”

“Perhaps so, but his forte is not imaginative writing.”

“Then let him try history.”

“But I repeat it, my dear Albert, imaginative writing is not his forte.”

“Ah! true. You are getting satirical, Mrs. Pompilard. Our historians, you think, are prone to exercise the novelist’s privilege. Let us go up and see the Major.”

They mounted one flight of stairs to the door of the front chamber, and knocked. It was opened by Mrs. Purling, once the sentimental Melissa, now a very matronly figure, but still training a few flaxen, maiden-like curls over her temples, and shedding an air of youth and summer from her sky-blue calico robe, with its straw-colored facings. She inherited much of the paternal temperament; and, were it not that her husband’s desponding state of mind had clouded her spirits, she would have shown her customary aspect of cheerful serenity.

“Is the Major awake?”

“O yes! Walk in.”

“Ah! Cecil, my hearty,” exclaimed Pompilard, “how are you getting on?”

“Pretty well, sir. The wound’s healing, I believe. I’m afraid we’re inconveniencing you shockingly, coming here, all of us, bag and baggage.”

“Don’t speak of it, Major. Even if we are inconvenienced (which I deny), what then? Oughtn’t we, too, to do something for our country? If you can afford to contribute an arm, oughtn’t we to contribute a few trifling conveniences? For my part, I never see a maimed or crippled soldier in the street, that I don’t take off my hat to him; and if he is poor, I give him what I can afford. Was he not wounded fighting for the great idea of national honor, integrity, freedom,—fighting for me and my children? The cold-blooded indifference with which people who stay snugly and safely at home pass by these noble relics from the battle-field, and pursue their selfish amusements and occupations while thousands of their countrymen are periling life and health in their behalf, is to me inexplicable. If we can’t give anything else, let us at least give our sympathy and respect, our little word of cheer and of honor, to those who have sacrificed so much in order that we might be undisturbed in our comforts!”

“I’m afraid, sir,” continued the Major, “that your good feelings blind you to the gravity, in a domestic point of view, of this incursion into your household of the whole Purling race. But the truth is, I expected a remittance, about this time, from my Philadelphia publisher. It doesn’t come. I wonder what can be the matter?”

Yes! The insatiable Purling, having exhausted New York, had gone to Philadelphia with his literary wares, and had found another victim whose organ of marvellousness was larger than his bump of caution.

“Don’t bother yourself about remittances, Major,” said Pompilard. “Don’t be under any concern. You mustn’t suppose that because, in an eccentric freak, Mrs. Pompilard has chosen to occupy this little out-of-the-way establishment, the exchequer is therefore exhausted. Some persons might complain of the air of this neighborhood. True, the piny odors of the forest are more agreeable than the exhalations one gets from the desiccating gutters under our noses. True, the song of the thrush is more entrancing than the barbaric yell of that lazy milkman who sits in his cart and shrieks till some one shall come with a pitcher. But in all probability we sha’n’ occupy these quarters longer than the summer months. Why it was that Mrs. Pompilard should select them, more especially for the summer months, has mystified me a little; but the ladies know best. Am sorry we couldn’t welcome you at Redcliff or Thrushwood, or some other of our old country-seats; but—the fact is, we’ve disposed of them all. To what we have, my dear Cecil, consider yourself as welcome as votes to a candidate or a contract to an alderman. So don’t let me hear you utter the word remittances again.”

“Ah! my dear father, we men can make light of these household inconveniences, but they fall heavy on the women.”

“Not on my wife, bless her silly heart! Why, she’ll be going round bragging that she has a wounded Major in her house. She’s proud of you, my hero of ten battles! Didn’t I hear her just now boasting to the water-rate collector, that she had a son in the house who had lost an arm at Fair Oaks? A son, Major! Ha, ha, ha! Wasn’t it laughable? She’s trying to make people think you’re her son! I tell you, Cecil, while Albert Pompilard has a crust to eat or a kennel to creep into, the brave volunteer, wounded in his country’s cause, shall not want for food or shelter.”

The Major looked wistfully at Mrs. Pompilard, and said: “He doesn’t make allowance for a housekeeper’s troubles,—does he, mother? So long as the burden doesn’t fall on him, he doesn’t realize what a bore it is to have an extra family on one’s hands when one barely has accommodations for one’s own.”

“What he says, I say, Cecil!” replied Madame, kissing the invalid’s pale forehead. “You’re a thousand times welcome, my dear boy,—you and Melissa and the children; and where will you find two better children, or who give less trouble? No fear but we can accommodate you all. And if you’ve any wounded companion who wants to be taken care of, just send him on. For your sake, Cecil, and for the sake of the old flag, we’ll take him in, and do our best by him.”

“Hear her! Hear the darling little woman!” exclaimed Pompilard, lifting her in his arms, and kissing her with a genuine admiration. “Bravo, wife! Give me the woman whose house is like a Bowery omnibus, always ready for one more. While this war lasts, every true lady in the land ought to be willing to give up her best room, if wanted, for a hospital.”

The hero of Fair Oaks was suddenly found to be snivelling. He made a movement with his right shoulder as if to get a handkerchief, but remembering that his arm was gone, he used his left hand to wipe away his tears. “You’re responsible, between you, for this break-down,” said the lachrymose Major. “I’m sure I thank you. You’ve given me two good starts in life already, father, and both times I’ve gone under. With such advantages as I’ve had, I ought to be a rich man, and here I am a pauper. Poor Melissa and the children are bound to be dependent on their friends. I’m afraid I’m an incompetent, a ne’er-do-well.”

Pompilard flourished a large white silk handkerchief, and, blowing his nose sonorously, replied: “Bah! ’T was no fault of yours, Cecil, that your operations out West proved a failure. ’T was the fortune of war. I despise the man who never made a blunder. How the deuce could you know that a great financial revulsion was coming on, just after you had bought? Let the spilt milk sink into the sand. Don’t fret about it. We’ll have you hearty as a buck in a week or two. You shall rejoin your regiment in time for the next great fight.”

The Major smiled faintly, and, shaking his head incredulously, replied: “The fact is, what makes me so low is, that, at the time I went into that last fight, I was just recovering from a fever got in the swamps of the Chickahominy.”

“I know all about it, my brave boy! I’ve just got a letter, Mrs. Pompilard, from his surgeon. He writes me, he forbade Cecil’s moving from his bed; told him ’ would be at the risk of his life. Like a gallant soldier, Cecil rose up, pale and wasted as he was, and went into the thick of the frolic. A Minie bullet in the right arm at last checked his activity. Faint from exhaustion and loss of blood, he sank insensible on the damp field, and there lay twenty-four hours without succor, without food, the cold night-dews aggravating his disease.”

“Well, father,” said the Major, “between you and me, superadded to the fever I got a rheumatic affection, which I’m afraid will prevent my doing service very soon again in the field.”

“So much the better!” returned Pompilard. “Then, my boy, we can keep you at home,—have you with us all the time. You can sit in your library and write books, while Molasses sits by and works slippers for old blow-hard, as the boys here in Lavinia Street have begun to call me.”

“My books don’t sell, sir,” sighed the ex-author, with another incredulous shake of the head. “Either there’s a conspiracy among the critics to keep me down, or else I’m grossly mistaken in my vocation. Besides, I’ve lost my right arm, and can’t write. DoDo you know,” he continued, wiping away a tear,—“do you know what one of the newspapers said on receiving the news of my wound? Well, it said, ‘This will be a happy dispensation for publishers and the public, if it shall have the effect of keeping the Major from again using the pen!’”

“The unclean reptile!” exclaimed Pompilard, grinding his heel on the floor as if he would crush something. “Don’t mind such ribaldry, Major.”

“I wouldn’t, if I weren’t afraid there’s some truth in it,” sighed the unsuccessful author.

“It’s an entire lie!” exclaimed Pompilard; “your books are good books,—excellent books,—and people will find it out some of these days. You shall write another. You don’t need an arm, do you, to help you do brain-work? Didn’t Sir Walter employ an amanuensis? Why can’t Major Purling do the same? Why can’t he dictate his magnum opus,—the crowning achievement of his literary life,—his history of the Great Rebellion,—why can’t he dictate it as well without as with an arm?”

The Major’s lips began to work and his eyes to brighten. Ominous of disaster to the race of publishers, the old spirit began to be roused in him, bringing animation and high resolve. The passion of authorship, long repressed, was threatening to rekindle in that bosom. He tried to rub his forehead with his right hand, but finding it gone, he resorted to his left. His hair (just beginning to get crisp and grayish over his ears) he pushed carelessly away from his brow. He jerked himself up from his pillow, and exclaimed: “Upon my word, father-in-law, that’s not a bad idea of yours,—that idea of tackling myself to a history of the war. Let me see. How large a work ought it to be? Could it be compressed into six volumes of the size of Irving’s Washington? I think it might. At any rate, I could try. ‘A History of the Great Rebellion: its Rise and Fall. By Cecil Purling, late Major of Volunteers.’ Motto: ‘All which I saw and part of which I was.’ Come, now! That wouldn’t sound badly.”

“It would be a trump card for any publisher,” said Pompilard, growing to be sincerely sanguine. “Get up the right kind of a Prospectus, and publish the work by subscription. I could procure a thousand subscribers myself. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t get twenty thousand. We might all make our fortunes by it.”

“So we might!” exclaimed the excited Major, forgetting that there were ladies present, and that he had on only his drawers, and leaping out of bed, then suddenly leaping back again, and begging everybody’s pardon. “It can be easily calculated,” continued he. “Just hand me a slip of paper and a pencil, Melissa. Thank you. Look now, father-in-law; twenty thousand copies at two dollars a volume for six volumes would give a hundred and forty thousand dollars clear. Throw off fifty per cent of that for expenses, commissions, printing, binding, et cetera, and we have left for our profit seventy thousand dollars!”!”

“Nothing can be plainer,” said Pompilard.

“But the publisher would want the lion’s share of that,” interposed Melissa.

“Pooh! What do you know about it?” retorted Pompilard. “If we get up the work by subscription, we can take an office and do our own publishing.”

“To be sure we can!” exclaimed the Major, reassured.

Here Pompilard’s eldest daughter, Angelica Ireton, long a widow, and old enough to be a grandmother, entered the room with a newspaper.

“What is it, Jelly?” asked the paternal voice.

“News of the surrender of Memphis! And, only think of it! Frederick is highly complimented in the despatch.”

“Good for Fred!” said Pompilard. “Make a note of it, Major, for the new history.”

A knock at the door now introduced the once elfish and imitative Netty, or Antoinette, grown up into a dignified young lady of striking appearance, who, if not handsome, had a face beaming with intelligence and the cheerfulness of an earnest purpose. She wore, not a Bloomer, but a sort of blouse, which looked well on her erect and slender figure; and her hair, as if to be put out of harm’s way in working hours, was combed back into a careless though graceful knot.

“Walk in, Netty!” said the wounded man.

“Here’s our great artiste,—our American Rosa Bonheur!” cried Pompilard, patting her on the head.

“Why, father, I never painted a horse or a cow in my life,” expostulated Netty. “Remember, I’m a marine painter. I deal in ships, shipwrecks, calms, squalls, and sea-washed rocks; not in cattle.”

“Yes, Cecil, she’s engaged on a bit of beach scenery, which will make a sensation when ’t is hung in the Academy. Better sea-water hasn’t been painted since Vernet; and she beats Vernet in rigging her ships.”

“Hear him,” said the artistic Netty. “All his geese are swans. What a ridiculous papa it is!”

“Go back to your easel, girl,” exclaimed Pompilard. “Cecil and I are talking business.”

“And that reminds me,” said Netty, “I came to say that Mr. Maloney is in the parlor, and wants to see you.”

“Has the rascal found me out so soon?” muttered Pompilard. “I supposed I had dodged him.”

“Dodged Mr. Maloney, dear? What harm has he ever committed?” asked Mrs. Pompilard, in surprise.

“No harm, perhaps; but he’s the most persistent of duns.”

“Is he dunning you now, my love?”

“Yes, all the time.”

“Do you owe him much?”

“Not a cent, confound him!”

“Then what is he dunning you for?”

“O, he’s dunning me to get me to borrow money of him, and I know he can’t afford to lend it.”

“Go and see him, my dear, and treat him civilly at least.”

Pompilard turned to the Major, who was now deep in his Prospectus, and fired with the thought of a grand success that should make amends for all his past failures in authorship. Seeing that the invalid was thoroughly cured of his attack of the blues, Pompilard remarked, “Strike while the iron’s hot, Major,” and passed out to meet the visitor who was waiting for him below.

Pat Maloney was pacing the parlor in a great rage; and he exploded in these words, as Pompilard presented himself: “Arn’t ye ashamed to look an honest man in the face, yer desateful ould sinner?”

“What’s the bother now, Pat? Whose mare’s dead?” said Pompilard.

“Whose mare’s dead, yer wicked ould man? Is that the kind o’ triflin’ ye think is goin’ down wid Pat Maloney? Look at that wall.”

“Well, what of it?”

“What of it? See the cracks of it, bedad, and the dirt of it, and the damp of it, and hearken to the rats of it, yer wicked ould man! What of it? See that baste of a cockroach comin’ out as confidint as ye plaze, and straddlin’ across the floor. Smell that smell up there in the corner. Dead rats, by jabbers! And this is the entertainment, is it, ye bring a dacent family to, that wasn’t born to stenches and filthiness! Typhus and small-pox in every plank under the feet of ye! And a sick sodger ye’ve got in the house too; and because he wasn’t quite kilt down in them swamps on the Chickahominy, ye think ye’ll stink him to death in this hole of all the nastiness!”

“Mr. Maloney, this is my house, sir, such as it is, and I must request you either to walk out of it or to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Hoo! Ye think to come the dignified over me, do ye, yer silly ould man! I’m not to be scaret by any such airs. I tell ye it’s bastely to bring dacent women and children inter sich a cesspool as this. By jabbers, I shall have to stop at Barker’s, as I go back, and take a bath.”

“Maloney, leave the house.”

“Lave the house, is it? Not till I’m ready, will I lave the house on the biddin’ of the likes of a man who hasn’t more regard for the mother that bore him nor to do what you’ve been doin’, yer ould barbarryan.”

“Quit the house, I say! If you think I’m going to borrow money of a beggarly Irish tailor, you’ll find yourself mistaken, Mr. Pat Maloney!”

“O, it’s that game yez thinkin’ to come on me, is it? Ha! By jabbers, I’m ready for yer there too. He’s a beggarly Irish tailor, is he? Then why did ye have the likes o’ him at all yer grand parties at Redcliff? Why did ye have him and his at all yer little family hops? Why couldn’t ye git through a forenoon, yer ould hyppercrit, widout the beggarly Irish tailor, to play billiards wid yer, or go a fishin’ wid yer, or a sailin’ wid yer?”

“I don’t choose to keep up the acquaintance, Mr. Maloney, now that you are poor.”

“That’s the biggest lie ye iver tould in yer life, yer ould chate!”

“Do you tell me I lie? Out of my house! Pay your own debts, you blackguard Paddy, before you come playing flush of your money to a gentleman like me.”

“A jintleman! Ye call yerself a jintleman, do ye,—ye onnateral ould simpleton? Ye bring born ladies inter a foul, unreputable house like this is, in a foul, unreputable street, wid a house of ill-fame on both sides of yer, and another oppersit, and then ye call yerself a jintleman. A jintleman, bedad! Ha, ha!”

“You lie, Pat Maloney. My next-door neighbors are decent folks,—much decenter than you are, you foul-mouthed Paddy.”

“And thin ye tell me to pay my debts, do yer? Find the debt of Pat Maloney’s that’s unpaid, and he’ll pay it double, yer unprincipled ould calumniator. If ’ warrent for yer eighty yares, I’d larrup yer on the spot.”

“I claim no privilege of age, you cowardly tailor. That’s a dodge of yours that won’t serve. Come on, you ninth part of a man, if you have even that much of a man left in you. Come on, or I’ll pound your head against the wall.”

“Ye’d knock the house down, bedad, if ye tried it. I’d like no better sport nor to polish ye off wid these two fists of mine, yer aggrawatin’ superannuated ould haythen.”

“You shall find what my eighty years can do, you ranting Paddy. Since you won’t go quietly out of the house, I’ll put you out.”

And Pompilard began pulling up his sleeves, as if for action. Maloney was not behind him in his pugilistic demonstrations.

“If ye want to have the wind knocked out of yer,” said he, “jist try it, yer quarrelsome ould bully,—gittin’ up a disturbance like this at your time of life!”

Here Angelica, who had been listening at the door, burst into the room, and interposed between the disputants. By the aid of some mysterious signs and winks addressed to Maloney, she succeeded in pacifying him so far that he took up his hat, and shaking his head indignantly at Pompilard, followed her out of the room. The front door was heard to open and close. Then there was a slight creaking on the basement stairs, followed by a coughing from Angelica, and a minute afterwards she re-entered the parlor.

She found her father with his fists doubled, and his breast thrown back, knocking down an imaginary Irishman in dumb show.

“Has that brute left the house?” he asked.

“Yes, father. What did he want?”

“He has been dunning me to borrow a couple of thousand dollars of him,—the improvident old fool. He needs every cent of his money in his business. He knows it. He merely wants to put me under an obligation, knowing I may never pay him back. He can’t dupe me.”

“If ’ would gratify poor Maloney, why not humor him?” said Angelica. “He feels eternally grateful to you for having made a man of him. You helped him to a fortune. He has often said he owed it to you that he wasn’t a sot about the streets.”

“If I helped him to a fortune, I showed him how to lose it, Jelly. So there we’re just even. I tell you I won’t get in debt again, if I can help it. You, Jelly, are the only one I’ve borrowed from since the last great crash.”

“And in borrowing from me, you merely take back your own,” interposed Angelica.

“I’ve paid everything in the way of a debt, principal and interest,” said Pompilard. “And I don’t want to break the charm again at my time of life. Debt is the Devil’s own snare. I know it from sad experience. I’ve two good schemes on foot for retrieving my affairs, without having to risk much money in the operation. If you can let me have five hundred dollars, I think ’ will be the only nest-egg I shall need.”

“Certainly, father,” said Angelica; and going down-stairs into the basement, she found the persevering Maloney waiting her coming.

“Mr. Maloney,” said she, “let me propose a compromise. My father wants five hundred dollars of me. I haven’t it to give him. But if you’ll lend it on my receipt, I’ll take it and be very thankful.”

“Make it a thousand, and I’ll say yes,” said Pat.

“Well, I’ll not haggle with you, Mr. Maloney,” replied Angelica.

Maloney handed her the money, and, refusing to take a receipt, seized his hat, and quitted the house by the back area, looking round suspiciously, and snuffing contemptuously at the surroundings, as he emerged into the alley-way which conducted him to one of the streets leading into the Bowery.

Angelica put five hundred dollars in her port-monnaie, and handed the like amount to her sire. He thrust it into his vest-pocket, brushed his hat, and arranged his choker. Mrs. Pompilard came down with the Prospectus that was to be the etymon of a new fortune. He took it, kissed wife and daughter, and issued from the house.

As he passed up Lavinia Street, many a curious eye from behind curtains and blinds looked out admiringly on the imposing figure. One boy on the sidewalk remarked to another: “I say, Ike, who is that old swell as has come into our street? I’ve a mind to shy this dead kitten at him.”

“Don’t do it, Peter Craig!” exclaimed Ike; “father says that man’s a detective,—a feller as sees you when you think he ain’t looking. We’d better mind how we call arter him again, ‘Old blow-hard!’”