3 Life Scenes from Durivage

In this episode, we present three distinct tales that showcase Bostonian author, Francis A Durivage's range as a storyteller:

• "The Obliging Young Man" - A witty look at the pitfalls of being too helpful, where good intentions meet the unpredictable whims of society.
• "Love in a Cottage" - A classic exploration of romantic idealism versus practical reality, set against the backdrop of simpler times—or perhaps, as Durivage might say, the "good old times" that weren't always as golden as they seemed.
• “Personal Satisfaction” -  provides an explanation of why we should be always sure before going ahead.

Join us as we dust off these literary gems from the Project Gutenberg archives and bring the spirited prose of Francis A. Durivage back to life.

When you subscribe to Narrated Archives you get at least 2 bonus episodes each month. 

Transcript

Welcome to Narrated Archives, the podcast that snoops around in the public domain for lost and forgotten written treasures. Today, we step back into the mid-19th century to explore the versatile mind of 

Francis A. Durivage, a prolific Bostonian author, poet, and playwright often wrote under the charming pseudonym "Old Un".

In connection with W. S. Chase he translated Alphonse de Lamartine's History of the Revolution of 1848. 

He was the author of several plays and was for a time co-editor of Ballou's Pictorial. Known for his "Life-Scenes" sketched in light and shadow, Durivage had a keen eye for the humorous, the sentimental, and the ironic realities of everyday life. 

In this episode, we present three distinct tales that showcase his range as a storyteller:

• "The Obliging Young Man": A witty look at the pitfalls of being too helpful, where good intentions meet the unpredictable whims of society.
• "Love in a Cottage": A classic exploration of romantic idealism versus practical reality, set against the backdrop of simpler times—or perhaps, as Durivage might say, the "good old times" that weren't always as golden as they seemed.
• “Personal Satisfaction”: which provides an explanation of why we should be always sure before going ahead.

Join us as we dust off these literary gems from the Project Gutenberg archives and bring the spirited prose of Francis A. Durivage back to life.

THE OBLIGING YOUNG MAN

"Cars ready for Boston and way stations!" shouted the conductor of a railroad train, as the steamhorse, harnessed for his twenty mile trip, stood chafing, snorting, and coughing, throwing up angry puffs of mingled gray and dingy vapor from his sturdy lungs. "Cars ready for Boston and way stations!"

"O, yes!" replied a brisk young man, with a bright eye, peculiar smirk, spotted neckcloth, and gray gaiters with pearl buttons. "Cars ready for Boston and way stations. All aboard. Now's your time—quick, or you'll lose 'em. Now then, ma'am."

"But, sir," remonstrated the old lady he addressed, and whom he was urging at the steps of a first class car.

"O, never mind!" replied the brisk young man. "Know what you're going to say—too much trouble—none whatever, I assure you. Perfect stranger, true, do as you'd be done. In with you—ding! ding!—there's the bell—off we go."

And so in fact they did go off at forty miles an hour.

"But, sir," said the old lady, trembling violently.

"I see," interrupted the obliging young man; "want a seat—here it is—a great bargain—cars full—quick, or you'll lose it."

"But, sir," said the old lady, with nervous trepidation, "I—I—wasn't going to Boston."

"The deuce you weren't. Well, well, well, why couldn't you say so? Hullo! Conductor! Stop the cars!"

"Can't do it," replied the conductor. "This train don't stop short of Woburn watering station."

"Woburn watering station!" whimpered the old woman, wringing her hands. "O, what shall I do?"

"Sit still; take it easy—no use crying for spilt milk; what can't be cured must be endured. I'll look out sharp; you might have saved yourself all this trouble."

Away went the cars, racketting and oscillating, while the obliging young man was looking round for another recipient of his good services.

"Ha!" he muttered to himself. "There's a poor young fellow quite alone. Lovesick, perhaps; pale cheek—sunken eye—never told his love; but let—Shakspeare—I'm his man! Must look out for the old woman. Here we are, ma'am, fifteen miles to Lowell—out with you—look out for the cars on the back track. Good by—pleasant trip!"

Ding dong, went the bell again.

"Hullo! here's her bundle! Catch, there—heads! All right—get on, driver!"

And having tossed a bundle after the old woman, he resumed his seat.

"Confound it!" roared a man in a blue spencer. "You're treading on my corns."

"Beg pardon," said the obliging young man. "Bad things, corns,—'trifling sum of misery new added to the foot of your account;' old author—name forgotten. Never mind—drive on!"

"But where's my bundle?" asked the man. "Conductor! Where's my bundle? Brown paper—red string. Saw it here a moment since."

The conductor knew nothing about it. The obliging young man did. It was the same he had thrown out after the old woman.

"You'll find it some where," he said, with a consolatory wink. "Can't lose a brown paper bundle. I've tried—often—always turned up; little boy sure to bring it. 'Here's your bundle, sir; ninepence, please.' All right—go ahead!"

Here the obliging young man took his seat beside the pale-faced youth.

"Ill health, sir?"

"No, sir," replied the pale-faced youth, fidgeting.

"Mental malady—eh?"

The young man sighed.

"See it all. Don't say a word, man! Cupid, heart from heart, forced to part. Flinty-hearted father?"

"No, sir."

"Flinty-hearted mother?"

"No, sir."

"Flinty-hearted aunt?"

The lovesick young man sighed, and nodded assent.

"Tell me the story. I'm a stranger—but my heart is here, sir." Whereupon the obliging young man referred to a watch pocket in his plaid vest, and nodded with a great deal of intelligence. "Tell me all—like to serve my fellows—no other occupation; out with it, as the doctor said to the little boy that swallowed his sister's necklace."

The lovesick youth informed the obliging young man that he loved and was beloved by a young lady of Boston, whose aunt, acting as her guardian, opposed his suit. He was going to Boston to put a plan of elopement into operation. He had prepared two letters, one to the aunt renouncing his hopes, to throw her off her guard; the other to the young lady, appointing a meeting at the Providence cars. The difficulty was to get the letters delivered. This the obliging young man readily undertook to do in person. Both the aunt and niece bore the same name—Emeline Brown; but the aunt's letter was sealed with black, the niece's with red wax. The letters were delivered with many injunctions to the obliging young man, and the two new-made friends parted on the arrival of the cars in Boston.

The Providence cars were just getting ready to start, when, amid all the bustle and confusion, a pale-faced young man "might have been seen," as Mr. James, the novelist, says, nervously pacing to and fro, and occasionally darting into Pleasant Street, and scrutinizing every approaching passenger and vehicle. At last, when there was but a single moment to spare, a hack drove up furiously, and a veiled lady hastily descended, and gave her hand to her expectant admirer.

"Quick, Emeline, or we shall lose the train!"

The enamoured couple were soon seated beside each other, and whirling away to Providence. The lady said little, but sat with downcast head and veiled face, apparently overwhelmed with confusion at the step she had taken. But it was enough for young Dovekin to know she was beside him, and he poured forth an unbroken stream of delicious nonsense, till the train arrived at its destination.

In the station house the lady lifted her veil. Horror and confusion! It was the aunt! The obliging young man had delivered the wrong letter.

"Yes, sir," said Miss Brown, "I am the person whom you qualified, in your letter intended for my niece, as a 'hateful hag, in whose eyes you were throwing dust'. What do you say to that, sir?"

"Say!" replied the disconsolate Dovekin. "It's no use to say anything; for it is my settled purpose to spring over the parapet of the railroad bridge and seek oblivion in a watery grave. But first, if I could find that obliging young man, I'd be the death of him."

"No you wouldn't," said the voice of that interesting individual, as he made his appearance with a lady on his arm. "Here she is—take her—be happy. After I'd given the notes, mind misgave me—went back to the house—found the aunt gone—niece in tears—followed after—same train—last car—here she is!"

"I hope this will be a lesson," said Dovekin.

"So it is. Henceforth, I shall mind my own business; for every thing I've undertaken lately, on other folks' account, has gone amiss. Come, aunty, give your blessing—let 'em go. Train ready—I'm off—best of wishes—good by. Cars ready for Boston and way stations!—all aboard."

The aunt gave her blessing; and this was the last that any of the party saw of the Obliging Young Man.

LOVE IN A COTTAGE

"Tell me, Charley, who is that fascinating creature in blue that waltzes so divinely?" asked young Frank Belmont of his friend Charles Hastings, as they stood "playing wallflower" for the moment, at a military ball.

"Julia Heathcote," answered Charles, with a half sigh, "an old flame of mine. I proposed, but she refused me."

"On what ground?"

:30 "Simply because I had a comfortable income. Her head is full of romantic notions, and she dreams of nothing but love in a cottage. She contends that poverty is essential to happiness—and money its bane."

"Have you given up all hopes of her?"

"Entirely; in fact, I'm engaged."

"Then you have no objections to my addressing this dear, romantic angel?"

"None whatever. But I see my fiancée—excuse me—I must walk through the next quadrille with her."

Frank Belmont was a stranger in Boston—a New Yorker—immensely rich and fashionable, but his reputation had not preceded him, and Charley Hastings was the only man who knew him in New England. He procured an introduction to the beauty from one of the managers, and soon danced and talked himself into her good graces. In fact, it was a clear case of love at first sight on both sides.

The enamoured pair were sitting apart, enjoying a most delightful tête-à-tête. Suddenly Belmont heaved a deep sigh.

"Why do you sigh, Mr. Belmont?" asked the fair Julia, somewhat pleased with this proof of sensibility. "Is not this a joyful scene?"

"Alas! yes," replied Belmont, gloomily; "but fate does not permit me to mingle habitually in scenes like this. They only make my ordinary life doubly gloomy—and even here I deem to see the shadow of a fiend waving me away. What right have I to be here?"

"What fiend do you allude to?" asked Miss Heathcote, with increasing interest.

"A fiend hardly presentable in good society," replied Belmont, bitterly. "One could tolerate a Mephistophiles—a dignified fiend, with his pockets full of money—but my tormentor, if personified, would appear with seedy boots and a shocking bad hat."

"How absurd!"

"It is too true," sighed Belmont, "and the name of this fiend is Poverty!"

"Are you poor?"

"Yes, madam. I am poor, and when I would fain render myself agreeable in the eyes of beauty—in the eyes of one I could love, this fiend whispers me, 'Beware! you have nothing to offer her but love in a cottage.'"

"Mr. Belmont," said Julia, with sparkling eyes, and a voice of unusual animation, "although there are sordid souls in this world, who only judge of the merits of an individual by his pecuniary possessions, I am not one of that number. I respect poverty; there is something highly poetical about it, and I imagine that happiness is oftener found in the humble cottage than beneath the palace roof."

Belmont appeared enchanted with this encouraging avowal. The next day, after cautioning his friend Charley to say nothing of his actual circumstances, he called on the widow Heathcote and her fair daughter in the character of the "poor gentleman." The widow had very different notions from her romantic offspring, and when Belmont candidly confessed his poverty on soliciting permission to address Julia, he was very politely requested to change the subject, and never mention it again.

The result of all this manœuvring was an elopement; the belle of the ball jumping out of a chamber window on a shed, and coming down a flight of steps to reach her lover, for the sake of being romantic,4:29 when she might just as well have walked out of the front door.

The happy couple passed a day in New York city, and then Frank took his beloved to his "cottage."

An Irish hack conveyed them to a miserable shanty in the environs of New York, where they alighted, and Frank, escorting the bride into the apartment which served for parlor, kitchen, and drawing room, and was neither papered nor carpeted, introduced her to his mother, much in the way Claude Melnotte presents Pauline. The old woman, who was peeling potatoes, hastily wiped her hands and face with a greasy apron, and saluted her "darter," as she called her, on both cheeks.

"Can it be possible," thought Julia, "that this vulgar creature is my Belmont's mother?"

"Frank!" screamed the old woman, "you'd better go right up stairs and take off them clothes—for the boy's been sent arter 'em more'n fifty times. Frank borried them clothes, ma'am," she added to Julia, by way of explanation, "to look smart when he went down east."

The bridegroom retired on this hint, and soon reappeared in a pair of faded nankeen pantaloons, reaching to about the calf of the leg, a very shabby black coat, out at the elbows, a ragged black vest, and, instead of his varnished leather boots, a pair of immense cowhide brogans.

"Now," said he, sitting quietly down by the cooking stove, "I begin to feel at home. Ah! this is delightful, isn't it, dearest?" and he warbled,—"Though never so humble, there's no place like home."

Julia's heart swelled so that she could not utter a word.

"Dearest," said Frank, "I think you told me you had no objection to smoking?"

"None in the least," said the bride; "I rather like the flavor of a cigar."

"O, a cigar!" replied Belmont; "that would never do for a poor man."

And O, horror! he produced an old clay pipe, and filling it from a little newspaper parcel of tobacco, began to smoke with a keen relish.

"Dinner! dinner!" he exclaimed at length; "ah! thank you, mother; I'm as hungry as a bear. Codfish and potatoes, Julia—not very tempting fare—but what of that? our aliment is love!"

"Yes, and by way of treat," added the old woman, "I've been and gone and bought a whole pint of Albany ale, and three cream cakes, from the candy shop next block."

Poor Julia pleaded indisposition, and could not eat a mouthful. Before Belmont, however, the codfish and potatoes, and the ale, and cream cakes disappeared with a very unromantic and unlover-like velocity. At the close of the meal, a thundering double knock was heard at the door.

"Come in!" cried Belmont.

A low-browed man, in a green waistcoat, entered.

"Now, Misther Belmont," he exclaimed , "are ye ready to go to work? By the powers! if I don't see ye sailed tomorrow on the shopboard, I'll discharge ye without a character—and ye shall starve on the top of that."

"Tomorrow morning, Mr. Maloney," replied Belmont, meekly, "I'll be at my post."

"And it'll be mighty healthy for you to do that same," replied the man as he retired.

"Belmont, speak—tell me," gasped Julia, "who is that man—that loafer?"

"He is my employer," answered Belmont, smiling.

"And his profession?"

"He is a tailor."

"And you?"

"Am a journeyman tailor, at your service—a laborious and thankless calling it ever was to me—but now, dearest, as I drive the hissing goose across the smoking seam, I shall think of my own angel and my dear cottage, and be happy."

That night Julia retired weeping to her room in the attic.

"That 'ere counterpin, darter," said the old woman, "I worked with these here old hands. Ain't it putty? I hope you'll sleep well here. There's a broken pane of glass, but I've put one of Frank's old hats in it, and I don't think you'll feel the draught. There used to be a good many rats here, but I don't think they'll trouble you now, for Frank's been a pizinin' of 'em."

Left alone, Julia threw herself into a chair, and burst into a flood of tears. Even Belmont had ceased to be attractive in her eyes—the stern privations that surrounded her banished all thoughts of love. The realities of life had cured her in one day of all her Quixotic notions.

"Well, Julia, how do you like poverty and love in a cottage?" asked Belmont, entering in his bridal dress.

"Not so well, sir, as you seem to like that borrowed suit," answered the bride, reddening with vexation.

"Very well; you shall suffer it no longer. My carriage awaits your orders at the door."

"Your carriage, indeed!"

"Yes, dearest, it waits but for you, to bear us to Belmont Hall, my lovely villa on the Hudson."

"And your mother?"

"I have no mother, alas! The old woman downstairs is an old servant of the family."

"Then you've been deceiving me, Frank—how wicked!"

"It was all done with a good motive. You were not born to endure a life of privation, but to shine the ornament of an elegant and refined circle. I hope you will not love me the less when you learn that I am worth nearly half a million—that's the melancholy fact, and I can't help it."

"O Frank!" cried the beautiful girl, and hid her face in his chest.

She presided with grace at the elegant festivities of Belmont Hall, and seemed to support her husband's wealth and luxurious style of living with the greatest fortitude and resignation, never complaining of her comforts, nor murmuring a wish for living in a cottage.

PERSONAL SATISFACTION 

Mrs. Tubbs had been a very fine woman—she was still good looking at the period of which we write, but then—"Fanny was younger once than she is now,

and prettier of course."

She had been married some years. Tubbs was a gentleman farmer, and lived out in Roxbury, when land was cheaper there than it is now, and a man of moderate means could own a few acres within three miles of Boston State House. On retiring from the wholesale West India goods business, he had purchased a little estate in the vicinity of the Norfolk House, and raised vegetables and other "notions" with the usual success attendant upon the agricultural experiments of gentlemen amateurs; that is, his potatoes cost him about half a dollar a peck, and his quinces ninepence apiece. He had a greenhouse one quarter of a mile long, and kept a fire in it all the year round, at the suggestion of a rascally gardener, whose brother kept a wood and coal yard. We could tell some droll stories about Tubbs's gardening, if they were to the purpose. We will mention, however, that when he went into the vegetable business he was innocent as a lamb, and verdant as one of his own green peapods, and of course he made some curious mistakes. He was not aware that the infant bean, like the pious Æneas, was "in the habit of carrying its father on its back," and so thinking that nature had made a mistake, he reversed the order of the young sprouts, and reinterred the aged beans. This was one of his many blunders. However, we have nothing to do with his gardening. We have said he was innocent as a lamb, but he was by no means so pacific; on the contrary, his temper was as inflammable as gun cotton—the slightest spark would set it in a blaze.

To return to Mrs. Tubbs, whom we have most ungallantly left in the lurch since the first paragraph. She had been into Boston one day, shopping, and returned home in the omnibus. She sat between two young men. One on her right was modest and well-behaved, while the other was entirely the reverse. He might have been drinking—he might have been partially insane—these are charitable suppositions; but at all events, he had the impertinence to address Mrs. Tubbs in a low tone, audible only to herself. He muttered some compliment to her appearance—talked a little nonsense—inoffensive in itself, but intolerable as coming from a stranger. Mrs. Tubbs made no reply, but she was glad to spring from the conveyance when the driver pulled up at the Norfolk House. To her great joy she espied the faithful Tubbs, attired in a blouse, and wheeling a barrow full of gravel down Bartlett Street, with all the dignity of a gentleman farmer, conscious of being a useful, if not an ornamental, member of society. She accosted him with,—

"Tubbs, love, I've got something to tell you."

Tubbs relinquished the handles of the barrow, and sat down in the gravel.

"Mr. Tubbs!" screamed the lady, "you've got your best pantaloons on."

"Never mind, my dear; out with your story, for I'm busy."

"Mr. Tubbs! I have been insulted!"

Mr. Tubbs's head instantly became as red as one of his own blood beets.

"Who is the miscreant?" he yelled, jumping up.

"A young man who sat next to me in the omnibus."

"Describe him!"

"Dark hair and eyes, with a black stock, light waistcoat, dark-colored coat and pantaloons—"

"Which way did he go?" interrupted Mr. Tubbs.

"Into the hourly office."

"'Tis well! Mrs. T., I'll have his heart's blood!"

"Now, T., be calm!" interposed his better half.

"Mrs. T., I will be calm," was the dignified reply, "calm as the surface of Mount Ætna, on the eve of an eruption. Farewell, love, for a moment. Have an eye to the wheelbarrow while I have a settlement with this scoundrel!"

With these words, Tubbs marched up the hill. He entered the hourly office, and looked round him. His first glance lighted on a young man who answered the description given by Mrs. Tubbs; but he wished to make assurance doubly sure, and so he accosted him politely,—

"Fine growing weather, sir."

"Yes, sir," replied the stranger.

"Peas are doing finely," said Mr. Tubbs.

"Indeed!"

"If the weather holds, we can plant corn next week."

"Indeed!"

"Pray, sir," continued Tubbs, "did you come out in the last coach?"

"I did, sir."

"Was there a lady in the coach?"

"There was, sir. I recollect a lady sat next to me."

"You scoundrel! what did you mean by insulting my wife?"

This question was followed by a blow, which sent the young gentleman sprawling on the floor. Tubbs stood him up, and knocked him down again and again, like a man practising on a single pin in a bowling alley. The sufferer showed some fight, but Tubbs's blood was up, and he hammered down all opposition. The drivers looked on in admiration to see "Old Tubbs vollop the chap as had insulted his wife," and so he had it all his own way. He dragged the offender out of the office, and finished him off on the sidewalk. He was engaged in this laudable occupation, when his better half, tired of mounting guard over the wheelbarrow, appeared upon the field.

"Mr. Tubbs!" she screamed.

"Wait a minute, my dear. I've only done one side of his head."

"But, Mr. Tubbs! That wasn't the man!"

Tubbs suspended operations, and stood fixed in horror. The remains of the injured individual were taken into the hourly office. Then came remorse and apologies unaccepted and unacceptable, a lawyer's letter—an action for assault and battery, and heavy damages. The real offender had escaped, and was never heard of; the victim was the well-behaved young gentleman, who had sat on Mrs. Tubbs's right. Her description, which had answered for both, had occasioned the dilemma, which, while it proved an expensive lesson to Mr. Tubbs, was also an effectual one, and saved him from many a rash and hasty action, 7:17and induced him ever afterwards to adopt Colonel Crockett's golden maxim, "Be always sure you're right, then go ahead."

I hope you enjoyed these three ironic stories from  Francis A. Durivage.   

Next week we’ll hear about some heroines of earlier eras. 

If you're enjoying Narrated Archives please rate and review wherever you listen to your favorite podcasts.  

Also You can now subscribe to Narrated Archives to listen to bonus episodes with stories not otherwise heard on the podcast. 

The story may have ended, but the archive is always open. We’ll see you in the next chapter of the Narrated Archives. Thank you for listening.