Earlier text: JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES.JUDGE CLINTON would insist upon living in a little brown, old-fashioned house, without carpets upon the floors; and, what was more vexatious, he would not allow a sofa or lounge or rocking-chair inside the four brown walls. As he had an idea that the whole country was going to rack and ruin, because the men wore broadcloth, and the women wore silks, he declared he would wear homespun as long as he lived, and his women folks should be restricted to calico. As we have nothing to do with Mrs. Judge Clinton, we shall not allude to the hearty vexation with which she carried out the Judge’s whimsical notions. But she could do nothing wiser than to swallow, and, woman-like, pretend to believe, with her husband, that they could reform the world by making themselves conspicuously mean and uncomfortable. Judge Clinton was still in indigo-colored138 homespun, and Mrs. Judge Clinton in nine-penny calico, when Miss Clara Clinton, having reached the age of eighteen, and having a will of her own (which her mother was careful to tell everybody the child inherited from her father), announced her desire and determination to go to a boarding-school. The judge himself had been a poor boy, educated through his own exertions. He was a proof of his humble birth and the difficulties he had overcome at Brundery. He had read Virgil by the aid of a penny candle, and solved the problems of Euclid by moonlight. He respected but one desire in the world, and that was a thirst for knowledge. So when Miss Clara protested that she must, and could, and would go to a boarding-school, Judge Clinton cheerfully acquiesced and expressed himself ready to “cash over.” No sooner was this interesting subject broached, however, than, to Miss Clara’s surprise, her father selected the most expensive, thorough, and aristocratic institution in the country, paid the yearly expenses in advance, and sent her at once to complete her education, with twenty-five cents for spending money, and three calico gowns for her wardrobe, It was bad enough, Miss Clara said, sobbing all the while, to be obliged to dress in calico; but to have three calico gowns all alike, from the self-same piece, so that her companions would think she had but one—that was “the hardest to bear of all.” But the old judge was incorrigible. He had saved two shillings and sixpence by having them all alike, and he was satisfied, if his daughter was not. It was a bright, clear May morning when Miss Clara bade adieu to the ugly brown homestead, and to her mother who wiped her tears on her calico apron, and to the sheep that bore the fleeces from which her father’s homespun was made. She loved everything about the dun dwelling, now that she looked upon it from the coach window. But soon the novelty of her condition overcame her grief, and she forgot all petty vexations in the new scenes and strange people around her. Very weary and travel-soiled, she alighted at the end of her journey, and was shown into the reception room, where were seated several stylish young ladies, evidently newly arrived pupils like herself. There was Miss June with her exquisitely-fitting gray traveling dress, who glanced her over with a quizzical look in her dark eyes; and Miss Clara felt sure that the peculiar smiles that lingered upon those sarcastic lips owed their existence to the fact that she wore “calico.” Blushing to her very temples, poor Clara looked away, only to encounter the gaze of Miss Gay, who, reclining upon the sofa in the most faultless attire, seemed absorbed in studying the pattern of the print. Miss Gay and Miss June exchanged glances and smiles. Tears welled up from Clara’s full heart, but she was too proud to wipe them away; one fell, then another, when a soft voice said:— “You are very tired, I am sure; so are we all; but we shall be attended to soon.” Clara looked her thanks to the gentle speaker—a girl very plainly dressed, and of sweet, winsome countenance, who, bringing her chair nearer, asked her some trivial questions, and related some amusing experiences of her own in reaching the institution. Clara felt more at ease, and, being naturally vivacious and intelligent, soon made141 friends with the kind stranger, who invited her to become her room-mate. The school term soon commenced, and there was little time for Clara to think of her homely garments. But when Sunday came round, and she took another calico dress from her wardrobe, exactly like the one she had worn all the week, her room-mate said:— “Miss Clinton, I beg your pardon, but wouldn’t something else do better to-day? The young ladies usually dress a good deal here, especially the first Sunday of appearing, and I am afraid you will not find it pleasant to be so plainly attired.” Clara blushed, but she was a brave-hearted girl, and had the good sense to know that deception could avail nothing. So she said frankly:— “The truth is, I have but three dresses in the world, and those are exactly alike!” Miss Pleasant looked at her a moment as if she thought she must be quizzing, but, perceiving the blushes and confusion of her room-mate, burst out laughing! “Why, Clara! It is so comical! You must excuse me, dear, if I do laugh a little. How does it happen you dress so plainly?” “Well, my father is very odd in some things, and it is his will that we dress in prints.” Miss Pleasant went to the closet, and shaking out a plain but very presentable black silk, said:— “Please wear this, dear Clara. Don’t think but I shall love you just as well in calico, but many of the girls won’t, and you are so sensitive you will be wounded. I can well do without this dress the whole term, and no one will know but it is yours.” Clara hesitated. She had always desired a silk dress. She had been thinking all the morning of the ridicule of her school-mates. Should she accept this offered kindness? Or would it be better to wear her own clothes and appear as she really was? She did not hesitate long; but putting her arms around Miss Pleasant’s neck, kissed her with trembling lips, then said in a quiet way: “Thank you, thank you a thousand times. It does not seem best. My father would not approve it, nor do I. If you love me, that is enough.” Miss Pleasant patted Clara’s cheek gently, murmuring,— “You are right, Clara, and you are handsomer in your calico than the richest of them in all their silks and finery.” Nothing more was said. The two girls went down to the assembly-room when the bell rang, and found the people standing in groups, waiting the appearance of the assistant teacher to lead them to church. “Look! will you?” whispered Miss Gay to the young lady next to her, “If that girl isn’t going to church in that calico dress.” Miss Pleasant frowned, but Clara smiled. She had conquered her pride that morning on her knees; she had resolved not to be made unhappy by what she could not help. The assistant teacher entered the room with a rustle and a trail befitting her station. She looked the young ladies over with a sweeping glance, and peremptorily ordered Miss Clara Clinton to her room. Miss Pleasant whispered a word in that lady’s ear; Miss Clara was recalled, and the procession fell into line. It was very vexatious that all the gentlemen those young ladies passed, seemed to look only at the calico dress. It was so very odd to see a young lady going to church in print. From144 the dress they looked into the face—such a pretty face as it was, too, so bright, all thinking of the oddity of the attire, and wondering who the young lady could be. It was not long before Clara became known as the young lady in calico. Old Mr. Vennet, the wealthiest and most influential gentleman of the town, having had his attention directed to her peculiar dress, made the discovery that her father had been his dear and intimate friend in college. He also was self-made, and he and Judge Clinton had walked together in the thorny ways of poverty. Mr. Vennet, at the first opportunity, sent a carriage to bring Miss Clara to dine with his family, and told her many stories of which Judge Clinton was the hero, and was evidently very proud of his friend’s pretty daughter. Afterward, he from time to time sent bouquets from his rare exotics, and such abundance of fruit, besides taking her to ride occasionally with his family, that the young ladies of the institute were almost in a state of envy. Finally, as if to drive the young ladies to distraction, the Vennets gave a party145 to which the most influential and wealthiest families of the county were invited. Even the principal of the institute was overlooked. As might be expected, Miss Clinton from that evening was quite a belle. No one could slight a young lady to whom the Vennets had been so attentive. Besides, there was something quite novel in having a beautiful young creature from the country who had a rich father, and wore calico because she was not poor! The young ladies petted her because they had nothing to be jealous of; the old ladies patronized her as an example for their daughters; the young men respected her for her pretty ways, independence of character, and ready wit; and the old men put their thumbs into the arms of their vests, and gravely announced that “she was quite an original and exemplary young lady, and they wished there were more like her.” Indeed, the only trouble was that Judge Clinton’s calico dresses didn’t prove his daughter’s ruin. The long school session was to close with a public examination, upon which occasion all the young ladies were required to wear146 white, with satin sashes, and a rosette upon the left shoulder. The principal had an eye to effect, and she would admit nothing that disturbed harmony. Miss Clinton’s calico gown was vetoed at once. “It would do very well, perhaps, for Mr. Vennet’s party, but it was not proper for an examination!” So Judge Clinton received a very polite note from that formidable lady, requesting him in frigid and unmistakable terms “to allow his daughter white mull.” If the principal had designed to make Judge Clinton the happiest of men, which she didn’t, and to render it forever out of Miss Clara’s power to wear white mull, she could not more effectually have accomplished her purpose than in writing him this note. Judge Clinton, of Clintonville, declared that he was not the man to be dictated by any woman—not he; and precisely because it would oblige her to have Clara dress in white, it would disoblige him to do so. His rather impolite reply was: “He sent his daughter to school to study books, not dress. If she wanted his daughter to wear white, she was at liberty to provide that garment for her.147 For his part he did not know what right teachers had to decide what color or goods their pupils should wear. If she was not willing his daughter should appear in print, she was at liberty to say so and he would remove her at once from the school.” The principal, as may be supposed, was as indignant as a principal could well be. But what would the Vennets say, and the wealthy persons whom they would influence, if Miss Clara was banished for wearing a dress they had condescended to honor? Besides, Clara was the best writer, the best singer, the best dialogue-maker of the whole school. She was necessary to the brilliancy of the anniversary. The principal decided to adopt the judge’s suggestion, and provide the outfit at her own expense. But no sooner was this decided upon, than the judge wrote by express, protesting that his daughter should not wear white at all, and that he was coming in person to see that she did not violate his command. The result of it was, the judge carried his point, and Clara was the odd bird in the whole flock of white pigeons. Among all the queens of the Swiss and mull, the rustic belle was the observed of all observers. She was really the handsomest, merriest, and most sparkling creature in the room. And what was sadly provoking to the principal, there sat Judge Clinton, in his suit of homespun, by the side of old Mr. Vennet, upon the platform, availing himself of every opportunity to tell the whole story connected with the calico garment, and turning the confused teacher to ridicule. At last it came to the distribution of the prizes, and that for exemplary conduct and correct recitations was awarded to Miss Clara Clinton. If Judge Clinton did not make a speech on that occasion, it was because Mr. Vennet did. As the address was fully reported at the time of delivery, we will not report it here, but simply refer to that part of it which relates to our heroine:— “I am happy,” said Mr. Vennet, “that this prize has fallen to the daughter of my friend, Judge Clinton, of Clintonville. She is a worthy daughter of a worthy sire. She may well be proud to have received this token149 of her teacher’s approbation, for she has won it under peculiar and trying circumstances. Young ladies, do not forget that though you are beautiful when adorned, you are more attractive, more intellectual, more self-reliant while you remain satisfied with what Providence has placed at your disposal.” A GAUDY flower with striped breast
Was viewing, up and down, her vest,
When at her feet, beneath the leaves,
She spied a flower that only weaves
Its drapery in the shade, unseen;
She started in disdain; between
The sheltering leaves she cast her glance
As withering as a foeman’s lance—
Pale Vagrant-of-the-dust, I pray,
What brought you to my feet to-day?
Be brief, if you have aught to ask,
And fade; thou must not think to bask
Where Beauty reigns.” “I have no plea;
I had not even noticed thee,”
The pale Flower said, and turned to look
Up at the Beauty from her nook.
“Thou hadst not noticed me! Dost dare
To tell me so? Wan thing, beware;
Queen of the regal walks, I’ll hold
Dominion—wait thou, bold!
To-night I figure at the feast150
The queen attends; upon her breast
My beauty shall all worship claim
And win for me a regal name.”
A rustle and there bent a face—
The fairest of a princely race—
Above the flower of striped vest,
Above the flower of haughty breast.
“How camest thou here among my bowers,
Thou gaudy weed amidst the flowers?
Thou canst not tell the reason why?
I pluck and fling thee off to die;
I seek the flower of fairest face
The bosom of a queen to grace.”
She lower stooped where, out of sight,
Was hid the little flower of white;
She plucked it, bore before the queen;
Its snowy breast, its leaves of green
And, while the haughty Beauty died,
Stripped of all else but wounded pride,
That night the pale flower won renown—
The modest flower that sought no crown,
That grew so shaded, out of sight—
The little flower of simple white.
One evening I was chatting with my friend, the minister, in his study. My attention was turned to a beautifully embroidered text, which was suspended on the wall. It was the passage in 1 Peter 1:24, 25:— “All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away; but the word of the Lord endureth forever.” “What an exquisite piece of needle-work this is!” I said. “It is quite wonderful.” “It is,” he answered; “but more wonderful still were the remarkable leadings of God of which this picture is a remembrance.” “Really!” I rejoined. “And would it be indiscreet—” “Oh, I shall be delighted to tell you the story,” he interrupted kindly. “It takes me back some twenty-five years, when as yet I was a young preacher. I think that I am152 justified in saying that I tried to preach the gospel to the best of my knowledge, but I must add that my knowledge was sadly limited. I thought that, to be useful, I ought, above all things, to exercise myself in the rhetoric art and in the elegant forms of eloquence. Now, certainly nobody will assert that rhetoric and eloquence are arts which a preacher of the gospel should neglect. Robert Hall, for instance, was no less a preacher of truth because he clothed his thoughts in oratorical language; but I overdid the thing. As my vanity was well pleased when I saw numbers, and especially of the higher and wealthier class, attracted to me by the beauties of my style and the power of my elocution, I selected those subjects which afforded more scope for display, and devoted almost all my time during the week to my sermons, which, after having been carefully ‘planned and polished,’ were, word for word, committed to memory. The consequence was that the contents of my sermons became very poor and shallow; and the plain truths of the gospel, which speak of sin, of righteousness, and of judgment, if introduced at all, were all but buried under the artificial flowers of oratory. “My dear,” my good wife would sometimes say, “I am afraid you are making more admirers of yourself than followers of Jesus.” “How so, my dear?” I would ask testily; ‘didn’t you like my sermon this morning?’ “‘Well,’ the answer would be, ‘I can not but say that you preached beautifully, and that all you said was quite true so far as it went; but there are many other precious and important truths which you seldom or never preach about, and which yet we are greatly in need of.’” “And so she would often in her closet commit the matter to God, and pray him to teach me to lead those who are dead in trespasses and sins to a living, loving, and life-giving Christ. “It pleased the Lord to hear that prayer of my excellent wife. One Sunday morning I preached as usual to a crowded congregation, chiefly composed of the principal inhabitants of the neighborhood. I was just then engaged in giving my audience a picturesque description of a sunset on the Sea of Galilee, when all on a sudden, owing to the close atmosphere, a little girl fell into a fainting fit. The disturbances which it created, though154 only short and comparatively insignificant, yet so much put me out that I became altogether confused. The rest of my sermon all at once vanished from my memory. I could not possibly recollect one word of it. In my perplexity I cried to God for help. While looking down on my Bible, which was lying open before me, my eye fell upon the text of Peter which you see yonder suspended on the wall. Yielding, as it were, to an instinctive impulse, I read it to my hearers, and began preaching from it an improvised sermon just as it came up in my heart. And here, having lost my oratorical flower basket, I could not help laying bare the truths of God’s Word in all their simplicity and startling reality. Connecting the text with my previous description, I compared the glory of man to the setting sun, which was never to rise again. I spoke of the utter vanity of every thing human, of the certainty of the destruction of this world, and of our everlasting condemnation if we were to die in the midst of our sins. In a word, I ‘shunned not to declare to them all the counsel of God,’ proclaiming death and destruction as it is in Adam, and life and salvation as it is in Jesus. “On walking home after service my wife almost wept for joy. Never in her life, she said, had she heard such a heart-searching sermon. But I was in an almost desponding mood of mind, and quite ashamed of myself, ‘for the people must have noticed my confusion,’ I said; ‘and what a gossip will it be all over the place that the minister broke down in the middle of his sermon! Surely,’ I added, ‘this was the worst sermon ever preached from a pulpit.’ “We had scarcely got home, however, when a lady desired to speak to me. The impression which her appearance made upon me was not very agreeable. She was gaudily dressed, and carried a flourish of trinkets, lace, and finery about her which created a most unfavorable impression. ‘Sir,’ she said, while her lip quivered, ‘could you permit me to speak to you in confidence?’ “I am a lost woman,’ she said, while tears burst from her eyes; ‘but you, sir, can perhaps tell me whether there is still salvation for one who has so long lived a careless life.” “She then briefly told me her story. She was a person held in high esteem in the society in which she moved. But she was living without God and without Christ in the world, and was entirely given up to pleasure and love of dress and display. Church or chapel she seldom or never visited. The places which she frequented were the theater and the ball-room. But on this Sunday morning, having gone out for a walk, her attention was struck by the singing which reached her ears from my chapel. The thought occurred to her that she might as well step in and sit down with the congregation. But here she found that she had come just in time to learn what the glory of man is. My sermon went like a two-edged sword through her heart. She saw that with all her beauty she was but a withering flower, dead, lost, helpless, and hopeless. And she now besought me to tell her more about that Saviour whom I had spoken of as the only One who was able to save from ruin. “I need not tell you,” my friend continued, “how gladly I told her of Christ. Her eyes were opened to the glory of his holiness. It was not long before she became a member157 of my church, and on that occasion she presented me with this picture.” “And what became of your sermons?” I asked archly. “Well,” he answered with a smile, “the Lord had taught me this great lesson, which I hope I have never forgotten since; namely, that oratory, rhetoric, etc., may be excellent things in a pulpit, but that without the eloquence of the Holy Spirit, which tells us of the love of Him who died for our sins, they will never lead a lost sinner to the fold of the only Good Shepherd.” Oh, who can view the wasted flower,
The naked field, the dying leaf,
When autumn winds proclaim their power,
And still remain unmoved by grief!
An emblem this of man’s career;
His life’s unfolding and decay;
He glories but a moment here,
The fragile creature of a day.
Though dead, the floral tribes of spring
Shall bloom, revived by fairer skies;
Like Phœnix, of unconquered wing,
They’ll from their lowly graves arise,
A FEW weeks since, in coming down the North River, I was seated in the cabin of the magnificent steamer Isaac Newton, in conversation with some friends. It was becoming late in the evening, and one after another, seeking repose, made preparations to retire to their berths; some, pulling off their boots and coats, and lying down to rest; while others, in the attempt to make it seem as much like home as possible, threw off more of their clothing—each one as his comfort or apprehension of danger dictated. I had noticed on deck a fine looking boy, of about six years of age, following round a man evidently his father, whose appearance indicated him to be a foreigner, probably a German—a man of medium height and respectable dress. The child was unusually fair and fine looking, with handsome features and an intelligent and affectionate expression of countenance, and from under his German cap159 fell chestnut hair, and thick, clustering curls. After walking about the cabin for a time the father and son stopped within a few feet of where we were seated, and commenced to prepare for going to bed. I watched them. While the little fellow was undressing himself, the father adjusted and arranged the bed the child was to occupy, which was an upper berth. Having finished this, his father tied a handkerchief around the boy’s head to protect his curls. This done I looked for him to seek his resting-place; but instead of this he quietly kneeled down upon the floor, put his little hands together in a beautifully child-like and simple manner, and resting his arms upon the lower berth, against which he knelt, began his vesper prayer. I listened and I could hear the murmuring of his sweet voice, but could not distinguish the words he spoke. There were men around him—Christian men—retiring to rest without prayer; or, if praying at all, a kind of mental desire for protection, without sufficient courage or piety to kneel down in the steamboat’s cabin, and before strangers acknowledge the goodness of God, and ask his protection and love. This was the result of some pious mother’s training. Where was she now? How many times had her kind hands been laid on the sunny locks as she had taught him to lisp his prayer. A beautiful sight it was, that child at prayer, in the midst of the busy, thoughtless throng. He alone, of this worldly multitude, drew nigh to heaven. I thanked the parental love that had taught him to lisp his evening prayer, and could scarcely refrain from weeping then, nor can I now, as I see again that sweet child, in the crowded tumult of the steamboat’s cabin, bending in devotion before his Maker. When the little boy had finished his evening prayer, he arose and kissed his father most affectionately, who then put him in his berth for the night. I felt a strong desire to speak to them, but deferred it till morning. When morning came the confusion of landing prevented me from seeing them again. But if ever I meet that boy in his happy youth, in his anxious manhood, in his declining years, I will thank him for the influence and example of that night’s devotion, and bless the name of the mother who taught him, “He is an Ishmaelite,” said my friend. “An Ishmaelite!—why, what do you mean? I have always thought her an inoffensive sort of do-nothing. Never have I seen anything that would suggest that her hand is against anyone, or anyone against her; the truth is, she will never set the world on fire through her force of character after any fashion.” “I think you mistake my meaning. I do not mean that she is warlike in her disposition, only that, as she wears the Ishmaelitish badge, she displays her nationality.” “I regret that you should wrong Mrs. S. so sadly by speaking of her as though she were akin to that uncivilized, barbaric nation, and my only apology for you is that you do not know Mrs. S., nor the position she holds in the Christian community.” “I certainly do know Mrs. S. well; I162 have a more intimate acquaintance with her influence as a church member than you are aware of. But if she is not an Ishmaelite, and does not wish to have it known that she is, why does she wear the unmistakable badge? Why does she conform to the habits of barbaric and uncivilized nations? If I should wear the badge of the Masonic or any other order, would it not be because I wished to be designated as belonging to that fraternity?” “You really puzzle me. What has all this to do with your calling Mrs. S. an Ishmaelite?” “It has much to do with it. And I can assure you on scriptural grounds that I do right in designating Mrs. S. as an Ishmaelite. There lies your Bible within arm’s reach. Now turn to Judges 8: 24. What do you read here? ‘They had golden ear-rings, because they were Ishmaelites!’ Now one ‘Thus saith the Lord,’ as found in the Bible, ought to settle forever all questioning.” “You astonish me! Why, I never would have thought of it. If Mrs. S. is an Ishmaelite, then we have a race of Ishmaelites scattered through all our churches. I hardly can say which denomination has the most of them.163 Presbyterians, Baptists, Episcopalians, and even Methodists have not a few of this divers people. Will you believe me? I have even seen ear-rings on the wife of a Methodist minister, and other minister’s wives too.” “Of course I shall have to believe you, because it is a truth that I see verified in all directions, and it pains my heart to the quick to witness these relics of barbarism introduced among people professing to be Christians. When we hear of the Hindoos and Indians perforating the soft part of their nose for the insertion of trinkets, we pity them in their barbarity and want of civilization. But where is the difference, as far as civilization is the question, between a woman within the bounds of what is called civilization, who perforates the soft part of her ear to insert a trinket, or an Indian or Hindoo who perforates the soft part of her nose? One is just as much a manifestation of barbarism as the other.” “True, indeed! But I never thought of the startling fact that those women who wear ear-rings wear the badge of Ishmaelites. I am sure that hundreds of women in our churches who now wear them would never wish to164 be seen wearing them again if they only knew that that text was in the Bible.” “I heard of a minister who preached from the text, ‘They had golden ear-rings, because they were Ishmaelites.’ A lady was present who really desired to be an Israelite indeed; but when she heard the sermon she was almost confounded, not having known that there was such a text in the Bible. Said she, ‘I have so long been trying to be an Israelite, and now I see that I have all the time been an Ishmaelite.’ But I suppose a minister whose wife or daughters wear ear-rings would not like to preach from the text. It would require some bravery, but it would be a grand idea for Christendom, could we in these days have a general burial, such as occurred in the days of Jacob.” “Oh, indeed! you are in danger of getting a little too hard on the ladies now. You surely would not wish to have all those who wear Ishmaelite badges buried. Now that is too bad!” “No! no indeed! but as you have your Bible within reach, please turn to Gen. 35. Here we behold a new departure in Jacob’s life, from which he was no more to be Jacob,165 the supplanter, but Israel, mighty in his prevailings with Omnipotence. Now mark the grand funeral ceremony that preceded this change of character, in which all his numerous household were required to bear an important part. ‘Then Jacob said unto his household, and to all that were with him, Put away the strange gods that are among you, and be clean, and change your garments. ...And they gave unto Jacob all the strange gods which were in their hand, and all their ear-rings which were in their ears, and Jacob hid them under the oak which was by Shechem.’ Now what I mean by the grand burial proposed is the interment of the strange household gods, ear-rings, etc., which, as unmistakable relics of heathendom, have found their way into the so-called Christian church. The idea of burying Christian ladies who wear them never for a moment entered my thoughts. Jacob did not of course bury those of his large household who had these relics of the heathen, by which they were at that time so closely surrounded, but he buried their ear-rings and everything of that sort.” “Why, what a sacrifice that must have166 been! Our church ladies wear ear-rings and other jewelry that costs from twenty to twenty-five hundred or five thousand dollars. Do you think those people belonging to Jacob’s household permitted those costly relics of heathendom to lie buried there under the shade of that old oak tree?” “I don’t know. There is no place in the Bible that speaks of their ever having resurrected them. If any of Israel’s household had dug them up in his day I think he would have disinherited them. But I fear that some who claim to be of Israel’s household may have stealthily dug them up. And who knows, in view of the imperishability of gold, but some of them may have come into the hands of those wild marauding Ishmaelites, and through them descend to the ladies of the present day?” “Really you amaze me! Why! who would have thought that these Ishmaelitish customs could have come through such a long succession of ages?” “Mind, I did not say they did, only that it might have been so.”