The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1866-08-04
MRS. JONES, THE AUTHORIZES.


On one of our earliest visits to, the
illUsiVe charm attached to the idea of a
female author became, indeed, changed
to horror, from which we have never
wholly recovered. We were requested
to escort a lady to what we understood
was an ordinary social gathering. After
entering a rather small and somewhat
obscure drawing-rOom, ,saluting,thc host
esq, and taking the proilcred seat, we
were struck with the formal arrange
ment of the company. They formed an
unbrOkcn row along the walls of the
room, except at one end, at which
stood table surmOuntcd by an astral
lamp; and in an armchair beside il, in
a studied attitude, like one posed for q
dagucrreOtypc, sat woman of masculine
proportions, coarse features, and hair
between yellow and red, which fell in
unkempt masses down each side of her
broad face. She was clad in white mus
lin of an antiquated fashion. Wcnoticed
that the guests cast looks, partly of curl
osity, partly of unCasinCss, upon this
hurculcan female, who rolled her eyes
occasionally, and smiled on us all with a
kind of complaccnt pity. We ven
turcd, amidst the silence, to ask our
nCighborthe name of the gigantic I'M
known. She appeared extremely sur
priscd at the very natural question.
" Why, don't you know? We're invit-
ed here to meet her, and, / assure you,
it is Il rare privilege. That is Mrs.
Jones, the celebrated author of the
At1ianced OnC.'" At this moment Il
brisk little woman in the corner, with
accents slightly trcmulous, and man
ncr intended to be very nOnchalant,
broke the uncomfortable hush of the
room. My dear Mrs. Jones'" said she,
as one Of your earliest and most fer
vent admirers, allow me to inquire if
your health does not suffer from the in
tense state of feeling in which YOU evil
IDENTIFY ?" The Amazonian novel
ist slghcd-it was funny to see that
operation on 30 large Il scale-and then,
i'll voice so like the rOugher sex that
we began to think she was Il man in dis
gui>c, replied: "Whcn L reach the
catastrophe Of my stories, it is not un-
common for me toiaint dead away; and,
as | always write in Il room by myself,
it has happened moro than once that l
have been found stretched, miserable
and cold, on the floor, with pen grasp
al N ln II
with manuscript, blottcd with tears"
The SiddOnian pathOS of this announce
ment sent Il thrill round the circle !;
glanccs Of admiration and pity were
thrown upon the self-immolated victim
at the shrine of letters, and other in
quiriCo were adventurcd, which elected
equally impressive replies, until the
psychological thrOcs Of authorship--par-
ticularly in the female gender assumed
the aspect of an experience combined of
epilepsy and nightmare. The tragic
cgOtiSm of these revelations at length
OvCrcame our patience; and, leaving
our fair companion to anOthcr's escort,
we stepped from the room. a thunder
storm had arisen; the ram was pouring
down in torrents; upon the footstep we
encountered very pale thin little man,
with an umbrella under his arm and Il
pair of oVcrshOcs in his hands. As we
passed, he addressed Us in u very meek
and frightened voice; Please, sirs, is
there II party here? Ies." Please,
sirs, is the celebrated Mrs. Jones here ?"
" Ncs." "Pleasc, sirs, do you think /
could step into the entry: Pm Mr..
Jones,N