The New Orleans bulletin. [volume] (New Orleans [La.]) 1874-1876, 1875-11-28
LETTE FROM "CAsrLE RACKRENT."
ga SPAR AT POLITICS "A HOME PICTURE

"a SPAR AT POLITICS "A HOME PICTURE
"CAsTLR RAcKRENT
Dear Bulletin-I dare say you will be surprised
to find have las they say in chess castied since
you last heard from me. am not, OF course, IN an
ancient and picturesque European castle, but IN
large, rambling, ricketty house, with tumble
down sort of air, and SO call it Rackrent; fur-
thermore it has the reputation OF being haunted,
which adds to the effect feel chatty and con-
fidential this evening, hence write; besides,
have a lite picture wish you to frame for me
in your columns if you think it worthy; if you do
not, the fault rests with me, not the picture. L
am not going to write learned, pompous poll
tical letter as have not the honor OF being man.
but am going to make little spar at politics.
1t is to be hoped that in the coming campaign
"big with the fate /" Of this nation, that some Of
the old national notices, such as UNITED we
stand divided we fall, " will be FURNISHED up and
kept in mind; it is also to be hoped that how
ever weli-intentoned men may be that they will
not go into this political crisis in such state Of
initiation, that the result will be par contraction
and national detraction. Entire nous, l rather
pride myself on that sentence, it has such sound.
But let me pass on to my little picture; in show
Ing it to you 1 am compelled to show myself in
an ugly light, but it is 50 full of appealing pahos
/ am willing.
One morning, when all the chandeliers in the
neighborhood had crowed themselves hoarse and
everybody else mullsh, like good, honest Demo-
Gratis, as they are, when The sun arose, and: like
Midas in mythology, converted all that he
touched into gold, l. too, arose in what you
might emphatically call an ugly sulky humor.
Why? Because | was disappointed about getting
silk dress. Don't laugh. You men can never
know the music that lies in the rust Of beau
tiful silk dress to feminine ears, the raptures
in fall of delicate lace to her eyes, but one
thing you can do, you can appreciate the effect
Of item on pretty woman. That's one reason
we like them so well.
/ arose on this particular morning, and having
made my self disa greeable to everybody, l con-
cluded to take long walk, but defed consola-
ton. 1t did not much matter where went, but
I chose thoroughfare lined with beautiful houses
on either ride, and with gardens gay with every
shade and shape Of flowers and wide-spreadng
trees. heard the ringing laugh OF little folks,
whose every wound mamma can heal wish 4 kiss;
whose griefs are lightly wept away.
1.-The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine OF the breast"
and honestly believe the commandment Thou
shalt not covet' never more thoroughly
broken. Then began to wonder whether these
beautiful places inhabited by the true spirit
OF home, or by that most fearful OF all phantoms,
the ghost of home.
wealth Of this sphere and found myself in the
region of grim poverty little row Of rotting
shanties, packed close together, with irregular
rough boarded floors, their only drapery the cob
webs, their chief mode Of light and ventilation
the broad cracks within the loose weather-board
ing. Before one Of this row, or rather little to
one side, stopped softly and suddenly to gaze
on nv picture. It was mongrel little stand-a
bag Of charcoal here, little bundles OF light pine
with rich rosin veins there, few apples that
seemed to have been blghted in early youth,
and few jars of aged candy In the door Of
this hovel-but for its cleanliness-sat middle
aged, dwarfed hunchback. mending pair of old
shoes.
He eat upon little three-legged STOOL with an
old box of indictments pertaining to bis trade
beside him, and near him sat . woman, very
plain, most people would say homely, or very
ugly. As he drew the two waxed threads right
and left, she read to him from a book-not a
fashy style Of literature, the binding was too
solid and substan ial for that-it looked like one
of Walter Scott's works They never raised their
eyes at the sound of the passing car, or the clat
ter of the dray. He worked steadily, she read
steadily. 1t may have been the poetry Of Mar
mion," the pathos of Mid Lothian" or the
brilliant tournament Of "Ivanhoe;" l was not
near enough to hear and such moments under
such circumstances are so rare upon this earth,
so sacred, would not step closer.
And so in the heart of this city lit great cities
can have hearts), in the midst of the vices and
devices OF wealthy life, this poor hunchback was
contented; for contented he was-contented they
were. Wearing this cruel deformity Of nature and
the burden of poverty, q greater deformlty IN
the eyes of the world, he was happy and cheerful.
l began to wonder how much this man could
make a day with such a stock OF goods and such
a trade. What comforts he would have in case
of sickness We read often that amid thousands
of highly -colored pictures, small dingy picture
will be unnoticed; the work of a great master,
undetected for years, accidently the man who
understands and appreciates art in its highest
type sees the picture, recognizes the soul, and
will pay fabulous price for its possession.
Was not this the work OF the Great Master
Will it ever be recognized here This is my pic
ture. can show it any time in its existing type.
For myself, had the grace to blush deeply and,
unobserved, to walk humbly, penitently away.
Let me close with quotation from that man who
always welded the power Of his pen for the bene-
fit of the poor, and who, il he scathed the laws
and usages OF country, did it for the good OF
the people.
Says Charles Dickens: Sand let me linger in this
place. for an instant, to remark that if ever
household affections and loves graceful
things, they are graceful in the poor. His house
hold goods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy
of silver, gold precious stones he has no
property but in the affections OF his own heart,
and when they endear bare floors and walls de-
spite Of rags, and toll and scanty fare, that man
has his love of home from God, and his rude hut
becomes a solemn place."
And now, dear BULLETIN having written my
self pathetic, am, very truly yours,
KATE LIVINGSTON.