University of Virginia Library

3. PART III.

During a slight access of graciousness (purchased
by the gift of a diamond ring) Harvey
Woodbridge prevailed on his consort to engage a
cook that had lived a long time in his father's
family; and also to take a waiter that had been
for many years a servant to the brother of our
hero, a gentleman residing in Baltimore. Both
these domestics were excellent in their way, and
(as far as permitted by what Mrs. Woodbridge
called her plans) they performed their duties well.
Her husband now thought that he would avail
himself of the convenience of having a very good
cook and a very good waiter, and invite some
gentlemen to dine with him: trusting that the
displeasure he had evinced on the occasion of
the evening visiters, &c., would operate as a warning

to his wife and induce her to make a proper
provision for the dinner party.

But the dinner party, as soon as he ventured
to propose it, met a decided disapproval from the
lady, who said she did not see the use of a parcel
of men dining together, and that if money must
be spent, there were better ways of spending it:
and that she fully expected she should have to
live all her life without an India shawl. Her
husband being very anxious to carry his point, reminded
her that they had not yet had an opportunity
of displaying their fine French china dinner
set and other elegances appertaining. And
then he called her Charlotte Augusta, and assured
her that a pretty woman always looked peculiary
well presiding at her own table, and doing the
honors to a company of gentlemen.

At length, after much assenting and dissenting,
and agreeing with a bad grace and disagreeing
with no grace at all, the dinner was finally undertaken,
and fixed for the following Thursday. Interviews
between Mrs. Woodbridge and Mrs.
Pinchington commenced forthwith.

In the mean time, as the appointed day drew
near, our hero had frequent and increasing misgivings,
and at last ventured to question his wife:
concerning her preparations.

“You need not be afraid to leave every thing

to me” — replied Charlotte — pa' often had gentlemen
to dine with him (much as it annoyed
ma') so I know very well what arrangements to
make. And I have very good advices, besides
my natural judgment. Even if I were incapable
of preparing for dinner company, men have no
business to be cot-betties.”

“What is a cot-betty?” asked her husband.

“I wish you were as ignorant of the character
as you are of the name” — replied the lady
sharply. “A cot-betty is what ma' used to call
pa.' A man that meddles with house affairs, and
undertakes to advise his wife about her domestic
concerns; instead of sticking to his store or his
office (or whatever place he goes to) and giving
his whole attention to providing the money for
his family expenses, as all men ought.”

Harvey Woodbridge did not like to be classed
among the cot-betties; though, as young ladies
are now brought up, a capable cot-betty may prove
a very valuable husband. Therefore, he, after
this, held his peace with respect to the dinner-party:
which forbearance he was only enabled
to exercise by closing his eyes, ears, and understanding
against much that he saw, heard, and
suspected.

At length the eventful afternoon arrived, and
Mr. Woodbridge left his store at an early hour,

and repaired to his dwelling-house to be ready for
the reception of his guests. To his surprise he
found that no table had been set in the back-parlor.
This was a thing he could not on this occasion
have anticipated: and hastily running up stairs,
he found it laid in the more-than-ever obnoxious
little dining-room, which looked even smaller and
meaner than usual. His vexation was intense,
and hastening to the apartment of his wife, whom
he found at her toilette. “How is this” — said
he — “I had not the most distant idea of the dinner-table
being set to-day in any other place than
the back-parlor. That vile little room will not
do at all. It is too small, too narrow, and the
ceiling is too low.”

“I did not expect we were to dine on the ceiling”
— replied Mrs. Woodbridge. But this attempt
at a witticism did not succeed; and her husband
plainly expressed his displeasure at finding that
his friends were to be entertained in what he
called in his anger “that abominable hole.”

“It is neither a hole nor abominable” — answered
the lady — “but a nice comfortable apartment.
And you pay me a great compliment by
talking of it in that outrageous manner, when you
know it is my pet place, where you have spent so
many happy hours in my society.”

“Fudge!” — exclaimed Woodbridge, turning
away from her, completely out of patience.

“If domestic happiness is fudge” — resumed
his wife — “I shall be sorry enough for having
quitted ma', and left my own city to go away to a
new place and live with a strange man.”

“It is true” — said her husband, with a sort of
sigh — “we were almost strangers to each other
when we married.”

“And all this fuss” — pursued Charlotte — “is
about dining in a dining-room, as if it was not
always the most proper place. Do not we continually
read of dining-rooms in the English fashionable
novels. The very lords and ladies do
not dine in their parlors or drawing-rooms even
when they have company.”

“The dining-rooms of the English gentry” —
replied Woodbridge — “are very different apartments
from that paltry little place of ours. I have
no objection to a dining-room, provided that it is
commodious and pleasant, and that it has an air
of gentility as well as convenience. But I cannot
endure the idea of making my guests eat their
dinner in the worst apartment of my house, though
I have yielded to the infliction myself.”

“And I” — said Mrs. Woodbridge — “cannot
endure the idea of having our parlor furniture
greased or stained or injured in any way, even by
one single dinner. Never supposing such a thing
would be wanted, I did not get a parlor crumbcloth,

and the one we have up stairs is too small
to save any other carpet than that of the dining-room.”

“And is this the reason you have set so small
a table. Worse than all, my friends will not
have elbow-room.”

“I never saw a man yet”—replied Charlotte—
“who would not somehow or other manage to
convey his dinner to his mouth. When a large
table is set, there must be a great deal to cover it:
and it is not my way to provide more than is necessary.
I know very well how ma' managed
when pa' would have dinner company. And besides
I have consulted Mrs. Pinchington. She
was so kind as to accompany me to market yesterday.”

“Surely on this occasion” — said Woodbridge,
with a look of alarm — “you are not going to
mortify me before my friends with the sight of a
mean and scanty dinner.”

“There will be dinner enough” — replied his
wife coolly — “and even if there should not, (as
I heard a man say in a play,) nobody calls for
more at another persons table. The fact is, I so
hate extravagance that, as I have often told you
it is really a pleasure to me to save in every little
thing as much as I can.”

And she finished adjusting before a glass, a new

laced pelerine that she had bought the day before
and which Mrs. Squanderfield assured her was
cheap at forty dollars.

“You Philadelphians” — she added — “think
there can never be too much on the table, and I
am told that the further south the worse.”

“Two of my guests are southern gentlemen”—
said Woodbridge — “and I am convinced that
all who dine with me to-day have been accustomed
to `sit at good men's feasts.' ”

“Harvey” — said his wife — “do not make me
uncomfortable, or I won't come to table. I feel
very much like hysterics already. I have been
annoyed enough with Phillis this morning.”

“Phillis, who was brought up by my mother”
— exclaimed Woodbridge — “there cannot be a
more excellent cook.”

“Rather too excellent for me” — replied Charlotte,
“I have been thinking for some time of parting
with her. Mrs. Pinchington tells me (and I
have found it so myself,) that it is cheapest to
keep cooks that are not considered very good.
And as to particularity about food, it is a thing I
am not going to encourage. Ma' never did. Phillis
is the last professed cook I shall ever be troubled
with. This morning she was so vexed at my
not having things as extravagant as she thought
proper, that she said something that made me angry,

and I packed her out of the house. So then
I had to coax Mary to get the dinner.”

“What, Mary — the raw Irish girl — the chamber-maid.
Surely she knows nothing about cooking.
It would have been better at once to have
sent out and hired a professed cook for the day.”

“So Cæsar had the assurance to tell me, and
he did prevail on me to let him go for an aunt of
his, who goes out cooking at what she calls a low
price, a dollar a day. But, as Phillis had already
made a begining, I was determined not to give
more than sixty-two cents, so we could not agree;
though at the last I did offer her seventy-five.
As for my giving a dollar for cooking one dinner,
it was quite out of the question: so there was
nothing to be done but to set Mary about it.”

“I would rather have given ten dollars! Mary
is little better than an idiot.”

“How can you say so, when she came from
New York, where she had lived a whole month
with ma'. And even if she is rather stupid, there
is the less danger of her objecting to any thing I
tell her to do. Ma' could never get along with
smart servants. But I wish you would go down
stairs. Your friends will be arriving presently.”

“Cæsar, of course, has obeyed the orders I
gave him about the wine” — said Woodbridge.

“He wanted to do so” — replied the wife —

“but between you and him I found there was
wine enough got out for twenty people instead of
eight. So I made him put back the half of it.
He began to look gruff, and then —”

“Charlotte! Charlotte!” — exclaimed the alarmed
husband — “if you have turned Cæsar out of
doors — Cæsar who had lived ten years with my
brother, and is so useful and so faithful —”

“Do not be frightened” — replied Charlotte —
“Cæsar would not go. He had the insolence to
say he should wait till Mr. Woodbridge came
home.”

“He is a good fellow” — said Woodbridge —
“and I am obliged to him for not deserting me
this day.”

“Don't talk of his goodness. When I threatened
to tell Mrs. Pinchington of him, he held
down his head to keep from laughing in my face.”

A ring at the door-bell now announced that the
guests were beginning to come, and Woodbridge
smoothed the discomposure of his countenance,
and hastened down stairs to receive them. His
lady did not appear till the gentlemen had all
assembled, and she then made her entrance
through the folding-doors of the back-parlor, and
proceeded gracefully to the front; elegantly drest,
and looking as sweet and innocent as if incapable
of uttering one unamiable word, or conceiving

one unamiable thought. Just so she had looked
when Woodbridge was first introduced to her at
a party in New York.

All the gentlemen having arrived, Woodbridge
took an opportunity of asking his wife, in a low
voice, if it was not time that dinner was announced.
Upon which she whispered to him that she
was waiting for Mrs. Pinchington, who had kindly
volunteered to come and support her on this her
first appearance as hostess at a gentlemen's party.
In about half an hour Mrs. Pinchington came,
excusing herself for being detained by an unexpected
visiter; but in reality having prudently
stayed to secure a good dinner at her boarding-house.
Mr. Woodbridge, though she had become
his besetting antipathy, was obliged to offer Mrs.
Pinchington his arm; and his face flushed with
shame as Charlotte, all smiles and sweetness,
accompanied by his principal guest (a gentleman
from Virginia) led the way up stairs into the paltry
dining-room: and he bit his lips at the first glance
at the table, though it was profusely ornamented
with flowers.

The festive board was so short, that the guests
could scarcely squeeze into their places, and the
dining room was so narrow that the said table had
to be set over to one side, that Cæsar might have
space to pass on the other. When all were with
some difficulty seated, Mrs. Woodbridge with

great sang froid began to send around some thin
greasy ash-colored broth, being a decoction of
cold veal with a few shreds of vermicelli floating
in it, and highly-flavored with smoke: Mary
having forgotten to cover it while it was simmering
over an ill-made fire. This potation, Mrs.
Pinchington, after swallowing a spoonful or two,
announced to be a delicious white soup. The
unfortunate man whose duty it was to perform
the part of host, proceeded to help a piece of
boiled halibut served up without draining, but it
looked so sanguinary that no one chose to try it;
for even the lovers of what is called rare beef
seldom have a fancy for rare fish. For the second
course, the soup was replaced by a small tough
round of par-baked beef, black on the outside, and
raw within, and denominated bœuf-a-la-mode:
the a-la-moding being a few cloves stuck over the
top which had been previously rubbed with
powdered allspice; this beef Mrs. Pinchington
declined tasting lest it should prove too rich for
her. The bottom dish was a meagre roast pig,
(called “delicate” by Mrs. Pinchington) accompanied
by a tureen of watery panada termed, on
this occasion, bread-sauce. After the company
had pretended to eat these things, Cæsar was
desired to bring on the third course. The third
course was mutton chops, which were to have
been cotellettes a la Maintenon, but which Irish
Mary had produced au naturel: and also a dish
of something begun as croquettes, but ended as
mere minced veal, washy and tasteless. Afterwards
was introduced as a bonne-bouch, two pair
of split birds sprawling on greasy slices of ill-made
toast, and called game by the ladies but known
to be pigeons by Cæsar and the gentlemen. All
the vegetables prepared for this dinner were few
in number, small in quantity, half-boiled, half-drained,
and mixed with that disgrace to a lady's
house, cooking butter, its disagreeable taste predominating
through all disguise, and rendering
every thing unpalatable. The fourth course was
at the top a superb glass bowl half full of a pale
lilac liquid, consisting of faintly sweetened milk
that had been skimmed till blue, and was then
tinged with something pinkish. This was dignified
by the name of floating island; the island
being a spoonful of cream taken from the said
milk and beaten up with sufficient white of egg to
give it “a local habitation and a name,” by
forming a small heap in the centre of the bowl.
At the bottom sat a dish containing a few cones
of boiled rice that had been moulded in wineglasses,
the summit of each cone decorated with
a red spot made by sticking on a mashed cranberry.
This part of the dessert was highly recommended
to the company by Mrs. Pinchington,
who assured them that rice was a delicious thing
and “so pure.” The centre confection was a flat
leathery pancake denominated omelette soufflee,
the very sight of which would have made Fossard
tear his hair. This strange affair had been manufactured
under the immediate superintendence
of Mrs. Woodbridge herself, who did it exactly
“ma's way.” The side-dishes held a few very
small stale tartlets about the size of a half dollar
procured at a low-priced cake-shop, each containing
a half tea-spoonful of mysterious marmelade,
made of some indescribable fruit mounted in marvellous
heavy paste. These tartlets Mrs. Pinchington
called “little loves.”

We need not attempt to depict the sufferings of
our excitable hero during the progress of this dinner,
or to tell how continually his resolutions to
bear it manfully were on the point of giving way.
In vain did he try to repress the outward and visible
signs of vexations, mortifications, indignation
and all the other ations that in spite of his efforts
to conceal them were flushing his cheek, knitting
his brow, compressing his lips, and trembling in
his voice. Once he found his hand rambling
through his hair, and once he found his teeth
gritting against each other; but on both these occasions
he recollected himself in time to smile an
unnatural smile, and to talk some ransom talk.

But Mr. Woodbridge's disgust and anger did
not quite rise to its climax till he tasted the madeira

which, when he purchased it, he knew to
be of the first quality, and which he now found
had been greatly diluted with water after being
decanted; evidently to make it go further. On
glancing at his wife he met her eye watching his,
and he saw by her guilty look to whom he must
attribute the adulteration. Had she been able to
draw the corks, it is most probable that the hock
and champaigne would not have escaped a similar
allongement.

Poor Cæsar well understood and deeply sympathized
in the numerous annoyances that assailed
Mr. Woodbridge at this unhappy dinner: to
say nothing of the griefs that were more particularly
his own. He prided himself greatly on his
skill and alertness in the art of waiting on company,
on his savior faire in arranging, on his
dexterity in executing, and in the harmonious but
unquestionable authority with which he could
give a tone to the movements of the apt and well-tutored
“coloured gentlemen,” that on similar
occasions had always been employed to assist
him. Mrs. Woodbridge having persisted in not
hiring a single additional waiter, Cæsar had so
much to do that he had no chance of doing any
thing well, or of displaying his usual tact in seeing
without seeming to see, and anticipating the
wishes of the guests. To-day he felt “his laurels
withering on his brow,” but his crowning horror

was the sight of Irish Mary, when he had to receive
from her the dishes at the door of a little
back staircase that led down to the kitchen. Having
put on her worst costume to cook in, she presented
herself in full view, slip-shod, and bareheeled,
in an old dirty gown its sleeves dipped in
grease, a ragged and filthy apron, her handkerchief
pinned awry over one shoulder and leaving the
other exposed, and her elf-locks hanging about
her ears. On handing in each dish she took an
opportunity of standing awhile with her stupid
whitish eyes and her large heavy mouth wide
open, to stare at the company, till Cæsar shut the
door in her face; upon which affront her murmurs
and threats were audable all the way down stairs.

This dinner appeared endless to all concerned
in it, except to Mary, who taking no note of time,
and being unprovided with the organ of clock-knowledge,
had nothing ready when wanted, or
indeed for a long while after. The dusk of evening
had darkened the table, and the guests were
feeling about among the spotted oranges and
worm-eaten apples, the cooking raisins and the
stony-shelled almonds that had been set on subsequent
to the removal of the cloth. Mr. Woodbridge
after waiting in vain for his wife to order
lights till it became so dark that he could scarcely
discern her, gave several hints to that effect: but
she continued hint-proof. He then audibly desired

Cæsar to bring them. Cæsar on passing
near Mrs. Woodbridge was detained a few moments
by a low talk from her, and the result was
two candles only. Immediately after their introduction,
she made a signal to Mrs. Pinchington,
and both ladies left the table; Mrs. Woodbridge
taking an opportunity of telling Cæsar that it was
not worth while to light the entry-lamp as the
gentlemen would soon go. Having reached her
own apartment Mrs. Woodbridge changed her
dress and threw herself on the bed, exclaiming
that she was dead with fatigue: and Mrs. Pinchington
prepaired to go home, escorted by Cæsar,
who was rung up for the purpose. She took an
affectionate leave of her hostess, assuring her that
she should report every where how delightfully
the dinner had gone off, and expressing her hope
to be at many more exactly like it. “Oh! Jupiter!”
exclaimed Cæsar, for a moment forgetting
where he was. Mrs. Woodbridge frowned, and
Mrs. Pinchington stooped down to tie her walking-shoes.

In consequence of having to walk behind this
lady to her lodgings, Cæsar to his vexation was
unable to superintend the making of the coffee,
and when he got home he found that Mrs. Woodbridge,
in her impatience to hurry the departure
of the gentlemen, had ordered Irish Mary to prepare
and carry it in herself; and the weak, cold

and muddy beverage was left in every cup, almost
untasted by the company.

The guests departed: and Cæsar cleared away
the table sighing heavily over the disgraces of the
day: and confirmed in his resolution of seeking
another place when he found his Hibernian colleague
lying intoxicated on the kitchen floor.

Harvey Woodbridge passed the remainder of
the evening extended on one of the parlor sofas,
and endeavoring to devise some plan for expanding
the mind and heart of his wife, improving
her disposition, and rendering her ideas and practices
less mean and less selfish. Knowing, however,
that she could not have been blind to all
the inconveniences and vexations which, on this
occasion particularly, had arisen from her ill-judged
parsimony and her wilful perseverance in it,
he imagined her touched for once with compunction,
and perhaps sincerely disposed to try and do
better for the future. “This after all” — thought
he — “may prove a salutary lesson to her. She
cannot be always incorrigible. I will spare her
feelings to-night, and refrain from all expostulation
till to-morrow; and then I will reason with
her as calmly and mildly as I can.”

He rose early next morning and took a walk to
Schuylkill, willing to defer a little longer his intended
remonstrance. On his return, breakfast

was not ready, and Charlotte had not come down.
He tried in vain to read the newspaper: but threw
it aside, and traversed the room till she made her
appearance; and Cæsar at the same time brought
in the tray.

As soon as the repast was over and the breakfast
apparatus removed, our hero commenced his
expostulation, making a strong effort to control
his feelings and to speak with calmness. Without
referring to former subjects of similar annoyance,
he tried to confine himself entirely to the
dinner-party: setting forth with all the eloquence
of truth the shame and mortification she had caused
him by her unhappy notions of ultra-economy,
so absurdly and annoyingly put in practice on
that much-to-be-regretted occasion; lessening
both her and himself in the eyes of his guests, all
whom, as he said, had a just right to consider
themselves treated with disrespect at being set
down in a gentlemen's house to so paltry an entertainment,
and in so paltry a room.

“If you talk in this way, Harvey” — said
Charlotte Woodbridge — “I shall go off into
strong hysterics.”

This threat, however, had lost its effect; for
though Harvey had often heard of hysterics he
had never seen them.

“Charlotte” — said he — “this is no time for

folly. Beleieve me when I assure you that I am
seriously determined to insist on a general reform
in the whole tenor of your household arrangements.
I am completely disgusted with living in
this manner, and will submit to it no longer. My
patience is exhausted with the vain effort of suppressing
my vexation, and in trying to endure in
silence the innumerable petty annoyances with
which you contrive to embitter every hour of my
life; and I am still more tired of ineffectual remonstrances,
and useless bickerings about trifles.”

“Why then do you bicker?”

“Nonsense! — Is not domestic misery composed
chiefly of trifles: each a unit in itself, but the
whole when added togather making a large sum
total.”

“I despise business talk.”

“Charlotte — Charlotte! — I doubt if in reality
you are as silly as you would seem to be.”

“Yes, I am — and so you will always find me.
As I never had the least wish to be sensible, I did
not trouble myself to try. Ma' always said that
sensible girls got but few beaux, and did not go
off well. Her only care was that I should grow
up pretty, and be handsomely and fashionably
drest. So I always had plenty of beaux, and I
did go off — to be sure it was no great go. And,
now, though I am a married woman, I see no reason

why I should not wish to look as well and
be admired just the same as before. As to the
management of the house and all that sort of
thing, I again assure you that I shall not make
the least change in my plans now or ever — do
you attend to your business, and I will manage
mine.”

“Oh! Charlotte” — exclaimed her husband,
having listened to this tirade as much in sorrow
as in anger, “Can nothing make any impression
on you. Or rather, why are all your sayings and
doings so perverse and wilful, when there must
at the bottom of your heart be some latent touch
of tenderness for the man who loving you sincerely,
was willing to take you upon trust, without
any previous knowledge of your temper and habits;
and who so frankly and fondly entrusted his
happiness to your keeping.”

was the reply of our wayward heroine, singing a
line from a well-known ballad, and making a low
curtesy; “did you not fall in love the moment
you were introduced to me at Mrs. Vanvernigen's
party, where I wore my rose-colored ærophine
with the satin corsage and the coquille trimming,
and carried in my hand a silver bouquetaire with
six dollars worth of hot-house flowers in it? And
did not you steal a sprig of heliotrope from my
bouquet, and put it to your lips instead of your
nose — I saw you do it! And did not you follow
me all about the room, and talk to nobody else,
and give me your arm to the supper-table, and go
without your own supper that you might accompany
me back to the front drawing-room and get
a seat on an ottoman beside me? And did not you
wait at the door to put me into the carriage, tho'
my pa' and brothers were along? And then you
know very well how you came next morning the
clock struck eleven, (a full hour before any reasonable
creature thinks of making a visit:) and
how you bespoke yourself to escort me to Miss
Semibreve's musical soiree; and whenever a song
finished and a piece began did not you look delighted,
because then you could talk to me all the
while, as nobody is bound to listen to pieces? Did
you not from that time visit me twice a day, and
go every where with me even to church, and actually
come to a proposal on our way home, at the
corner of Broadway and Warren street. And did
not you detain me on the door-step till I consented,
scrambling hold of my hand and tearing my
white kid glove? And the very moment we were
engaged did not you bounce after me into the front
parlor and ask pa'?”

“I plead guilty to all this” — replied Woodbridge
— “Next time I will be less precipitate.”

“So will I” — said Charlotte.

“We are talking very absurdly” — resumed
Woodbridge — after a short pause — “I began
this conversation with an earnest desire to make
a serious impression on you, and to awaken your
good feelings; for I hope and trust you are not
entirely without them.”

“Feelings” — replied our heroine — “I do not
know why I should be suspected of want of
feeling. I am sure I always cry at the theatre
when I see other ladies with their handkerchiefs
to their eyes, for then I am certain there is something
to be cried at. When I was a little girl I
actually sobbed one night at the play, when
Cinderella's sisters made her stay at home from the
ball. It is not a month ago that I looked very
serious when every one else was laughing at that
wicked Petruchio not allowing his wife to have
her new gown and cap. However, I suppose I
had best say nothing about Petruchio — as it may
not be quite safe for me to put him into your
head.”

“Charlotte — Charlotte” — exclaimed her husband
— “no more of this folly: but listen attentively
to what I am going to say. In the first place
I insist on your giving up Mrs. Pinchington and
Mrs. Squanderfield.”

“What, my best friends! — my most intimate
friends! — the only true friends I have!”

“Your husband is your best and truest friend.”

“You really make me laugh — as if husbands
and friends were not totally different things! —
Do you think I could ever talk to you, and consult
you on all occasions, as I do these two ladies.”

“Supposing then that that were impossible —
have you not become acquainted with other ladies
far superior to these for all purposes of conversation
and consultation.”

“How should you know — men are no judges
of women. I can assure you that of all the ladies
I have met with in Philadelphia, Mrs. Pinchington
and Mrs. Squanderfield are the most to my taste.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“I tell you again that I shall always regard
them as my best and dearest and only friends.
Both of them are so fond of me that they actually
grieve if they do not see me every day. They
have nothing so much at heart as me and my
good.”

“I wish they would let you and your good
alone!”

“That is not your writ, Mr. Woodbridge — I
heard a man say something like it in a play. No
— the interest they feel in me is quite astonishing,
and they always give me proper advice, just such
as I like to take; and as they have nothing to do
but to go about and see people, they always have

a great deal to tell me of such things as I like to
hear. As to this dinner that has so much affronted
you, I have the most cause to be offended at your
finding fault with it after all the trouble it gave
me. So I assure you it is the last dinner party I
will ever preside over.”

“Would you wish me to invite my friends to
dine with me at a hotel, as if I had no means of
entertaining them at home.”

“No, indeed — when ma' was on here, she told
me that pa' had tried that experiment, and that
the expense was enormous; and besides, the
leavings were all lost, as they could not be had to
furnish family dinners afterwards. People can
live, I suppose, without having dinner company,
or indeed any company at all. And much as you
despise yesterday's entertainment, the expense of
it actually frightened me. However, I can tell
you, for your comfort, that we dine to-day upon
the cold things that were left.”

“What cold things?”

“No matter what. When pa' would have dinner
company, ma' never sent to market for a week
afterwards.”

“And was he contented to dine on scraps for a
week?”

“Contented or not, he had to do it for years
and years. To be sure at last he got into a very

provoking way of dining at a hotel whenever he
expected a scrap dinner (as you call it,) at his own
table.”

“I will follow your worthy father's example,
and dine to-day at a hotel.”

“Are you in earnest.”

“Yes, I am. If you will not listen to talking,
I will try what virtue there is in acting.”

“Why it will cost you a dollar or more.”

“I know it. But I shall at least obtain a dollars
worth of comfort, and have a chance of composing
my temper, and dining in peace.”

“I have no more time to waste with you” —
said his wife, seeing that he was determined on
accomplishing this new feat. “I must go to
Madame Tourtelot's at eleven o'clock, to be fitted
for my pearl-colored figured satin and my fawncolored
lustre-silk. But to think of your throwing
away a dollar upon a dinner for yourself. The
extravagance of men is awful.”

She then repaired to her own apartment; and
her husband too much ruffled to pursue his expostulation
with the temper he desired, prepared to
go out.

In the entry he was way-laid by Cæsar, who informed
him that he wished Mr. Woodbridge to
suit himself with another waiter by the end of
the month, adding — “Indeed, sir, I am sorry to

leave you, but I seem as if I could not stand
things no longer, 'specially Irish Mary. Her
head is so muddled from yesterday, that I found
her, when she was getting breakfast, haggling at
the loaf with the side of a fork instead of a knife,
and saying — “Oh! but it's hard this bread is to
cut, then.” And I catched her greasing the
griddle with the end of a candle, and when I stopped
her short in her wickedness, she said — “Ah!
and what would ye have then — grase is grase all
the world over.” Indeed, sir, you don't know
how hard it is to live day in and day out with a
woman that's a born fool.”

“Yes, I do” — thought Woodbridge — and he
almost sighed to think that he had not, like Cæsar,
the resource of changing his home. However, he
merely replied — “Very well, Cæsar — you may
refer to me for a character” — and with a heavy
heart he walked to his store.

That day, resolving to put his threat into practice,
our hero did dine at a hotel. His wife, after
finishing her dress-fitting, shopping, and cardleaving,
went to take her dinner, as the guest of
Mesdames Squanderfield and Pinchington, at their
boarding-house. She found that both these ladies
had gone together up the river; one on a visit to
an acquaintance at Burlington, the other to see a
relative living at Bristol. Nevertheless she accepted
the slight invitation of her former hostess,

the mistress of the establishment, to stay and dine
with ker, as the dinner-bell was about to ring.

Towards evening, Mr. Woodbridge came home
in much better temper; and was disposed to enter
into a cheerful conversation with his wayward
Charlotte. But she kept a sullen silence; and at
the tea-table she steadily put aside every thing
he offered her, helping herself to it immediately
after. When their uncomfortable tea was over,
her husband again tried to reason with her on the
subject of that perverseness which was undermining
his affection and destroying their peace. She
made not a word of answer, but lay motionless
and speechless, reclining on the sofa. After a
while, she turned to the wall and threw a handkerchief
over her head. “She is touched at
last” — thought Woodbridge. “To hide her
face and weep in silence is a good symptom. I
have hopes of her yet.” He then softened his
tone, and made a tender and powerful appeal to
what he called her best feelings. In conclusion,
he rose from his chair, went to her in much emotion,
and taking her passive hand, addressed her
as his beloved Charlotte. Still, she replied not.
He gently withdrew the handkerchief from her
face. She was fast asleep.

Her husband sighed — replaced the handkerchief;
resumed his seat before the dull and ashy
fire; folded his arms: and gazed awhile on the

ceiling. Then he took up a book, but held it
unconsciously for half an hour, forgetting to open
it. At last he started up, and went out to revive
himself by a walk in the open air. Finally, on
passing one of the theatres he strolled in and
placed himself in the back of a box; but though
his eyes were fixed on the stage, he had no perception
of any thing that he saw, and no comprehension
of any thing he heard. He only knew
when the performance was over by finding that
the lights were extinguishing and the benches
vacated. He then went to his cheerless home,
and found that his wife had retired for the night
and was sleeping with her usual tranquility.

Next morning their breakfast passed exactly
like the tea of the preceding evening, and Woodbridge
went to his house in silent despair. When
he again came home he found that though yesterday
he had dined at a hotel to escape the threatened
leavings of a vile dinner, his wife, with
malice prepense, had kept these “shadows of a
shade” to set before him to-day, and as long as
they could be made to last.