Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge with other tales, representing life as it is and intended to show what it should be |
 | MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE. |
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 | Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge |  |
MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.
1. PART I.
The morning subsequent to their arrival in
Philadelphia, Harvey Woodbridge proposed to
his bride, (a New York beauty, to whom he had
recently been united, after a very short acquaintance,)
that she should accompany him to look
at the new house he had taken previous to their
marriage, and which he had delayed furnishing
till the taste of his beloved Charlotte could be
consulted as well as his own. Meanwhile they
were staying at one of the principal boarding-houses
of his native city.
Ten o'clock was the time finally appointed by
the lady for this visit to their future residence:
and her husband, after taking a melancholy leave
(they had been married but seven days) departed
to pass an hour at his place of business.
When he returned, Mr. Woodbridge sprang up
had been married only a week,) and on entering
their apartment he was saluted by his wife as she
held out her watch to him, with — “So after all,
you are ten minutes beyond the hour!”
“I acknowledge it, my dear love” — replied the
husband — “but I was detained by a western customer
to whom I have just made a very profitable
sale.”
“Still” — persisted the bride, half pouting —
“people should always be punctual, and keep
their appointments to the very minute.”
“And yet, my dearest Charlotte,” — observed
Woodbridge, somewhat hesitatingly — “I do not
find you quite ready to go out with me.”
“Oh! that is another thing,” — replied the
lady — “one may be kept waiting without being
ready.”
“That is strange logic, my love,” — said Woodbridge,
smiling.
“I don't know what you call logic”—answered
the beautiful Charlotte. “I learnt all my logic at
Mrs. Fooltrap's boarding-school, where we said a
logic lesson twice a week. But I am sure 'tis
much easier for a man to hurry with his bargaining
than for a lady to hurry with her dressing;
that is if she pays any regard to her appearance.
I have been pondering for an hour about what I
puzzled among all my new walking-dresses.—
There are my chaly, and my gros des Indes, and
my peau-de-soie, and my foulard —”
“If you will tell me which is which” — interrupted
Woodbridge — “I will endeavor to assist
you in your choice. But from its name (foulard,
as you call it,) I do not imagine that last thing can
be a very nice article.”
“What fools men are!” — exclaimed the lovely
Charlotte — “Now that is the very prettiest of all
my walking-dresses, let the name be what it will.
I always did like foulard from the moment I first
saw it at Stewart's. I absolutely doat upon foulard.
So that is the very thing I will wear, upon
my first appearance in Chesnut street as Mrs. Harvey
Woodbridge.”
“Don't,” — said her husband, surveying the
dress as she held it up — “it looks like calico —”
“Say don't to me,” — exclaimed the bride`
threateningly;—“Calico, indeed! — when it is a
French silk at twelve shillings a yard — a dollar
and a half as you foolishly say in Philadelphia.”
“Well, well,” — replied Woodbridge, pacifyingly
— “wear what ever you please — it is of no
consequence.”
“So then, you think it of no consequence how
I am drest! I dare say you would not grieve in
gown — I did suppose that perhaps you took some
little interest in me.”
“I do indeed,” — anwered Woodbridge.
“You confess then that it is but little.”
“No — a very great interest, certainly — and
you know that I do. But as to your dress, you, of
course, must be the best judge. And to me you
always look beautifully.”
“To you but not to others — I suppose that is
what you mean.”
“To every one” — replied the husband — “I
observed this morning the glance of admiration
that ran round the breakfast table as soon as you
had taken your seat. That little cap with the
yellow ribbon is remarkably becoming to you.”
“So then, it was the cap and not myself that
was admired!”—said the wife.—“I am sure I am
much obliged to the cap. Yellow ribbon, too!—
To call it yellow when it is the most delicate
primrose. As if I would wear a yellow ribbon.”
“Indeed, my love” — answered Woodbridge —
“you must forgive me if I am not au-fait to all
the technicalities of a lady's toilet. I acknowledge
my ignorance with due humility.”
“You well may — I was absolutely ashamed of
you one evening at our house in New York, when
Miss Biasfold were present, and we were all
enjoying ourselves and discussing the last fashions.
And thinking you ought to say something by way
of joining in the conversation, you called my deep
flounce a long tuck.”
“I'll never do so again” — said Woodbridge,
imitating the tone of a delinquent school boy.
The foulard silk was energetically put on; the
fair Charlotte pertinaciously insisting on hooking
it up the back entirely herself: a herculean task
which, in his heart of hearts, her husband was
rather glad to be spared. And not knowing that
spite gives strength, he stood amazed at the vigour
and dexterity with which his lovely bride put her
hands behind her and accomplished the feat.
When it was done, she took a long survey of
herself in the glass, and then turned round to her
husband and made a low curtesy, saying —“There
now — you see me in my calico gown.”
Woodbridge uttered no reply: but he thought
in his own mind — “What a pity it is that beauties
are so apt to be spoiled!” — He might have
added — “What a pity it is that men are so apt
to spoil them.”
At length, after much fixing and unfixing, and
putting on and taking off the finishing articles of
her attire (particularly half-a-dozen pair of tight
tight enough) her ignoramus of a husband again
offending by calling her pelerine a cape and her
scarf a neckcloth, and mistaking the flowers in
her bonnet for roses when he ought to have known
they were almond blossoms, Mrs. Harvey Woodbridge
sullenly acknowledged herself ready to go
out.
During their walk to the new house, our hero
endeavored to restore the good-humour of his
bride by talking to her of the delightful life he
anticipated when settled in a pleasant mansion of
their own. But his glowing picture of domestic
happiness elicited no reply; her attention being
all the time engaged by the superior attractions
of numerous ribbons, laces, scarfs, shawls, trinkets,
&c., displayed in the shop-windows, and of which
though she could now take only a passing glance,
she mentally promised herself the enjoyment of
making large purchases at her leisure.
They arrived at their future residence, a genteel
and well-finished house of moderate size, where
all was so bright and clean, that it was impossible
for the bride not to be pleased with its aspect, as
her husband unlocked the doors and threw open
the shutters of room after room. Mrs. Woodbridge
rejoiced particularly on observing that the ceilings
of the parlors had centre circles for chandeliers,
should be bronzed or gilt. She also began to talk
of various splendid articles of furniture that would
be necessary for the principal rooms. “Mamma
charged me” — said she — “to have silk damask
lounges and chair-cushions, and above all things
not to be sparing in mirrors. She said she should
hate to enter my parlors if the pier-glasses were
not tall enough to reach from the floor to the
ceiling; and that she would never forgive me if
my mantel-glasses did not cover the whole space
of the wall above the chimney-pieces. She declared
she would never speak to me again if my
centre-table were not supplied with all sorts of
elegant things, in silver, and china and coloured
glass. And her last words were to remind me of
getting a silver card basket, very wide at the top
that the cards of the best visiters might be spread
out to advantage. The pretty things on Mrs.
Overbuy's enamelled centre-table are said to have
cost not less than five hundred dollars.” “Was
it not her husband that failed last week for the
fourth time?” — asked Woodbridge. “I believe
he did”—replied Charlotte—“but that is nothing.
Almost every body's husband fails now. Mrs.
Overbuy says it is quite fashionable.” — “In that
respect, as in many others, I hope to continue
unfashionable all my life” — remarked Woodbridge.
“That is so like pa”' — observed Charlotte.
though ma' often tells him that most people seem
to live much the better for it, and make a greater
show than ever—at least after the first few weeks.
And then pa' begins to explain to her about failing,
and breaking, and stopping payment, and debtors
and creditors, and all that sort of thing. But she
cuts him short, and says she hates business talk.
And so do I, for I am exactly like her.”
At this information Woodbridge felt as if he
was going to sigh; but he looked at his bride,
and, consoled himself with the reflection that he
had certainly married one of the most beautiful
girls in America; and therefore his sigh turned
to a smile.
They had now descended to the lower story of
the house. “Ah!”— exclaimed Charlotte—“the
basement, back and front, is entirely filled up with
cellars. How very ridiculous!” — “It does not
seem so to me” — replied Woodbridge — “this
mode of building is very customary in Philadelphia.”
— “So much the worse” — answered the
lady. — “Now in New York nothing is more
usual than to have a nice sitting room down in
the basement story, just in front of the kitchen.”
“A sort of servants' parlor, I suppose” said her
husband. “It is certainly very considerate to
allot to the domestics, when not at work, a comfortable
place of retirement, removed from the
kitchen.”
“How foolishly you always talk” — exclaimed
Mrs. Woodbridge. “As if you would give the
basement-room to the servants! No we use it
ourselves. In ma's family, as in hundreds of
others all over New York, it is the place where
we sit when we have no company, and where we
always eat.”
“What! — half under ground” — exclaimed
Woodbridge — “Really I should feel all the time
as if I was living in a kitchen.”
“It is very wrong in you to say so,” replied
the lady — “and very unkind to say it to me,
when we had a basement-room in our house in
New York, and used it constantly. To be sure
I've heard ma' say she had some trouble in breaking
pa' into it — but he had to give up. Men
have such foolish notions about almost every
thing, that it is well when they have somebody
to put their nonsense out of their heads.”
“I never saw you in that basement-room” —
observed Woodbridge.
“To be sure you did not. I do not say that it
is the fashion for young ladies to receive their
beaux in the basement-room. But beaux and
husbands are different things.”
“You are right” — murmured Woodbridge.—
fewer beaux would be willing to take the character
of husbands.”
They now descended the lower staircase, and
went to inspect the kitchen, which formed a part
of what in Philadelphia is called the back building.
Woodbridge pointed out to his wife its numerous
conveniences; upon which she told him that she
was sorry to find he knew so much about kitchens.
They then took a survey of the chambers; and
on afterwards descending the stairs they came to
a few steps branching off from the lower landing-place,
and entered a door which admitted them
into a narrow room in the back-building, directly
over the kitchen. This room had short windows,
a low ceiling, a small coal-grate, and was in every
respect very plainly finished.
“This” — said Woodbridge — “is the room I
intend for my library.”
“I did not know I had married a literary man”
—said Charlotte looking highly discomposed.
“I am not what is termed a literary man” —
replied her husband — “I do not write, but I take
much pleasure in reading. And it is my intention
to have this room fitted up with book-shelves, and
furnished with a library-table, a stuffed leather
fauteuil, a reading-lamp, and whatever else is
necessary to make it comfortable.”
“Where then is to be our sitting-room?”
“We can seat ourselves very well in either the
back parlor or the front one. We will have a
rocking-chair a-piece, besides ottomans or sofas.”
“But where are we to eat our meals?”
“In the back parlor, I think — unless you
prefer the front.”
“I prefer neither. We never ate in a parlour
at ma's in spite of all pa' could say. Down in the
basement story we were so snug, and so out of the
way.”
“I have always been accustomed to eating quite
above ground” — said Woodbridge — “I am quite
as much opposed to the burrowing system as you
say your good father was.”
“Oh! but he had to give up” — replied Charlotte.
“Which is more than I shall do” — answered
her husband — looking very resolute. “On this
point my firmness is not to be shaken.”
“Nobody asks you to eat in the basement
story” — said Charlotte — “because there is none.
But this little room in the back-building is the
very thing for our common sitting-place — and
also to use as a dining-room.”
“We can dine far more agreeably in one of the
parlors.”
“The parlors, indeed! — suppose somebody
should chance to come in and catch us at table,
would not you be very much mortified?”
“By no means — I hope I shall never have
cause to be ashamed of my dinner.”
“You don't know what may happen. After a
trial of the expenses of housekeeping, we may
find it necessary to economize. And whether or
not, I can assure you I am not going to keep an
extravagant table. Ma' never did in spite of pa's
murmurings.”
“Then we will economize in finery rather than
in comfort” — said Woodbridge. “I do not wish
for an extravagant table, and I am not a gourmand;
but there is no man that does not feel somewhat
meanly when obliged, in his own house, to partake
of a paltry or scanty dinner; particularly when
he knows that he can afford to have a good one.”
“That was just the way pa' used to talk to
ma'. He said that as the head of the house earned
all the market-money — (only think of his calling
himself the head of the house,) and gave out a
liberal allowance of it, he had a right to expect,
for himself and family, a well-supplied and inviting
table. He had some old saying that he who
was the bread-winner ought to have his bread as
he liked it.”
“And in this opinion I think most husbands
old gentleman's son-in-law.
“There will be no use in that, unless their
wives coincide also” — remarked the old gentleman's
daughter. “However, to cut the matter
short, whatever sort of table we may keep, this
apartment must certainly be arranged for an eating
room.”
“But we really do not require it for that purpose”
— replied her husband, with strange pertinacity
— “and I must positively have it for a
library.”
“The truth is, dear Harvey” — said Charlotte,
coaxingly — “I am afraid if I allow you a regular
library, I should lose too much of your society —
think how lonely I shall be when you are away
from me at your books. Even were I always to
sit with you in the library, (as Mrs. Deadweight
does with her husband,) it would be very hard for
me to keep silent the whole time, according
to her custom. And if, like Mrs. Le Bore, I were
to talk to you all the while you were reading,
perhaps you might think it an interruption. Mrs.
Duncely, who has had four husbands (two lawyers,
one doctor, and a clergyman,) all of whom spent
as little time with her as they could, frequently
told us that libraries were of no use but to part
man and wife. Dear Harvey, it would break my
in the world to the company of your own Charlotte
Augusta. So let us have this nice little
place for our dining-room, and let us sit in it
almost always. It will save the parlors so much.”
“Indeed my dear Charlotte, I do not intend to
get any furniture for the parlors of so costly a
description that we shall be afraid to use it.”
“What! — are we not to have Saxony carpets,
and silk curtains, and silk-covered lounges, and
large glasses, and chandeliers, and beautiful mantel-lamps;
and above all, a'n't we to have elegant
things for the centre-table?”
“My design” — answered Woodbridge — “is
to furnish the house throughout, as genteelly, and
in as good taste as my circumstances will allow:
but always with regard to convenience rather
than to show.”
“Then I know not how I can look ma' in
the face!”
“You may throw all the blame on me, my
love.”
“Pray, Mr. Harvey Woodbridge (if I may venture
to ask) how will these plain, convenient,
comfortable parlors look when we have a party?”
“I do not furnish my house for the occasional
reception of a crowd of people, but for the every
day use of you and myself, with a few chosen
pleasure.”
“If you mean frequent tea-visits, I can assure
you, sir, I shall take no pleasure in any such
trouble and extravagance — with your few chosen
friends, indeed! when it is so much cheaper to
have a large party once a year (as we always had
at ma's:) asking every presentable person we
knew, and every body to whom we owed an
invitation; and making one expense serve for all.
Though our yearly party was always an absolute
squeeze, you cannot think how much we saved by
it. Pa' called it saying grace over the whole
barrel — some foolish idea that he got from Dr.
Franklin.”
“For my part”—remarked Woodbridge—“I
hope I shall never be brought to regard social intercourse
as a mere calculation of dollars and cents. I
would rather, if necessary, save in something
else than make economy the chief consideration
in regulating the mode of entertaining my friends
and acquaintances.”
“Then why do you object to saving our parlors
by using them as little as possible?”
“When our furniture wears out, or ceases to
look comme it faut, I hope I shall be able to replace
it with new articles, quite as good, and perhaps
better—particularly if we do not begin too
extravagatly at first.”
“I suppose then your plan is to fit up these parlors
with ingrain carpets, maple-chairs, and black
hair-cloth sofas, and instead of curtains, nothing
but venitian blinds.”
“Not exactly — though young people, on commencing
married life in moderate circumstances,
have been very happy with such furniture.”
“More fools they! For my part, I should be
ashamed to show my face to a morning visitor in
such paltry parlors. That sort of furniture is
scarcely better than what I intend for this little
up-stairs sitting room.”
“If this little room is devoted to the purpose
you talk of, we must there show our faces to each
other.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Woodbridge! — How can it
possibly signify what faces married people show
to each other?”
“It sigifies much — very much indeed.”
“To put an end to this foolery”— resumed the
bride — “I tell you once for all, Harvey Woodbridge,
that I must and will have this very apartment
for an eating-room, or a dining-room or a
sitting-room or whatever you please to call it — to
take our meals in without danger of being caught
at them, and to stay in when I am not drest and
do not wish to be seen.”
“The hiding room I think would be the best
name for it” — murmered Woodbridge.
“Only let us try it awhile”—persisted the fair
Charlotte, softening her tone, and looking fondly
at her leige-lord—“think how happy we shall be
in this sweet little retreat, where I will always
keep a few flower-pots—you know I doat on flowers—imagine
your dear Charlotte Augusta in a
comfortable wrapper, seated on a nice calico sofa,
and doing beautiful worsted work: and yourself in
a round jacket, lolling in a good wooden rocking
chair either cane-colored or green, with slippers
on your feet, and a newspaper in your hand.
We can have a shelf or two for a few select books.
And of an evening, when I do not happen to be
sleepy you can read to me in the Summer at
Brighton, or the Winter in London, or Almacks,
or Santo Sebastiano. I have them all. Brother
Jem bought them cheap at auction. But I never
had time to get to the second volume of any of
them. So we have all that pleasure to come.
And I shall be delighted to have those sweet
books read aloud to me by you. You will like
them far better than those Scotch novels that people
are always talking about.”
Woodbridge looked dubious. Finally, being
tired of the controversy, he thought best to end it
by saying — “Well, well — we'll let this subject
rest for the present.” — But he resolved in his
own mind to hold out for ever against it.
At their boarding-house dinner-table, Mrs.
Woodbridge informed a lady who sat opposite,
that she was delighted with her new house; and
that it was a love of a place; particularly a snug
little apartment in the back building which Mr.
Woodbridge had promised her for a sitting-room,
to save the parlors, as they were to be furnished
in very handsome style. Woodbridge reddened
at her pertinacity, and to divert the attention of
those around him from a very voluble expose of
what she called her plans, he began to talk to a
gentleman on the other side of the table about the
latest news from Europe.
From this day our heroine spoke of the little
sitting-room as a thing course, without noticing
any of the deprecatory lookings and sayings of her
husband. And she succeeded in teazing him into
allowing her to choose all the furniture of the
house without his assistance: guided only by the
taste of one of the female boarders, Mrs. Squanderfield,
a lady who had been married about a
twelvemonth, and after commencing house-keeping
in magnificent style, her husband (whose
affairs had been involved at the time of their
marriage,) was obliged at the close of the winter,
to make an assignment for the benefit of his creditors;
and the tradesmen who had supplied it took
back the unpaid furniture.
After her parlors had been fitted up in a very
showy and expensive manner, (not forgetting the
centre-table and its multitude of costly baubles,)
Mrs. Woodbridge found that these two rooms had
already absorbed so large a portion of the sum
allotted by her husband for furnishing the whole
house that it was necessary to economize greatly
in all the other apartments; and to leave two
chambers in the third story with nothing but the
bare walls. This discrepancy was much regretted
by Mr. Woodbridge, even after his wife had reminded
him that these chambers could only have
been used as spare bed-rooms, which in all probability
would never be wanted as they did not
intend keeping a hotel; and that as to encouraging
people to come and stay at her house, (even her
own relations) she should do no such expensive
thing. “You may depend upon it, my dear,”
said she — on the day that they installed themselves
in their new abode, “I shall make you a
very economical wife.”
And so she did, as far as comforts were concerned,
aided and abetted by the advice of her
friend Mrs. Squanderfield, who consulted her in
what to spend money; and in what to save it she
was guided by the precepts of Mrs. Pinchington, an
other inmate of the same boarding-house, a widow
of moderate income, whose forte was the closest
establishment and gone to boarding ostensibly
because she was lonely, but in reality because she
could get no servant to live with her. The advice
of these two counsellors never clashed, for Mrs.
Squanderfield took cognizance of the dress and
the parlor arrangements of the pupil, while Mrs.
Pinchington directed the housewifery: and both
of them found in our heroine an apt scholar.
We need not tell our readers that the fair bride
carried her point with regard to the little apartment
at the head of the stairs, which she concluded
to designate as the dining-room, though they ate
all their meals in it; and it became in fact their
regular abiding place, her husband finding all
opposition fruitless, and finally yielding for the
sake of peace.
It took Mrs. Woodbridge a fortnight to recover
from the fatigue of moving into their new house:
and during this time she was denied to all visitors,
and spent the day in a wrapper on the dining-room
sofa, sometimes sleeping, and sometimes sitting
up at a frame and working in worsted a square-faced
lap-dog, with paws and tail also as square
as cross-stitch could make them; this remarkable
animal most miraculously keeping his seat upon
the perpendicular side of an upright green bank,
with three red flowers growing on his right and
of this useful and ornamental piece of needle-work,
the lady kept a resolute silence, rarely opening
her lips except to check her husband for speaking
to her, as it put her out in counting the threads.
And if he attempted to read aloud, (even in Santo
Sebastiano,) she shortly desired to him to desist,
as it puzzled her head and caused her to confuse
the proper number of stitches alloted to each of
the various worsted shades. If he tried to interest
her by a really amusing book of his own choice,
she always went fast asleep, and on raising his
eyes from the page he found himself reading to
nothing. If, on the other hand, he wished to
entertain himself by reading in silence, he was
generally interrupted by something like this, precluded
by a deep sigh — “Harvey you are not
thinking now of your poor Charlotte Augusta —
you never took up a book and read during the
week you were courting me. Times are sadly
altered now; but I suppose all wives must make
up their minds to be forgotten and neglected after
the first fortnight. Don't look so disagreeable;
but if you really care any thing about me, come
and wind this gold-colored worsted — I want it
for my dog's collar.”
The fortnight of rest being over, Mrs. Woodbridge
concluded to receive morning visitors and
two weeks were opened every day for that purpose
during the usual hours for making calls. Also
she availed herself of the opportunity of wearing
in turn twelve new and beautiful dresses, and
twelve pelerines and collars equally new and beautiful.
Various parties were made for his bride by the
families that knew Harvey Woodbridge, who was
much liked throughout the circle in which he had
visited; and for every party the bride found that
she wanted some new and expensive articles of
decoration, notwithstanding her very recent outfit;
she and her ma' having taken care that the trousseau
should in the number and costliness of its
items be the admiration of all New York, that is
of the set of people among which the Staplefords
were accustomed to revolve.
When the bridal parties were over, Woodbridge
was very earnest that his wife should give one
herself in return for the civilities she had received
from his friends; for though he had no fondness
for parties he thought they should be reciprocated
by those who went to them themselves, and who
had the appliances and means of entertaining
company in a house of their own and in a customary
manner. To this proposal our heroine pertinaciously
objected, upon the ground that she was
tired and worn out with parties, and saw no reason
one herself.
“But” — said her husband — “have you not
often told me of your mother's annual parties.
Did she not give at least one every season?”
“She never did any such thing” — replied
Charlotte — “till after I was old enough to come
out. And she had as many invitations herself,
before she began to give parties as she had afterwards.
It makes no sort of difference. Ladies
that dress well and look well, and therefore help
to adorn the rooms are under no necessity of
making a return (as you call it) even if they go to
parties every night in the season. Then, if, besides
being elegantly drest, they are belles and
beauties (here she fixed her eyes on the glass)
their presence gives an eclat which is a sufficient
compensation to their hostess.”
“But if they are not belles and beauties” — observed
Woodbridge, a little mischievously.
“I don't know what you are talking about!”—
replied the lady with a look of surprise.
“Well, well” — resumed the husband — “argue
as you will on this subject, you never can
convince me that it is right first to lay ourselves
under obligations, and then to hold back from
returning them, when we have it amply in our
power to do so.”
“I am glad to hear you are so rich a man. It
was but last week you told me you could not
afford to get me that case of emeralds I set my
mind upon at Thibaut's.”
“Neither I can. And excuse me for saying
that I think you have already as many articles of
jewelry as the wife of a Market-street merchant
ought to possess.”
“Are the things you gave me on our wedding-day
to last my life-time? Fashion changes in
jewelry as well as in every thing else.”
“It cannot have changed much already, as but
a few weeks have elapsed since that giorno felice.
However, let us say no more about jewels.”
“Oh! yes — I know it is an irksome topic to
husbands and fathers and all that sort of thing.
Pa' was always disagreeable whenever Marquand's
bill was sent in.”
“To return to our former subject” — resumed
Woodbridge — “I positively cannot be satisfied,
if after accepting in every instance the civilties
of our friends, we should meanly pass over our
obligation of offering the usual return. I acknowledge
that I do not like parties; but having in
compliance with your wishes accompanied you to
so many, we really must make the exertion of
giving one ourselves.”
“If you disapprove of parties you ought not to
always professed to act up to your principles.”
“I endeavor to do so. And one of my principles
is to accept no favors without making a return as
far as lies in my power. I disapprove of prodigality,
but I hate meanness.”
“It is wicked to hate any thing. But married
men get into such a violent way of talking.
When pa' did break out, he was awful. And
then, instead of arguing the point, ma' and I
always quitted the room, and left him to himself.
He soon cooled down when he found there was
nobody to listen to him: and the next day he was
glad enough to make his peace and give up.”
Woodbridge could endure no more, but hastily
left the room himself: and Charlotte walked to
the glass and arranged her curls, and altered the
tie of her neck-ribbon; and then sat down and
worked at the everlasting dog.
2. PART II.
Finding it utterly impossible to prevail on his
wife to consent to a large party, Woodbridge next
endeavored to persuade her to invite a few families
at a time (sociably, as the ladies call it,) till they
had thus gone round all their acquaintances.
“Why this is worse than the other way” —
exclaimed Charlotte — “really, Mr. Woodbridge,
I am surprised at you. Did I not tell you, when
we were first married, that ma' never had any
evening company whatever, except when she gave
a squeeze once in the season. The expense of
having a few people at a time is endless, and there
is no eclat in it either, as there is with a large
general party; so it is an absolute throwing away
of money.”
“Then let us have a large general party.”
“Harvey you really make me sick. Will you
never cease harping on the same subject. Is it an
affair of life and death, our paying back again what
we owe to the people who saw proper to invite
us. Shall we lose our characters if we do not?”
“Yes.”
“Was there ever such nonsense.”
“Our characters will so far suffer that we shall
be justly considered mean, sordid, and inhospitable.”
“Will any one ask us why we do not invite
company. How can they kuow what reasons we
may have? And then again how business-like to
regard the thing as an affair of debtor and creditor!
But men will be men.”
“Charlotte” — said Harvey Woodbridge — “I
am tired of this foolish contention — and I insist,
(yes — I positively insist) on a few of our friends
being invited to take tea with us to-morrow evening.
Next week we will have a few more, and
so on, till we shall have entertained at our own
house, the whole circle of our acquaintances.”
“But when these people paid me their bridal
visits” — said Charlotte, — “I carried my politeness
so far as to hint to every one of them a general
invitation to come and see us of an evening
without ceremony, as soon as they chose.”
“No matter” — returned her husband —“why
should they hasten to avail themselves of a mere
general invitation, when there is no reason for
their not receiving a special one. Among women
I know very well that volunteer visits are only
made where there is a very familiar intimacy; and
never when the parties are but newly or slightly
acquainted. Again — supposing that any of these
ladies or gentlemen were to take you at your
word — are we ever prepared for unexpected
guests? — Could we receive them in this vile room
that you insist on living in; or in the cold dark
parlors, with the fire out, and no lamp lighted.”
Mrs. Woodbridge began to conclude that, for
this time, she had best give up to her husband;
and therefore, with a very ill grace, she finally
consented to his desire; and he felt so happy at
having carried his point, that he apologized for
the epithet he had bestowed on the sitting-room;
and conceded that, used in moderation, there was
some convenience in having such places.
Accordingly, invitations were given to three
married couples, one widow, two young ladies
and three young gentlemen; all of them being
among those of our hero's friends, who stood highest
in his esteem, from whom his wife had received
the utmost civility, and in whose eyes she was
most anxious that she and her domestic arrangements
the interim, he took particular care to be as amiable
to her as possible: only once giving her occasion
to say that “all men were fools.”
Harvey Woodbridge came home from his store
in excellent spirits, anticipating the most splendid
evening he had yet enjoyed in his own house. Anxious
to keep his wife in good humor, he had fore-borne
during the day to offer any suggestion as to
the preparations for the evening; merely hinting
his hope that every thing would be arranged in a
liberal and convenient manner.”
“Why should you doubt it?” — replied Charlotte
— “But I am not going to tell you a word
beforehand. Perhaps I shall surprise you.”
“So much the better” — said Woodbridge
gaily — and he resolved to trust entirely to his
wife, and to ask no questions; calculating greatly
on this surprise that was in store for him, and
feeling persuaded that, on this, their first reception
of evening company, she would take care that all
should be sclon les regles.
But, a “change came o'er the spirit of his dreams”
when he found that at seven o'clock the parlors
were not lighted; Mrs. Woodbridge, who had
not yet began to dress, averring that people never
arrived till at least one hour after the time specified,
and that she would encourage no useless
door-bell rang, our heroine flew to her toilet, and
Mr. Woodbridge had the mortification of seeing
the first detachment of visitors make their entrance
by the light of a dim and newly-kindled fire; the
ladies leaving their cloaks and hoods in the entry;
Charlotte having given orders that nobody should
be shown up stairs. The servant man now hurried
to light the lamps which stood on the centre-tables
in each parlor, omitting those on the mantel-piece,
because he knew that they were unfurnished with
oil, as they had never yet been prepared for use.
In a very short time all the guests had arrived,
and Woodbridge was obliged for nearly an hour
to entertain them entirely himself; his consort
not being ready to made her appearance. Finally,
the beautiful Charlotte came down elegantly and
elaborately drest: and smiled, and looked sweet,
and expressed to the company her regret at not
being aware of their intention of coming so early,
and her delight at their having done so, as by that
means she should have the pleasure of enjoying a
larger proportion of their society.
Then she took her seat, changing it occasionally
so as to afford each of the guests a share of her
talk. They were all intelligent people, with
cultivated minds and polished manners, and
Woodbridge, who was well able himself, to sustain
apart in rational and amusing conversation, thought
folly. She discoursed with untiring volubility on
new style bonnets, new style shawls, and remembered
with surprising accuracy the exact figures
of certain new style mouselines de laines, embroidered
chalys, and brocaded satins. And she varied
her declamations by describing divers patterns for
worsted work, particularly the new style dog that
she was doing for the cover of a tabouret, and to
which she was going to give a companion in the
shape of a basket of fruit, to be taken in hand for
another tabouret as soon as the present occupant
was out of the frame.
After a while, the attention of the visiters began
to flag; all seemed to grow dull and tired, and
our hero felt that he was becoming dull and tired
himself, and in fact quite out of spirits. The
truth was, he wanted his tea, and thought that all
the company did the same; and his only hope
was now in the exiliarating influence of “the cups
that cheer but not inebriate.” The time-piece
showed the hour of nine, and still there was no
sign of tea. He wondered it did not appear, and
was at a loss to conjecture what had retarded it.
At last, the conversation subsided into silence,
and after a dead pause, Mrs. Woodbridge proposed
music. For herself she had never been able to
acquire any proficiency in the art, and therefore
purchase of a highly ornamented instrument as
an elegant piece of furniture for the back parlour,
and because, as she — “No decent house is
without a piano.”
She sat two young ladies down to the overture
to La Cenerentola played as a duet, aud which
she said was “ma's favorite.” During the move
which generally takes place when music is about
to commence, Woodbridge found an opportunity
of saying in a low voice to his wife — “I wish
the music had been deferred till after tea. We
have already waited too long, and want something
to brighten us.”
“People must be badly off when their brightness
depends upon tea” — replied Charlotte, also soto
voce — “is that the only excuse you can make for
being so stupid this evening — you and your select
friends. But sensible people are always stupid —
at least I find them so.” — Then turning amay
from her husband, she walked into the other
parlor, and taking her seat beside a lady who was
looking over the splendid annuals that lay on the
table, our heroine remarked that a figure in one of
the plates reminded her of a celebrated actress
then performing at the Chesnut street theatre;
and from thence she ran into a minute description
of the costume of that actress in every character
in which she had seen her. The truth was that
any thing concerning a play, except the habiliments
of the performers; her eyes being chiefly
engaged in wandering round the boxes, and taking
cognizance of the caps, turbans, feathers, flowers,
and other head ornaments there displayed.
The overture to La Cenerentola was played
mechanically well, the musicians (like the hearers)
being tired before they began. When it was
over, the young ladies rose from the instrument,
and returned with the rest of the company to the
other room; and it was well they did so, for in a
few minutes the back-parlour lamp died out, self-extinguished
for want of sufficient oil.
At length, Mrs. Woodbridge desired her husband
to touch the bell, and he obeyed with alacrity,
thinking to himself — “Now we shall have tea, to
a certainty.”
The servant man made his entrance: and (to
the utter dismay of our hero) he handed round a
waiter set out with diminutive glasses of weak sour
lemonade, and a silver basket half filled up with
a large thickly folded damask napin, upholding
some very small thin slices of stale tasteless sponge
cake.
“Is this the surprise she promised me” —
thought Woodbridge — almost betrayed into an
audible exclamation. But he checked himself,
honors of the banquet, imagining (and it was not
altogether “fancy's sketch”) that he perceived a
look of disappointment in the countenances of the
whole company, none of whom had taken tea at
home, having all understood that Mrs. Woodbridge's
invitation included that refreshment. His
wife, however, smiled on; and assured the ladies
that they would not find the lemonade too strong,
and that if any cake could be considered wholesome,
it was sponge-cake eaten in moderation.
The remainder of the evening dragged on still
more heavily than the former; Woodbridge being
too much annoyed either to talk himself or to be
the cause of talking in others; and also watching
anxiously, but vainly, for the appearance of something
else in the way of refreshments. It was
scarcely ten o'clock when one of the married ladies
signified to Mrs. Woodbridge that she must go
home on account of her baby. All the other
guests seemed eager to avail themselves of the
first system of breaking up, and hastened to take
their leaves; their hostess assuring them that it
was quite early: that she had not enjoyed one
half enough of their company: that she hoped
they had spent as pleasant an evening as she had
done: and that she trusted it would not be long
before they repeated their visit, and that they
might rely on being always treated in the same
that in” — thought her husband, as he glanced
at her with ill-concealed disapprobation.
When all the company had departed, and the
husband and wife were left to themselves, our
hero (making an effort to throw as much mildness
into his tone as possible) inquired why there had
been no tea for the visitors.
“Because I did not choose to go to any unnecessary
trouble and expense” — was the reply:
“You went round yourself,” — said Woodbridge
— “and gave the invitations verbally. Of
course you asked them to come to tea.”
“There is no `of course' in the case. I do
not remember saying any thing to them about tea.
Perhaps I did, and perhaps I did not. None of
ma's friends ever gave tea, whether the company
was large or small. And Mrs. Pinchington told
me herself that when she kept house she always
expressly asked her friends to come after tea. I
wish I had done so, and then these people would
not have expected any.”
“But why should they not expect any? At
their own houses they on all occasions have tea.
Is tea and its appendages so enormously expensive
that we cannot afford to give them to our friends?”
“I am always at a loss to know what you can
afford, and what you cannot. When after a great
blond was, did you not object to my giving eight
dollars a yard for seven yards of blond trimming
to go round the skirt of that gros d'Afrique I had
made for Mrs. Hillingdon's ball. To be sure I
did get the blond notwithstanding; and it was
not my fault if it caught in the flowers of Miss
Wireblossoms skirt and was half torn to pieces
that very evening. Then when I fell in love
with that superb gold card-case at Thibault's did
you not meanly refuse to let me have it, merely
because you had given me a silver one already.
And now when I try as much as I can to economise
in things that are of no consequence you are
displeased at my not giving tea to these people,
as if they could not just as well have all drank
their tea at home.”
“Undoubtedly they would have done so, had it
been possible for them to foresee that they would
get none at our house. Did you not invite them
to come at an early hour?”
“Yes but I did not suppose they would be so
simple as to take me at my word. And I asked
them to come socially, just to meet half a dozen
friends. Therefore they need not have expected
any thing.”
“Socially! — Yes, we were all very social indeed.
The truth is that persons accustomed to
evening after the fatigues of the day are over.
And if they chance to go without it, they always
miss its exhilirating effects. I wonder you did
not want it yourself.”
“Oh! I am not such a fool as to let my vivacity
depend on a cup of tea. Besides, I had some made
for myself, and I drank it in the sitting room before
I came down. When I had done, the pot
was filled up with water, and left by the fire — I
dare say it is there yet, and if you are in distress
for tea, you can get some of that. For my part
I am very sleepy, and very tired of all this nonsense,
and I will not hear another word on the
subject. But I can assure you this is the last
time you shall ever prevail on me to invite
evening visitors. If my society is not good
enough for you, I shall not assist in bringing other
people here to entertain you.”
So saying, she flounced up stairs, and her husband
sighed, and went out to a restaurant in quest
of something by way of refreshment: experience
having taught him that nothing was to be had in
the house. The lovely Charlotte did not speak
to him all next day, and gave no token of her
knowledge that he was in existence, except that
she contrived for dinner something that she knew
he particularly disliked. Finally, he was fain to
bribe her into good humor by the gift of a turquoise
ring.
Time passed on, and Harvey Woodbridge became
sadly apprehensive that for him the bonds
of married life would never be “golden chains
inlaid with down.” As his mental vision cleared,
the beautiful Charlotte Augusta seemed every day
to grow less and less beautiful. And too often his
recollection dwelt on some favorite adages of
his grandmother, such as — “Handsome is that
handsome does” — and “Marry in haste and repent
at leisure.”
No home could be more cheerless than that of
our hero; notwithstanding that his wife piqued
herself greatly on her domestic qualifications, after
the pattern of her ma'. But her housewifery
consisted only in the perpetual practice of a mean,
sordid, and annoying parsimony, carried into the
most minute details of every thing connected
with comfort. While at the same time there were
no limits to her extravagance in all that related
to the adornment of her own person. And her
passion for dress, increasing by indulgence, soon
superceded even her love for fine parlor furniture;
taking care only to preserve what they had already
by using it as little as possible. Till they
learn by experience, men have a very faint idea
of the sums that can be expended on the external
decorations of a woman who is resolved on being
the first to adopt every new fashion, and the first
to throw it aside for another, and who takes a silly
of her dresses. As Mrs. Woodbridge never gave
any thing away, a spare room (or rather a room
which could not be spared, and ought to have
been appropriated to a better use) was filled with
receptacles for her discarded finery: discarded in
many instances after having been worn but two
or three times.
With the usual selfishness and folly of women
whose ruling passion is a love of dress, our heroine
seemed to think that almost every cent expended
for any other purpose was taken wrongfully from
the fund which ought to be devoted exclusively to
the adornment of her own person. Now that her
parlors were furnished, she appeared to consider
all expenditure for the comfort or convenience of
the establishment as an encroachment on her selfassumed
right to be indulged in every new and
costly vanity that fashion and ostentation was
continually introducing into female attire. Yet
though her milliner and mantua-maker were the
most modish, and therefore the most extravagant
in their charges that Philadelphia could support,
if she wanted any other sort of work to be executed
she would walk to the most distant suburbs of the
city in all the torture of tight shoes, to make a
hard bargain with a cheap seamstress; or she
would absurdly hire a carriage for the purpose of
conveying her to cheap (or rather low-priced)
account, she could buy articles of household
necessity at a cent or two less than in the
best part of the town.
In charity Mrs. Woodbridge gave nothing.
When her feelings sometimes prompted her to
afford relief in a case of severe distress that chanced
to fall in her way, her hand was stayed by some
such reflection as that a quarter of a dollar would
buy her a yard of ribbon, or a half dollar the same
quantity of narrow edging: that seventy-five cents
would pay for a pair of white kid gloves, and that
a dollar would purchase a flower sprig. Therefore
the money remained in her purse to be expended
in some article of similar utility to the above.
A book was one of the last things she would
have thought of purchasing for herself; and she
even looked displeased whenever her husband
bought a new one for his own reading; and wondered
what people that had the Athenæum to go
to, and also a share in the City Library, could
possibly want with any more books.
As is usually the case in families where the
practice is ultra economy our heroine was always
in difficulties about servants, some of whom left
her or were dismissed by her in two or three days:
and few that were worth having remained more
than a week, for good servants can easily obtain
by keeping her husband waiting an hour or more
beyond the appointed breakfast time, for it was
always a difficult task to her to get up in the
morning, and it was deferred and delayed as if it
could be dispensed with altogether. On this subject
no remonstrance on the part of her husband
ever made the slightest impression; her pretence
being that early rising was injurious to her health.
And if he resorted to the desperate measure of
eating his breakfast without her, he was punished
by her not speaking to him for the remainder of
the day. When breakfast was over, Mrs. Woodbridge
devoted an hour to scolding the servants,
and five minutes to arranging her scheme of parsimony
for that day. This she called superintending
her household affairs. Then, having
taken off her wrapper, and spent two hours in
making a very recherche toilette, she issued forth
in a superb dress-bonnet, with every thing to
match, and passed the remainder of the morning
in costly visits to the fashionable shops, and to
the fashionable milliners and mantua-makers; and
in leaving cards at the doors of such of her acquaintances
as lived in handsome houses, and dressed
expensively. The only persons with whom, on
making her calls, she desired an interview, were
her cronies Mesdames Squanderfield and Pinchington.
Friends she had none.
About three o'clock Mrs. Woodbridge went
home and undressed for dinner, which in her
house was always a paltry and uninviting repast:
such as her husband would have been really
ashamed of if seen, and which it was certainly
politic to serve up in the privacy of the little dining-room.
As it was, he thought that at his own
table he never felt exactly like a gentlemen; and
his genteel feelings were brought still lower at
times when for a day or two he found his house
without a single domestic: a condition to which
a menage of this description is not unfrequently
reduced. Indeed, their servants very often left
them on account of the scanty supply of kitchen
utensils, averring that they were not allowed
things to do their work with.
Of afternoons, the fair Charlotte, continuing
in her dishabille, and establishing herself permanently
up stairs for the remainder of the day, pursued
her worsted work for a while, and then took
a nap till tea-time, and another after tea, while
her husband went to the Exchange to read the
news by the eastern mail. During the remainder
of the evening, by the glare of a small, low, shadeless
lamp, she made herself an occupation with a
bit of trifling and useless sewing, interrupting him
every few minutes with some querulous remark
if he was reading to himself, and falling into a
doze if he was reading aloud. About nine o'clock,
very fidgety on the subject of having the lights
and fires extinguished, the house shut up, and
preparations made by all within it to go to bed
with the utmost dispatch: implying that she saw
no use in wasting fuel and oil any longer; and always
worrying without ceasing till she had carried
her point of a general retirement at an unseasonably
early hour.
If a gentleman called in the evening to see Mr.
Woodbridge, the parlor fire had gone out, no lamp
had been lighted there, and all below was gloomy
and cheerless. It was a formidable undertaking to
clear out the grate and rekindle the fire, and to
make an astral lamp burn which was not in order
for want of being in nightly use; and our aggrieved
hero soon found that of the two evils, the least
was to entertain his friends in the ever obnoxious
dining-room: Mrs Woodbridge, to avoid being
caught in dishabille, always taking flight to her
own chamber before the guest could find his way
up stairs. Under these circumstances, it was not
surprising that their house was soon relieved from
the inconvenience of visiters, and that the husband
and wife were left to the full enjoyment of each
other's society; except when he occasionally
indulged himself by going to the Athenæum for
an evening of quiet reading in a well-warmed and
well-lighted room: even though sure to incur the
day.
Mrs. Stapleford had several times volunteered to
quit for a while the delights of her beloved New
York, and make a visit to her daughter even in
Philadelphia; but was always put off with some
trifling excuse from our heroine. Mrs. Woodbridge
was well aware that notwithstanding the close
parsimony that prevailed in the paternal (or rather
maternal) mansion, her mother, when a guest at
the house of another person, was greatly displeased
if all things were not conducted on the most
liberal scale.
Finally, however, Mrs. Stapleford was allowed
to come. She disappointed her daughter by not
admiring sufficiently the handsome parlor furniture
which (on inquiring the prices of all the articles)
she took much pains to prove could have been
purchased far better and infinitely lower in New
York. In return, Mrs. Woodbridge resolved to
make no alteration in her domestic arrangements
during the visit of her mother; saying when any
thing was unusually mean or comfortless — “You
see, ma', I keep house exactly on your plan.”
And indeed she rather outdid her pattern.
Mrs. Stapleford sometimes hinted a desire that
this strict adherence to her plan might be dispensed
with, but her dutiful daughter would make no
improvement, and endeavored to persuade her
things were far worse, and more difficult to procure
than in New York. Woodbridge was annoyed,
ashamed, and angry nearly the whole time. The
visit was by no means a satisfactory one to any of
the parties: and Mrs. Stapleford, instead of remaining
a month (as she had at first intended)
stayed but a week; alledging that she was obliged
to hurry back to New York that she might not
lose Mrs. Legion's grand annual ball, for which
there were never less than six hundred invitations
sent out.
Each of the two brothers of our heroine came
at different times on business to Philadelphia, but
wisely stayed at a hotel. Both were invited to
take a family dinner at their sister's house: she
assuring them that they need not expect any thing
more than she would have had for her husband
and herself—“As you know”— said she—“that
one never stands on ceremony with one's brothers.”
This entire absence of ceremony was
indeed so very apparent that the young Staplefords
concluded for the future, not to forego an excellent
dinner at an excellent hotel for the scanty and
unpalatable repast provided by their sister.
On the first of these occasions, our hero bore
his vexation in silence; on the second he expostulated
with his wife when they were alone in the
evening. But she replied that the dinner was
and just such as her brothers were used to at home;
adding — “Harvey Woodbridge, I wonder you
are not tired of continually trying to make me
change my plans. What reason have you to suppose
me one of those trifling, weak-minded persons
that can be persuaded to any thing? No — from
my earliest childhood I was always distinguished
for firmness of character. I remember when only
five years old, because pa' bought me a doll for a
Christmas gift, when he knew I wanted a pearl
ring, I held out for a whole week; and all that
time I would neither play with the doll or even
look at it, nor kiss pa' at bidding good night. So
that on New Year's day he was glad to get the
pearl ring for me, as ma' had been advising him
all the while. No — no — have you yet to learn
that firmness is my forte?”
“That obstinacy is, I have learnt most thoroughly”
— replied her husband —“and that united
with your other fortes is fast wearing away the
peace of my life. You really seem to be trying
your utmost to make my home irksome to me.”
“Then you will have the more excuse for
spending your evenings at your beloved Athenæum.
You had better go there now.”
“I will take you at your word” — replied
Woodbridge, rising to depart.
“Harvey” — said his wife, as he was about to
leave the room — “as you have to pass Mustin's
in your way, you may as well take this bit of
brown worsted and try and match it for me — I
can't go on with my work to-morrow, till I get
some more of it.”
“Confound the worsted!” — exclaimed her
husband, turning angrily away from her.
And as he hastily shut the door and precipitately
ran down stairs, she struck up melodiously the
refrain of “Sweet — sweet home.”
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
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 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,
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,
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
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,
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 —
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.”
“`Nobody asked you, sir,' she said”—
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
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
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
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
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,
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
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.
4. PART IV.
It chanced that just at that time Mr. Stapleford
the father of our heroine, had some commercial
business which made it necessary for him to visit
Philadelphia and Baltimore. He left New York
in the earliest morning line, and having reached
the Delaware and dined in the boat, his attention
as he sat reading on deck, was withdrawn from
the newspaper by the conversation of two ladies
who occupied seats just in front of him. One of
the dames proved to be Mrs. Squanderfield. She
had come on board at Bristol, and expressed great
delight at meeting her friend, Mrs. Pinchington,
who had been taken in at Burlington. Both ladies
talked in a very audible under-tone, and Mr. Stapleford
thought of changing his place 'till he was
startled by hearing the name of his daughter.
Curiosity then triumphed over every other consideration,
sat still and listened.
“A-propos, my dear Mrs. Pinchington” — proceeded
Mrs. Squanderfield — “you have not yet
told me the particulars of the great Woodbridge
dinner. I was out when you came home from it
— and yesterday morning, as we went up the
river, you know how I was beset by that persevering
man, Mr. Bulkworthy, who monopolized
me the whole time; as, to say the truth, he always
does whenever we meet.”
“You seemed very well pleased to be thus
monopolized” — replied Mrs. Pinchington, with
a Sardonic smile. “If you had chosen to change
your seat, he could not have made much progress
in following you, with his immense size and
his gouty foot. However, my dear Mrs. Squanderfield,
let me advise you, as a friend, to take
care what you are about. Old fat men are not
always rich: though silly girls and dashing widows
seem to think so. Neither is the gout always
caused by high living, and therefore a proof that
they have a great deal to live on. Besides, by
not paying their debts, they may get the gout at
other people's expense.”
“How you run on” — answered Mrs. Squanderfield
— evidently desirous of changing the
subject. “But do tell me how the Woodbridge
dinner-party went off. I suppose, as usual, Mrs.
thing new for the occasion, for I was with her
when she bought all her paraphernalia. That
pearl-colored figured satin could not have cost
less than fifty-dollars by the time it was made up
— and that laced pelerine was forty. What a
passion she has for laced pelerines. I know that
she has six others, all equally elegant and costly.
Then the blond cap and French flowers, that she
bought to wear on the back of her head, was fifteen.
When I am out shopping with Mrs. Woodbridge,
it almost makes my hair stand on end to
see how readily she agrees to buying the most
extravagant things, and things which she cannot
possibly want. I cannot imagine where she finds
room to stow away all her dead stock. Her husband
will find that the dressing alone of his pretty
doll will add to his annual expenses, not merely
hundreds of dollars, but actually thousands. I
was telling my friends at Bristol all about the
Woodbridges; and they agree with me that the
poor man little knows what is before him. I have
asked several New Yorkers about her family, and
they say that old Stapleford's wife is a bye word,
even there, for her extravagance in dress.”
Mr. Stapleford changed color, and looked off
from his paper, and could not suppress a deep
sigh — and then made an effort to appear more
intent on his reading than ever.
“I have heard, also” — continued Mrs. Squanderfield
— (“and from persons who have been at
her house,) that in her domestic concerns there
never was a meaner skin-flint than that same Mrs.
Stapleford. One of my New York friends told me
she had a cook that had once lived at Stapleford's.
On some grand occasion, when they were to have
an apple-pie, Mrs. S. gave out six apples to pare
and quarter; and then she came into the kitchen
and counted the bits of apple, and because there
were only twenty-two pieces instead of twenty-four,
she scolded the cook violently, and ended
by calling her a thief. So the woman went right
out of the house, leaving the dinner at a stand.
Of course she told the apple story every where,
and in a day or two it was all over New York.”
Mr. Stapleford's sigh was now audible — for he
remembered this cook, (the best they ever had,)
and he was well aware of the circumstances attending
her departure. The ladies, however,
were sitting with their backs that way, and did
not observe him. After pausing a minute to take
breath, Mrs. Squanderfield proceeded —
“But about this dinner — it must have gone to
Mrs. Woodbridge's heart to get it up. I long to
know all the particulars.”
“It would take me till to-morrow morning to
tell the whole” — replied Mrs. Pinchington —
“so at present, I can only give you a slight sketch.
that wretched hole that she calls the dining-room:
though it's their sole abiding-place, morning, noon,
and night. There was a little bit of a table set
cater-cornered to give more space; notwithstanding
which we were all squeezed flat by the time
we had got wedged into our seats. The only
waiter was their man Cæsar, for she could not
open her heart so far as to hire an assistant even
on that extraordinary occasion, the first dinner
company they have ever had. The dishes were
handed in by a horrid Irish girl, all filth and rags,
who stood staring, open mouthed, the whole time
— never having seen such great doings before.”
“But do tell me what they had by way of eatables”
— cried Mrs. Squanderfield.
“Why there was a soup which tasted exactly
like smoked dish-water. And a hard, tough, black
looking piece of beef — and a morsel of half-raw
fish. The chief dish seemed to be a pig, that
looked as if he had been killed just in time to
save him from dying, and which I know she got
at half-price, for I went to market with her myself.
Then, by way of game, were some pigeons,
with scarcely a mouthful of flesh on their bones,
split in half, and looking as flat as boards. The
butter was detestable, and would have spoiled
every thing, only that every thing was spoiled
before. The dessert was utter trash — milk —
tarts, made of nothing: and a little decayed fruit,
turned with the best side uppermost. And as
dusk came on, we had to poke about among the
things all in the dark, for she would not allow us
candles to eat by. But the wine — the wine
above all — I forgot to tell you of the wine. It
had actually been watered to make it go further.
Think of gentlemen at a dining-party filling their
glasses with wine and water!”
“Wretched, indeed! — But how did the sensitive
Mr. Harvey Woodbridge live through all
this?”
“Oh! poor miserable creature” — replied Mrs.
Pinchington — “he really moved my compassion
— I absolutely felt for him. I wish you could
have beheld his face when his eye first glanced
over the dinner table: I could scarcely keep from
laughing all the time, to see how ashamed he was
of every thing, and how he labored to conceal his
mortification; the natural man peeping out in spite
of himself. It was really too good to see how he
tried to smile, not knowing that his smile was only
a ghastly grin. And how he twinkled his eyes
and essayed to look pleasant, when he felt the
fire flashing from them; and how he twitched his
brows to smooth them, when he found they were
contracting into a frown; and how he endeavored
should break out into an open fury.”
“And how did his wife take all this?”
“His wife — it was best of all to see how she
sat in her finery, with a coolness that really
amounted to impudence and looking as sweet and
amiable as if she was presiding at the best spread
table in the world, and enjoying the satisfaction
of the company. That woman has not an atom
of either sense or feeling. For my part, I was
glad to get away as soon as I possibly could, that
I might indemnify myself at my own tea-table for
the miserable dinner I had pretended to eat.—
Young as she is, Mrs. Woodbridge is certainly
the meanest woman I ever yet met with — and I
have a good chance of knowing, for she consults
me about all her plans, as she calls them.”
“And she is also the most extravagant, rejoined
Mrs. Squanderfield. “I ought certainly to
know when I so often go shopping with her.”
“The fact is” — rejoined Mrs. Pinchington —
“she will drive that husband of hers to desperation
before long.”
Mr. Stapleford could listen no more. He threw
down his newspaper, started up, and walked the
deck in unconcealed pertubation: forgetting where
he was, and regardless of all observers. In the
mean time, Mesdames Squanderfield and Pinchington
and exagerated anecdotes of the meanness
and extravagance of their friend Mrs. Woodbridge,
till the boat arrived at Chestnut-street wharf from
whence the two cronies proceeded to their lodgings,
arm in arm.
The unhappy father of our heroine had been
too much absorbed in his own irritated feelings to
be conscious of the progress of the boat. He
looked not at either shore — he recognized none
of the landmarks; and he only started from his
painful reverie when the boat touched the pier
and the roaring of the steam announced that its
work was over for that day. On landing, he almost
unconsciously replied to the importunities
of a hack-driver, threw himself and his baggage
into a coach, and repaired to the dwelling of his
son-in-law.
On arriving at the house, the front door was
opened by Cæsar, (who yet lingered in the establishment)
and the old gentleman exclaimed —
“Where is that dining-room — I know she is
there.” He then before Cæsar could show him
into the parlor, ran straight up stairs, and found
the place intuitively.
The young couple had just concluded their
slender dinner at which Woodbridge (to whom
nothing was more intolerable than silent anger,
and who already longed to conciliate his wife, almost
force a conversation. But Charlotte held out,
and answered in sullen monosyllables — it being
her way when she knew she had done wrong to
behave always as if she was the person that had
most cause to be offended. They were both struck
with surprise at the unexpected appearance of
Mr. Stapleford. When they recovered, Harvey
shook hands with him, and Charlotte kissed her
pa', and asked him if he had dined.
“Yes” — he replied, struggling to keep down
his wrath — “I dined in the boat — I have had
my dinner — Are you not glad? But I am hot and
thirsty, and I want some drink.”
“What will you have, pa'?” — inquired Charlotte.
“Here is some nice water.”
“I want some brandy also” — Said Mr. Stapleford.
“Water is weak — it does not drive
away care. Give me some brandy, too — I must
have it.”
Woodbridge rang the bell, and Cæsar was desired
to bring some cool water; after which our
hero silently brought some brandy himself, and
placed it on the table, while Charlotte looked pale
and amazed.
Mr. Stapleford mixed a tumbler full of strong
brandy and water, and then said to his son-in-law
quite clever at the business.”
“I never drink brandy” — replied Woodbridge.
“Then I hope to Heaven you never may” —
said the old man, fervently, and raising his eyes,
in which the tears seemed to glisten. But he
passed the back of his hand across them, paused a
moment, then snatched up the glass, and hastily
swallowed the half of its contents.
“There” — said he, throwing himself into a
chair — “you see what I have come to, I, your father-in-law,
and her father. Have you not heard
it? Don't you know it? I am a drunkard now —
I am — I am. It is a shameful, dreadful vice. It
came upon me by slow degrees; but it has come,
and every body knows it: you see it in my face,
don't you? Look at me, look, I bear about me the
unfailing signs, you know I do.”
They looked at him: it was too true. There
was that redness in his face which never can be
mistaken for the honest glow of health.
“Do you know what has made me a drunkard?”
— resumed Mr. Stapleford — “A bad wife. A
wife may be bad, and yet she may neither play
cards nor tipple, nor betray the honor of her husband.
But she may destroy his peace, she may
undermine his happiness, she may wear out his
love by the everlasting rubbing of petty annoyances.
I have read — (for I once did read) — that
Inquisition, was a contrivance which caused water
to fall unceasingly, day after day, week after
week, month after month, in single drops, one at
a time, upon the head of the miserable captive. I
too, have had my drops, and I know what I have
suffered from them. And she that selfishly and
heartlessly inflicted that suffering was my wife,
your mother Charlotte, and I fear that you are
indeed her true daughter.”
“Dear pa”' — said Charlotte — “pray don't
talk so dreadfully, and, above all, before Harvey.”
“I will, I will” — exclaimed her father, “and
before Harvey, above all, will I do it. Let him
take warning, for I know that he needs the lesson.
Do not exchange glances at each other, I am not
intoxicated yet, I am quite sober still, and I know
exactly what I am saying. But while I can yet
do so, (for now I have begun with the poison I
must keep on) I will tell you what I heard in the
Delaware boat to-day. There were two women
taken on board, (ladies I suppose I must call them.)
I chanced to sit where I overheard their conversation,
and I could not help listening, when my
ear was struck with your name, and I found they
were talking about my daughter. Perhaps it was
dishonorable to sit and listen; but I am not an
honorable man now; I do things every day that
once I would have shuddered at. I found that
these women knew you well.”
“Mrs. Squanderfield and Mrs. Pinchington, I
suppose” — said Woodbridge, turning to his wife.
“Yes” — continued Mr. Stapleford — “those
were their names. One of them had been at a
dinner-party, here, in this little room; and she
detailed it all to her companion, broadly and
coarsely enough, but still I knew that, in the
main, her statement was true. She described
and ridiculed the paltry, contemptible dinner,
and its wretched arrangements; and Woodbridge's
ill-concealed effort to repress his shame and mortification.
Then as one of these women talked
about your meanness, the other discussed your
extravagance: and told of the money you were
continually throwing away in useless finery for
the decoration of your own person, while you
denied your husband the comforts which every
gentleman has a right in his own house to expect,
if he can furnish the means of procuring them.
I listened to their talk, and I understood it all, I
felt it all, for I knew by sad experience what it
was.”
“Is it possible,” said Charlotte, with quivering
lips, “that Mrs. Squanderfield and Mrs. Pinchington
could have talked of me in that manner —
and in a public steam-boat, too!”
“They were your friends, Charlotte” — said
her husband, “your dearest, best, your only
friends; your aiders and abettors in the practice
of your two besetting sins.”
“The vile, false, wicked creatures” — exclaimed
Mrs. Woodbridge — I will never speak
to them again.”
“I am delighted to hear it” — said Woodbridge
— “and earnestly do I hope you will keep that
resolution.”
“Listen to me, Charlotte” — said Mr. Stapleford,
trying to speak with more composure —
“Listen to me, also, Harvey Woodbridge, and
may both of you profit by the lesson. I married
Mary Holman when we were both very young.
I was then a clerk in a merchant's counting-house,
she was the daughter of a poor clergyman. Her
beauty first attracted me, and I thought she had
been well brought up. Necessity had obliged the
family to be notable and industrious, and to economize
in superfluities. Her mother often told me
of Mary's talent of housewifery, and of her ingenuity
with her needle, and how clever she was
in the art of making a genteel appearance at a
small expense. I thought I had drawn a prize in
the lottery of marriage, and I loved her with my
whole heart. We took possession of a small
plainly-furnished two story house in a remote
street, and I thought we might live respectably
and comfortably with my salary. I soon discovered
my wife's innate passion for dress, which in
her father's house, she had been unable to indulge.
But now that she was a married woman, and
seemed resolved to run her course as she chose.
In a very short time, I found a great falling off in
every thing connected with household comforts,
and a corresponding increase in the finery of my
wife's attire. I saw her in silks, and laces, and
feathers, and flowers; all being such as were
worn by ladies whose husbands had five times my
income. But our servant woman (we could keep
but one) was dismissed for a half grown girl, at
half wages. These girls (we had a succession of
them) were changed at least every month, as most
of them were found to be worthless, idle, dirty, or
dishonest; and all were incapable of doing work.
If by chance we obtained a good one, she would
not stay above a week in a house where she had to
work hard and fare badly, for low wages. Often,
when at our late dining hour I came home tired
and hungry, I found no dinner — and when, after
waiting an hour or two, the repast was at last produced,
it was scanty, poor, and unpalatable. My
wife had been out nearly all day, visiting, shopping,
and going after mantua-makers. When our
dinners was unusually late, she said it would save
the trouble and expense of tea, so she went early
to bed, and obliged her girl to do the same by
way of saving fire and light in the kitchen; and
I passed the evening alone in our cheerless parlor,
laboriously engaged in extra book-keeping, or
for the purpose of obtaining a little addition
to our income, and which frequently occupied me
till midnight. I had hoped by this means to gain
some improvement in our way of living. But I
found it only encouraged my wife to run up bills
for finery, which she knew I would be obliged
eventually to pay for. Vain, selfish woman, at
what sacrifices was her trumpery obtained? For
the price of one or two of her expensive dresses
we could have kept a grown servant a whole year.
One French bonnet less, and we could have had
good fires all winter, and the cost of one of her
embroidered muslin collars would have furnished
me every evening with a better light to toil by.
“After a while I obtained another situation at
a higher salary. I then proposed allowing a certain
sum weekly for the household expenses alone
— and I made this allowance as ample as I could.
It was in vain — she pinched off so much of this
money for additional finery, that we lived as badly
as ever. At length, the death of my uncle James
put me in possession of sufficient property to enable
me to emancipate myself from the drudgery
of clerkship, and to commence business on my
own account. I did so, and was soon considered
a prosperous man.
“From the time that I went into business there
were no bounds to my wife's extravagance — that
comfort and convenience, her penurious habits
remained unchanged — and so they always will.
In a few years we had a handsome house, and she
furnished the parlors elegantly — but she made
us take all our meals in a little, low, cheerless
room in the basement story; and in fact, it became
our chief abiding place. How I despised it, and
how long I held out against it!”
“I wonder you submitted at all” — said Woodbridge.
“I submitted to that, and to all the other proceedings
of my wife, because I found resistance
was in vain — as it always must be with a heartless,
selfish, obstinate woman. Often, after the
fatigues of the day, I was too tired to undertake
the trouble of altercation. Nothing then seemed
so desirable as peace and quiet, and, for the sake
of present peace, I let the evil grow till it darkened
my whole life with its baleful shadow.
Naturally my disposition is cheerful, and as I
could not be quarrelling for ever, I sometimes
tried to laugh at the inconvenience and mortifications
to which my wife continually subjected me.
But it would not do — the iron, notwithstanding,
had entered my soul and was fast corroding it.
My affection for my wife was at last worn out.
How could I love her, when I had daily proof
that she had no regard for me? It was still worse
was married and gone, and my son Frank went
to live in New Orleans. To James and myself
our home was more than ever uncomfortable, for
she allowed us no society; indeed, things were
so managed that we became ashamed to invite
any one to the house. Jem could endure it no
longer — so he took lodgings at a hotel, where he
is drinking wine every day, and going to destruction.
For myself, I became reckless — desperate.
I had long ceased to remonstrate with my wife
on the sums she expended in dress — but I had
grown very tired of the petty squabbling about
fires, and lights, and food, and servants, and all
other necessary expenses, which for five-and-twenty
years had embittered my married life. I
hated my home — and I was driven to seek elsewhere
for peace and comfort; such, at least, as I
could get in houses of public resort. I took my
meals at restaurants and hotels — I frequented
oyster-cellars — I joined a club. Gradually the
vice of intemperance came upon me — wine was
not enough, I took brandy also. I drank to raise
my spirits, and to drown the sense of degradation
that always oppressed me when I was sober. My
wife did not care — she dressed more than ever,
and went almost every night to a party — making
me come for her when I was not fit to be seen —
and thus exposing me to her `dear five hundred
friends,' when it was she, herself, that made me
reeling through the streets, with the boys hooting
after me — I shall be taken up out of the gutter,
and laid dead drunk on my own door step. I
know I shall — I see it all before me — yet, when
it comes to that, and my children hear of it, let
them remember it is the fault of their mother.
Look what she has made of me — and what my
wife's daughter is going to make of her husband
— She knows how wretchedly we lived — she
knows how all domestic happiness was worried
away from her father's house — and still she has
been walking fast in her mother's footsteps. —
Charlotte — Charlotte — do you not tremble?”
Charlotte did tremble — and pale and terrified
she threw herself into the arms of her husband,
hid her face on his shoulder, and burst into a flood
of tears. Woodbridge also was deeply affected.
But he saw at that moment a dawn of hope —
and he hailed this first indication of feeling on the
part of his wayward wife as an omen of reform
and happiness.
“I am glad to see you cry” — said the old man
after a pause. — “I have never seen my wife shed
a tear, except when a splendid dress has been
spoiled by the mantua-maker. I begin to hope
that the daughter may be better than the mother.”
“Dear sir,” said Woodbridge, “do not persist
in speaking so harsly of your wife.”
“I will — I will” — exclaimed the old man —
swallowing the remainder of the brandy and
water. “Has she not embittered my life, and
turned to gall the love I once felt for her. What
has Mary Stapleford ever done to make me happy?
Has she ever cared for me — why then should I
care for her? Has she ever regarded my tastes,
my wishes? Why then should I have any respect
for hers? And now I am a drunkard — disreputable,
despised — looked at askance by respectable
men, (I was once a respectable man myself,)
obliged to associate now with those that have degraded
themselves as I have done. And my wife
has caused it all. She has made me wretched,
and she has brought up her daughter to make you
so too.”
Mrs. Woodbridge now threw herself on the
sofa, buried her face in one of the cushions, and
sobbed aloud: and, on her husband approaching,
she motioned him to leave her to herself.
Woodbridge, after removing the brandy, prevailed
on his father-in-law, (who had sunk back in his
chair, and thrown his handkerchief over his face)
to go to the spare chamber, and lie down and
repose himself: and Charlotte in a faint voice
said, she would also retire to her room. As she
passed her husband she caught his hand and
pressed it fervently: but her eyes again overflowed,
and she was unable to speak.
“Dear sir” — said Woodbridge — “do not persist
in speaking so harshly of your wife.”
Woodbridge having ascertained that the sparechamber
was in order, conducted Mr. Stapleford
to its door, now thought it best to leave his wife
awhile to the retirement of her own apartment.
He then repaired to his store, where he recollected
his presence at this time was particularly essential;
and he endeavored, but in vain, to occupy
his mind with business during the short remainder
of the day.
When he came home in the evening, he found
that Mr. Stapleford, having requested that some
tea might be brought to him, had gone to bed for
the night, and was now asleep. Charlotte remained
also in her room, and at her desire the
tea-table had been set for her husband alone.
After he had somewhat refreshed himself with a
cup of tea, he went up to see her. He found her
lying on the bed, and looking very pale and dejected.
“Harvey” — said she — “don't talk to
me to-night — I shall feel better in the morning
— I know all you would say. I have indeed made
you a very bad wife — I acknowledge and regret
it: my eyes are opened at last, and I will try to
do better in future. But I am so shocked at my
father, to see him as he is now, and to hear all he
thinks and feels, and all that he fears. Oh! —
no — no — you shall never be brought to his condition
It is too dreadful. But leave me now, dear Harvey,
and when I deserve it, I will beg you to
forgive me all.”
In compassion to the distress of her feelings,
Woodbridge quitted the room in silence. He
passed the evening alone, in perturbed meditation;
hope for the future and regret for the past, alternately
casting their lights and shadows on his
mind. But, the sunbeam of hope rested there at
last.
Our heroine passed a restless night of bitter retrospection,
and silent tears. Towards morning,
she had wept herself into an uneasy slumber.
Woodbridge rose with the dawn, resolved to try
and compose himself by an early walk, his usual
remedy after an extraordinary excitement. On
descending the stairs, he overtook his father-in-law
who had risen for the same purpose. They
walked together as far as the Schuylkill, and had
much conversation on the subject that was upper-most
in both their minds.
When the two gentlemen returned, they were
met in the entry by Cæsar, who, while his face
shone with smiles, stopped them as they were
proceeding to the staircase, and with a flourish of
his hand as he threw open the door, said to Mr.
Woodbridge, “We breakfast in the back parlor
sir.”
They found the table nicely set out with a
better breakfast than either of the gentlemen had
ever seen in their own house: and Cæsar said,
with increasing smiles, “Mrs. Woodbridge was
up early, sir. She came down soon after you went
out. And we have been to market already. And
after we came home, I got the breakfast myself,
and would not let Irish Mary put her paws to any
thing. Mrs. Woodbridge has given Mary a short
warning, and I am to get Phillis to come back, for
our everlasting cook. Please to excuse my saying
paws: but that Paddy woman is enough to make
the genteelest colored gentleman forget himself.
People of the best polishment can't be decoromous
when they have to deal with Irish.”
At these excellent signs of the times, our hero's
smile became almost as bright as Cæsar's. And
Mr. Stapleford said, in a low voice to Woodbridge,
“I was just going to ask for my early dram, but
I believe I will not take any this morning.”
“I have made the coffee very good and strong”
said Cæsar, “Mrs. Woodbridge told me to do so.
And we bought the best butter that was to be had
in market; and we took cream this morning
instead of milk.”
At this moment the lady of the house appeared.
Her father and her husband kissed her as they
bade her good morning. Her heart and eyes filled
and she held her handkerchief to her face, while
to look out. There were a few minutes of
silence: after which our heroine took a seat at
the table, and Woodbridge and Mr. Stapleford did
the same. Cæsar entered with a damask napkin
and a silver salver, and waited on the table con
amore. Woodbridge introduced a cheerful conversation,
and though he had to sustain it himself,
he was repaid by an occasional smile from Charlotte,
and a laugh from her father.
When breakfast was over, and Mrs. Woodbridge
had left the room, Mr. Stapleford said to his son-in-law,
“She is touched at last. She is going to
set about a reform — I only hope she will stay
reformed. Ah! there is no touching her mother.
I have tried often to work on her feelings: but
she has none. Vanity, sordidness, and selfishness
have hardened her heart till it is like `the nether
millstone.' But Charlotte is not so bad; and I
trust she will do well yet. I must have a bottle
more than usual to-day at dinner, in celebration
of this joyful change.”
“Rather celebrate it,” said Woodbridge, “by
a day of entire temperance.”
“Ah!” replied Stapleford, “that is easier said
than done. I am ashamed to confess that a day
of temperance will be a day of suffering to me.
The habit of drinking once formed, the craving
drunkard is not easily cured.”
“Let me beg of you, dear sir,” said Woodbridge,
“not to give yourself that detestable appellation.”
“Do I not deserve it?” replied Stapleford.
“Am I not really what I call myself? But she
made me so. I know that many men who are
blest with excellent and affectionate wives have
become sots notwithstanding — to their eternal
shame be it spoken. But that was not my disposition.
No man was more capable of enjoying
domestic happiness if it had been allowed me.
However, I cannot trust myself on this theme.
So let it drop for the present.”
Mr. Stapleford and his son-in-law went out
together, but parted at the corner: each going his
own way to his respective business. That morning
Mrs. Woodbridge did no shopping or visiting,
but busied herself at home in improving her
menage. Irish Mary, being dismissed, was loud
in her vociferations at parting, asserting that she
had never seen a raal lady or gentleman since she
came to Philadelphia, and that she would never
more darken the doors of a Philadelphia house:
for she knew scores of places in New York where
they would jump out of their skins for joy to get
her back again, and where the silver would come
pouring into her lap. A week's wages extra,
however, somewhat quieted her wrath: but on
slammed the door, and exclaimed as soon as she
got into the entry, “Bad luck to ye any how,
and I wish to the holy Patrick ye may never have
nobody but black nagurs to cook your bit of victuals
for you.”
“That's a good wish instead of a bad one,”
said Cæsar, who had just come in at the front-door,
triumphantly conducting Phillis.
That day an excellent dinner was served up in
the back-parlor: and as all were now in good
spirits it would have gone off pleasantly, only that
Mr. Stapleford filled his wine-glass too often.
But he said, as he poured out the last, “I cannot
help it — indeed I cannot. It is a dreadful vice
— easily contracted and hard to cure. Shame on
the woman that brought me to it. Well, well,
enough of that, I wish I could forget her always.
Come, I'll not drink any thing more to-day. Only
I must have my glass of hot whiskey punch at
bed-time.”
As soon as the two gentlemen were alone,
Woodbridge told his father-in-law that having
now the most sanguine hopes of Charlotte's improvement,
he thought it best to make no further
reference to what had already passed; and that,
unless he saw unequivocal symptoms of a relapse,
he would gladly consign to oblivion every thing
that had hitherto embittered their married life.
“I fear,” said Mr. Stapleford, “her goodness
will not last. However, even a little of it is better
than none at all. Her mother never had a single
fit of goodness — not, even for one day. Well,
well, I will not trust myself to talk of her.”
Next day the old gentleman set out at an early
hour for Baltimore; and Woodbridge, (judging
from appearances) found that in future the table
was to be set always in the back parlor, and supplied
in a liberal manner.
That morning Mesdames Squanderfield and
Pinchington made together a visit to Mrs. Woodbridge.
Her intention had been to send them
each a concise indicative of her desire that their
acquaintance should cease; and she had purposed
consulting her husband that very afternoon on the
best manner of wording these notes. But they
had seen her as they came past the window, and
the moment Cæsar opened the front door they
pushed by him, and with their usual familiarity
made their entrance into the room. At the first
sight of her two perfidous friends, our heroine
determined to meet them with calm and dignified
resentment; but this wise determination soon
gave way to the passion which she felt burning
in her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes.
Mrs. Squanderfield began —“Dear Mrs. Woodbridge,
it seems an age since I have seen you.
But I was busy the whole day yesterday, shopping
the far west (who with their husbands are staying
at our house) and taking them to milliners and
mantua-makers. They have travelled more than
a thousand miles, each bringing a young baby
along; and their sole business is to get fitted out
with the Philadelphia fashions. They take this
journey twice every year, and carry wagon loads
home with them.”
“For my part,” said Mrs. Pinchington, “I
was all day yesterday going about in search of a
cheap washerwoman. Mine has raised her price
to six dollars a quarter, and rather than give more
than five I will wash and iron my own things in
my own room. But as Mrs. Squanderfield says,
it seems an age since I have seen you. I really
believe we have not met since the day of your
delightful dinner-party.”
“Delightful was it,” said Charlotte, unable
longer to restrain herself, “you did not think so
in the boat coming down the river, when you were
telling Mrs. Squanderfield about it: and I am very
sure you made it out worse even than it really
was.”
Mrs. Pinchington changed color, and looked
much embarrassed; but rallied in a few moments
and said, “My dear Mrs. Woodbridge you must
be misinformed. Some vile mischief-maker, some
friendship.”
“My informant,” replied Charlotte, “is neither
a mischief-maker nor a slanderer. It was my own
father, Mr. Stapleford. He happened to be seated
near you: and he heard every word. First, you
led me on by your own advice to do all sorts of
mean paltry things”—
“I found you willing enough to be led,” interrupted
Mrs. Pinchington.
“And now,” continued Charlotte, “you have
abused me for following your instructions. I
should not have been half so bad, had you left
me to myself. But my eyes are now opened, and
as I intend to act very differently for the future, I
shall have the better chance of keeping that resolution
by declining all further intercourse with
Mrs. Pinchington.”
“With all my heart,” said Mrs. Pinchington,
rising angrily, “I have no occasion to force my
acquaintance on any one. And from what I have
heard of her, I am very sure your notions of economy
came from your own mother far more than
from me. I wish you all possible success in your
new scheme of reform; which you will find a
tough job, take my word for it.”
So saying, Mrs. Pinchington flounced out of the
room, and scuttled out of the house.
“What a strange woman that is” — remarked
Mrs. Squanderfield. “I have thought several
times of telling you how little she is, in reality,
your friend, and how shamefully she talks about
you wherever she goes. It is a great pity you
asked her to that unlucky dinner-party; the account
she gives of it is awful. I own I was a
little hurt at your not inviting me. I should then
have had it in my power to contradict her ill-natured
reports.”
“Perhaps not” — said our heroine — “for with
shame I acknowledge that there was too much
foundation for her statements, however unfavorable
they might be. But the next time I prepare
for company, things will be found very different.
I have had a mortifying lesson.”
“I must say” — pursued Mrs. Squanderfield —
“that I greatly approve of liberality. People in
genteel life should not mind expense. By
the bye, have you heard of the splendid new
style shawls that Lev y has just opened. I saw
them yesterday, and they are the most divine
things I ever beheld. Get ready, and come with
me, and secure one before all the best are gone.”
“To be plain with you Mrs. Squanderfield”—
said Charlotte — “my intention is, in future, to
expend less money on dress, and more on things
of greater importance. And I know that both
my husband and myself will be happier for the
change.”
“Really” — observed Mrs. Squanderfield — “I
thought all men were happy to see their wives
handsomely drest.”
“I begin to think” — said Charlotte — “that a
woman may be drest handsomely without spending
enormous sums, and getting five times as
many new things as she can possibly want. My
husband has not yet made his fortune: and in the
mean time, that our housekeeping may be on a
more liberal scale, I shall lessen my own personal
expenses. But as I am going to reform both
ways, I think it best to relinquish my intimacy
with Mrs. Squanderfield as well as with Mrs.
Pinchington, for I wish not to be led farther into
temptation.”
“I declare you are very polite” — exclaimed
Mrs. Squanderfield, starting up — “I cannot think
what has got into you to-day. You don't seem
at all like yourself.”
“So much the better, perhaps” — replied Charlotte;
“but as my father could not have overheard
Mrs. Pinchington, without also overhearing
Mrs. Squanderfield, his report has convinced
me that neither of these ladies has any right to
call herself my friend.”
“Upon my word” — said Mrs. Squanderfield,
forcing a laugh, “it is really amusing to see how
new you are. I thought you were old enough to
know that in all circles, even in the highest,
scruple. It is the way of the world: and I do
not pretend to be better than my neighbors.
However, as Mrs. Pinchington says, I have no
occasion to force my society on any one. I have
more friends already than I can possibly visit,
even if I were to do nothing else from noon till
midnight. I see we don't suit: but you will lose
more than I shall. However, let us part decently,
and be civil whenever we chance to meet. So
I wish you good morning, and success to your
plan of reforming both ways.”
“Good morning” — said Charlotte, softening
her voice; for in truth, she felt rather better disposed
toward Mrs. Squanderfield than to Mrs.
Pinchington, whose report of the dinner-party
seemed unforgivable. She accompanied her visiter
to the door, and ere they parted, our heroine
found herself asking, “who did you say had just
opened these elegant shawls, Levy or Vanharlingen?”
“Aha” — replied Mrs. Squanderfield, with a
sneer; “still hankering after new shawls, I saw
them at Levy's: and I fear the naughty child is
not going to get quite good all at once.”
“I wish it were more easy to do so” — said
Charlotte, colorirg highly, and hastily returning
to the parlor, where she sat down awhile and
pondered. She then went up to her chamber,
knotted and her needle broke, and she found she
was not in the humor to sew. So she dressed
herself, and went out, and habit directed her steps
to Chestnut street. “At least,” thought she,
“I may as well stop in at Levy's and see the
shawls. Tis certainly pleasant to look at things
that are new and elegant. But I am determined
that nothing shall tempt me to buy one.”
She went into Levy's, saw the shawls, and
was tempted to buy one. But she thought she
would not mention it to her husband for some
days at least; and, as a salvo, she resolved on
paying extra attention to his comforts and wishes.
“My dear Harvey,” said she, after helping
him at dinner to a second piece of pie, “would
you not like to have a carpenter or a cabinet-maker
or some such person, to fit up the dining-room
with book-shelves or book-cases. You can
have it for a library if you wish, as in future we
shall use the parlors entirely.”
The delighted husband started from his seat,
and replied by a kiss: and the same afternoon he
bespoke both shelves and cases; and went to a
bookseller's to begin his selection of books.
Next morning, shortly after breakfast, Harvey
Wooodbridge came home from his store with a
look of consternation which much alarmed his
the appalling intelligence of her mother's sudden
death. A letter had just arrived from New York,
written by her brother James, who stated that on
the preceding day while a mantua-maker was fitting
her for a new dress, Mrs. Stapleford had
fallen down and instantly expired. Great was
the horror of our heroine at this unexpected termination
of her mother's mortal existence. And
she and her husband set out by the first conveyance
for New York, leaving a letter for Mr. Stapleford,
who arrived that afternoon from Baltimore,
and followed them in the mail.
The old gentleman was excessively shocked at
his wife being so suddenly hurried to her last account,
unprepared as she was for the awful change
into eternity. He grieved exceedingly, and never
made any farther allusion to her faults. The day
after the funeral he took the temperance pledge.
The fate of her vain, selfish, and heartless
mother made a deep impression on our heroine,
and soon completed the work of reformation which
her father's representations had begun. The old
gentleman was prevailed on to return with his
daughter and his son-in-law, and to pass a few
weeks with them in Philadelphia. Though her
father was completely sobered, Charlotte soon
perceived that, after the first shock had subsided,
the husband of such a woman as Mrs. Stapleford,
(though he said nothing) he soon began to feel it
a relief. “Ah!” — thought she — “I must make
Harvey happy while I live — or he too will regard
my death as a deliverance from misery.”
On Mr. Stapleford's return to New York, it
was arranged that his sister, an excellent woman
who had been left a widow with a small income,
should take charge of his house: and that his son
James should again reside beneath the roof of his
father. This change had a most salutary effect
on the habits of the young man, and he found it
easy to abandon the incipient vice which as yet
had not fixed itself upon him.
Mr. Stapleford found an affectionate and intelligent
companion in his amiable and considerate
sister, (though she had always been his wife's
aversion) and now that he had a well-ordered and
happy home, he had no inclination to seek for
pleasure elsewhere. The entire abandonment of
liquor soon restored his good looks and his self-respect:
and his visits to Philadelphia were always
anticipated with delight by his son-in-law
and daughter.
We will not say that our heroine had not for a
while occasional lapses from her good resolutions:
but these aberations gradually became slighter
and less frequent. Love for her husband once
awakened, she no longer took pleasure in wilfully
when she showed any indication of her former
waywardness, a gentle remonstrance from Harvey
always brought her to reason. Also, having so
unceremoniously dismissed her two evil counsellors,
she felt the advantage of being released from
their blighting influence.
She now formed an intimacy with some of the
most valuable of her husband's female friends.
These ladies set her in every respect an excellent
example, particularly in improving her mind, and
cultivating a taste for books. Her heart and hand
also expanded to the relief of the unfortunate and
the indigent. Her reform at length became complete,
both with regard to extravagance in dress
and parsimony in house-keeping; and there is
not, at this day, in Philadelphia, a more happy or
a more popular couple than Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge.
| Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge | |