University of Virginia Library

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

stairs three steps at a time, (we have just said he
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

shall put on to go out this morning. I am sadly
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

the least, if I were really to go out in a calico
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

Mrs. Rouleau and the two Miss Quillings and
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

fitting new kid gloves, none of which were quite
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,

and she began to consider whether the 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.
— “He has the strangest dread of failing;
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

heat, and slop and all the desegremens of a
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.—

“If always admitted behind the scenes, perhaps
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

will coincide with Mr. Stapleford” — said the
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

heart to suppose that you could prefer any thing
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

friends in whose frequent visits we can take
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

parsimony, and who had broken up her own
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

three blue ones on the left. During the progress
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

display to them her handsome parlors; which for
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

for incurring the expense and trouble of giving
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

have a party. I thought you were a man that
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.