University of Virginia Library

My Dear Eva:—Notwithstanding all that has passed, I
cannot help writing to show that interest in your affairs,
which it may be presumed, as your aunt and godmother,
I have some right to feel, and though I know that my
advice always has been disregarded, still I think it my
duty to speak, and shall speak.

Of course, as I have not been consulted or taken into
your confidence at all, this may seem like interference,
but I overheard Mr. Fellows talking with Alice about
looking for houses for you, and I must tell you that I
am astonished that you should think of such a thing.
Housekeeping is very expensive, if you keep house with
the least attention to appearance; and genteel board can
be obtained at a far less figure. Then as to your investing
the little that your grandmother left you in a
house, it is something that shows such childish ignorance
as really is pitiable. I don't suppose either you or
your husband ever priced an article of furniture at David
and Saul's in your lives, and have not the smallest idea
of the cost of all those things which a house makes at
once indispensable. You fancy a house arranged as you
have always seen your father's, and do not know that the

kind of marriage you have chosen places all these luxuries
wholly out of your reach. Then as to the house
itself, the whole of your little property would go but a
small way toward giving you a dwelling any way respectable
for you to live in.

It is true there are cheap little houses in New York, but
where, and on what streets? You would not want to live
among mechanics and dentists, small clerks, and people
of that description. Everything when one is first married
depends on taking a right stand in the beginning. Of
course, since the ruin that has come on your father, and
with which you will see I never reproach you, though
you might have prevented it, it is necessary for all of us
to be doubly careful. Everybody is very kind and considerate,
and people have called and continue to invite
us, and we may maintain our footing as before, if we
give our whole mind to it, as evidently it is our duty to
do, paying proper attention to appearances. I have partially
engaged a place for you, subject of course to your
and your husband's approval, at Mivart's, which is a place
that can be spoken of—a place where the best sort of people
are. Mrs. Mivart is a protégée of mine, and is willing
to take you at a considerable reduction, if you take a
small back room. Thus you will have no cares, and no
obligations of hospitality, and be able to turn your resources
all to keeping up the proper air and appearances,
which with the present shocking prices for everything,
silks, gloves, shoes, etc., and the requirements of the times,
are something quite frightful to contemplate.

The course of conduct I have indicated seems specially
necessary in view of Alice's future. The blight that comes
on all her prospects in this dreadful calamity of your
father's is something that lies with weight on my mind.
A year ago Alice might have commanded the very best
of offers, and we had every reason to hope such an establishment
for her as her beauty and accomplishments ought
to bring. It is a mercy to think that she will still be invited

and have her chances, though she will have to struggle
with her limited means to keep up a proper style;
but with energy and attention it can be done. I have
known girls capable of making, in secret, dresses and
bonnets that were ascribed to the first artists. The puffed
tulle in which Sallie Morton came to your last German was
wholly of her own make—although of course this was told
me in confidence by her mother and ought to go no farther.
But if you take a mean little house among ordinary low
classes, and live in a poor, cheap, and scrubby way, of course
you cut yourself off from society, and you see it degrades
the whole family. I am sure, as I told your mother, nothing
but your inexperience would lead you to think of it,
and your husband being a literary man naturally would
not understand considerations of this nature. I have seen
a good deal of life, and I give it as the result of my observation
that there are two things that very materially influence
standing in society; the part of the city we live in,
and the church we go to. Of course, I presume you will
not think of leaving your church, which has in it the most
select circles of New York. A wife's religious consolations
are things no husband should interfere with, and I trust you
will not fling away your money on a mean little house in a
fit of childish ignorance. You will want the income of that
money for your dress, and carriages for calls and other
items essential to keep up life.

I suppose you have heard that the Elmores are making
extensive preparations for Sophie's wedding in the Fall.
When I see the vanity and instability of earthly riches, I
cannot but be glad that there is a better world; the consolations
of religion at times are all one has to turn to. Be
careful of your health, my dear child, and don't wet your
feet. From your letters I should infer that you were needlessly
going into very damp unpleasant places. Write me
immediately what I am to tell them at Mivart's.

My Dear Old Boy:—I think we have got it. I mean got
the house. I am not quite sure what your wife will say,
but I happened to meet Miss Alice last night and I told her,
and she says she is sure it will do. Hear and understand.

Coming down town yesterday I bought the Herald and
read to my joy that Jack Fergus had been appointed Consul
to Algiers. To say the truth we fellows have thought
the game was pretty much up with poor Jack; his throat
and lungs are so bad, and his family consumptive. So I said
when I read it, `Good! there's a thing that'll do.' I went
right round to congratulate him and found three or four of
our fellows doing the same thing. Jack was pleased, said
it was all right, but still I could see there was a hitch
somewhere, and that in fact it was not all right, and when
the other fellows went away I staid, and then it came out.
He said at once that he was glad of the appointment, but
that he had no money; the place at Algiers does not support
a man. He will have to give up his bank salary, and
unless he could sell his house for ready money he could do
nothing. I never knew he had any house. Heaven knows
none of the rest of us have got any houses. But it seems
some aunt of his, an old Knickerbocker, left him one.
Well, I asked him why he didn't sell it. He said he couldn't.
He had had two agents there that morning. They wouldn't
give him any encouragement till the whole place was sold

together. They wouldn't offer anything, and would only
say they would advertise it on his account. You see it is
one of those betwixt and between places which is going to
be a business place, but isn't yet. So he said; and it was
that which made me think of you and your wife.

I asked where it was, and he told me. It is one of those little
streets that lead out of Varick street, if you know where
that is, I'll bet Mrs. Henderson a dozen pair that she doesn't.
Well, I went with him to see it when the bank closed, for I
still thought of you. By George, I think you will like it. It
is the last house in a block, the street is dull enough but is
inhabited by decent quiet people, who mind their own business.
Of course the respectable Mrs. Wouverman's would
think it an unknown horror to live there; and be quite sure
they were all Jews or sorcerers, or some other sort of come-outers.
Well, this house itself is not like the rest of the
block—having been built by this old Aunt Martila, or Van
Beest, or whatever else her name was, for her own use. It
is a brick house, with a queer stoop, two and a half stories
high (the house, not the stoop), with a bay-window on the
end, going out on a sort of a church-yard, across which you
look to what is, I believe, St. John's Park[1] —a place with
trees, and English sparrows, and bird-houses and things.
Jack and his wife have made the place look quite cosy, and
managed to get a deal of comfort out of it. I wish I could
buy it and take my wife there if only I had one. This place
Jack will sell for eight thousand dollars—four thousand
down and four thousand on mortgage. I call that dirt
cheap, and Livingstone, our head book-keeper, who used to
be a house-broker, tells me it is a bargain such as he never
heard of, and that you can sell it at any time for more
than that. I have taken the refusal for three days, so come
down, both of you, bright and early Monday and look at it.”

So down we came; we saw; we bought. In a few
days we were ready, key in hand, to open and walk into
“Our House.”