About a fortnight after meeting Perriwinkle, one evening we went up town to see him and his lady. Mrs. P., before marriage, was an uncommon even-tempered and most amiable woman. She had now been married about six months. Upon entering the parlor we found Mrs. P. laboring under much "excitement," and poor Peter—he was doing his best to pacify and soothe her—
"Halloo! what's the trouble?"—we were familiar enough to ask the question—as they were alone, without intruding.
"Take a seat, John," said Perriwinkle. "Mrs. P. and the cook have had a misunderstanding. A little muss, that's all."
"Mr. Humphries," responded the irritated wife, "you don't know how one's temper and good nature are put out, sir, by housekeeping; by the impudence, awkwardness, and wasteful habits of servants, sir."
"Oh! yes, we do, Mrs. P.; we've had our experience," we replied.
"Well, sir," she continued, "I have suffered so in ordering, directing, and watching these women and girls—had my feelings so outraged by them, time and again, since we began housekeeping, that I vow I am out of all manner of patience and charity for them. We have had occasion to change our help so often, that I finally concluded to submit to the awkwardness that cost us sets of china, dozens of glasses, stained carpets, soiled paints, smeared walls, rugs upon the top of the piano, and the piano cloths put down for rugs; Mr. P.'s best linen used for mops, and puddings boiled in night-caps. But, sir, when this evening I found the dough-tray filled with the chambermaid's old clothes, she wiping the lamps with our linen napkins, and the cook washing out her stockings in the dinner pot—I gave way to my angry passions, and cried with vexation!"
And she really did cry, for female blood of Mrs. P.'s pilgrim stock, couldn't stand that, nohow.
P. S.—Perriwinkle and lady sold off, and took rooms at the Tremont House, in order to preserve their morals and money.