Papa, to be sure, had some drawbacks, but they were VERY trifling—for instance, his shirts were quite buttonless, his dickeys stringless, and his stockings had ventilator toes; but then, how could mamma be seen patching and mending in such an aristocratic atmosphere? She might lose caste; and as to Nannie, her hands were full, what with babies and billet-doux.
You should have seen Mrs. Emily in the evening; with sparkling eyes and bracelets, flounced robe and daintily-shod feet, twisting her Chinese fan, listening to moustached idlers, and recollecting, with a shudder, the long Caudle evenings, formerly divided between her husband, his newspaper, and her darning needle.
Then the petite soupers at ten o’clock in the evening, where the ladies were enchanting, the gentlemen quite entirely irresistible; where wit and champagne corks flew with equal celerity; and headaches, and dyspepsia, and nightmare, lay perdu amid fried oysters, venison steaks, chicken salad, and India-rubber, anti-temperance jellies.
Then followed the midnight reunion in the drawing-room, where promiscuous polkaing and waltzing (seen through champagne fumes) seemed not only proper, but delightful.
It was midnight. There was hurrying to and fro in the entry-halls and lobbies; a quick, sharp cry for medical help; the sobs and tears of an agonized mother, and the low moan of a dying child; for nature had rebelled at last at impure air, unwholesome food, and alternate heats and chills.
“No hope,” the doctor said; “no hope,” papa mechanically repeated; “no hope!” echoed inexorable Death, as he laid his icy finger on the quivering little lips.
It was a dearly bought lesson. The Lady Emily never forgot it. Over her remaining bud of promise she tearfully bends, finding her quiet happiness in the healthful, sacred and safe retreat of the home fireside.
AMERICAN LADIES.
“The American ladies, when promenading, cross their arms in front, and look like trussed turkeys.”
Well, you ought to pity us, for we have no such escape-valves for our awkwardness as you have—no dickeys to pull up—no vests to pull down—no breast pockets, side pockets, flap pockets to explore—no cigars between our teeth—no switch canes in our hands—no beavers to twitch, when we meet an acquaintance. Don’t you yourselves oblige us to reef in our rigging, and hold it down tight with our little paws over our belts, under penalty of being dragged half a mile by one of your buttons, when you tear past us like so many comets?