Chapter IV: Part 4

“It is as good as my husband can afford; and housekeeping is so much preferable to boarding.”

“Do you think so? I would not go to housekeeping for all the world.”

Mrs. Swallow shook her head.

“But then it depends, of course, upon whether you get a good boarding house,” continued Mrs. Buttercup. “We are delightfully situated. Some of the first families in the city board there. Besides, there is so much society in New York, I really don’t think I could find time to keep house. Why, there is the Hon. Mr. Flunkey--he is a member of Congress, you know--invited us to go out to his country seat on the Hudson and spend the summer. Mrs. Flunkey pressed and insisted, and would not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Did you go?” asked Mrs. Buttercup, Senior.

“Why, no; we couldn’t go. Tim’s business drove him so, that the poor fellow couldn’t sleep nights. And there are the Smallheads--they live next door to N. P. Willis, out to Lazywild----”

“Idlewild,” suggested Mrs. Swallow.

“So it was; well, they would have us come and spend a month with them. They are very fine folks. General Smallhead was an aide-de-camp with General Washington at Braddock’s defeat, you remember.”

“Indeed! then he must be a very old man,” added Mrs. Swallow.

“About fifty.”

“Why, Braddock’s defeat occurred a hundred years ago!”

“O, no; you are mistaken,” replied Mrs. Buttercup, blushing a little. “But no matter; he insisted on a visit. What could I do with a house?”

“Very true,” answered Mrs. Swallow, politely.

“And then Tim has a season ticket at the opera. He paid two hundred dollars for a choice of seats last season.”

“Did he?” said the mother-in-law, with a frown.

“And it is so pleasant when you are away so much, to be rid of the responsibility of keeping house.”

Mrs. Swallow did not think so. But Mrs. Buttercup had others in view whom it was her purpose to astonish, and she took her leave soon after.

_CHAPTER II._

For the first time in her housekeeping experience, Mrs. Sparrow felt a little discontented, after her sister-in-law had gone. Her pleasant little house looked smaller than ever before; its plain, substantial furniture looked coarse and common. Why couldn’t her husband have some of the fine things that other people had? Why couldn’t she have a carved rosewood table, antique chairs, a tapestry carpet, and velvet draperies at the windows? Her husband owned the house in which they lived, and had over a thousand dollars in the bank. Mrs. Walbend, in the next house, had all these fine things, and her husband got but a thousand dollars a year, while Mr. Swallow got fifteen hundred.

“Charles,” said she, when her husband came home to tea that evening, “I have been thinking of something.”

“Have you, indeed! That is rather remarkable,” replied Mr. Swallow, with a smile.

“You don’t want to know what, I suppose.”

“I do! I am ‘dying with curiosity,’ as the ladies say.”

“Well, then, I will tell you; but don’t be cross about it.”

Mr. Swallow promised not to be cross about it.

“I have been thinking about having some new furniture.”

The husband stuffed a tea roll into his mouth. Evidently the subject was not a very inviting one to him.

“I want you to entirely refurnish the house.”

Mr. Swallow upset his tea.

“You can afford it, can’t you?”

“I think not, my dear.”

“Yes, you can, Charles.”

“What has got into you, Maria?” asked her husband, very seriously.

“You promised not to be cross.”

“I won’t be; but I am very much surprised. I thought you were perfectly satisfied with your house and furniture.”

“We have everything comfortable, but----” Mrs. Swallow paused.

“What more do you want?”

“Our furniture is not in fashion.”

“The d--euce it isn’t!”

“No; and I want some antique chairs, a carved centre table, a tapestry carpet, and velvet draperies, for the windows----”

“What else?”

“And a mirror seven feet high to go between the windows.”

“Call it twelve, my dear.”

“If you could only hear Belladonna tell of the houses in New York. Why, she says the Hon. Mrs. Chopstick has a mirror in her parlor which is twenty feet high by fifteen wide.”

“Did she tell you how big the doors of that house were?”

“And the carpet which General Smallhead bought last winter cost nineteen dollars and a half a yard.”

“And a half?”

“Yes; they asked twenty, but the General bought so much that they took off half a dollar.”

“Our rooms are so small that we should have to pay twenty, then,” added Mr. Swallow, with a laugh.

“Other folks live so fine, why can’t we?”

“Other folks have money.”

“So have you.”

“A little; but I mean to keep it in preference to buying this trumpery with it.”

“Since Belladonna has been here, I feel quite discontented.”

“Belladonna is a silly creature, and I thank my stars that my wife is not like her,” replied Mr. Swallow, chucking the pretty little pouting wife under the chin.

“But she knows what the fashions are.”

“And that is all she does know.”

“She says we have ‘everything comfortable.’”

“Which is very true.”

“But we are not in style.”

“Pshaw!”

“Won’t you buy some more stylish furniture, Charles?”

“No, my dear; I cannot afford it.”

“If you could only hear Belladonna talk!”

“Probably she makes things appear full as bright as they are.”

“Tim is doing a great business; making thousands and thousands of dollars.”

“I _hope_ he is.”

“Why, Charles! he has taken a great store in Broadway, and keeps, I don’t know how many clerks he said--fifty or a hundred.”

Mr. Swallow’s cough troubled him.

“Maria, you used to be very contented and happy. Don’t let this silly idea get possession of you. Our house is furnished very well. If I had twenty thousand dollars, I would not furnish it any better--that is, not to please myself. If Tim can afford to live in better shape than I do, let him; it will not disturb me. Don’t think any thing more about it.”

“I won’t, Charles; but I felt so cheap when Belladonna talked so familiarly of all those fine things, and of her acquaintances among the _élite_; I felt as though I was nobody.”

“Wait, my dear, wait a while. Time will show what all these great pretensions amount to. I hope Tim will do well; but with such loose ideas of economy as he appears to have, and, more than all with such a silly, extravagant wife, there is much to fear.”

Mrs. Swallow was satisfied. The words of her more experienced husband banished the feelings of chagrin and discontentment she had permitted herself to harbor. A careful reconsideration of Belladonna’s extravagant stories convinced her that some of them, if not made out of “whole cloth,” were greatly exaggerated, and she came to the conclusion that her sister-in-law was no more of a lady in reality than she was herself.

_CHAPTER III._

About six months after the events we have detailed, as Mr. and Mrs. Swallow were sitting down to breakfast, they were surprised by the abrupt appearance of Tim and his wife.

“This is unexpected,” said Mr. Swallow.

“Rather sudden,” replied Tim, more seriously than he was wont to speak.

“I am glad to see you. Breakfast is all ready.”

“We have left New York for good,” interposed Belladonna, after she had kissed and hugged her sister-in-law twenty times--an exhibition of affection which she had not before manifested since she became Mrs. Buttercup.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Charles and Maria together.

“Fact!” said Tim, with a melancholy laugh.

“And I am so glad to get away from there! I always hated New York!” added Belladonna.

“Why, I thought you liked New York. Pray how are your friends the Smallheads, the Flunkeys, and the Chopsticks?”

“I hate them all!”

“Going into business in Boston, Tim?” asked Mr. Swallow.

“Is it possible you have not heard of it?” said Tim, looking his brother-in-law hard in the face.

“Heard of what?”

“My misfortunes.”

“What?”

“Bu’st up.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“Sad, but true;” and Tim essayed a stroke of humor. “Yes, _sir!_ bu’st up; not a sixpence left--poor as a church mouse--borrowed the money to come on with.”

“Tim makes the best of it, you see,” added Belladonna, with a laugh. “For my part, I was almost glad he failed, I was so rejoiced to get away from New York. But, Maria, how have you been since I saw you?”

“Very well indeed.”

“And how is little Charley? the dear little fellow!” continued Mr. Buttercup, tenderly kissing the little boy, who sat in the high chair at the table, and who had contrived to daub his mouth pretty thoroughly with the molasses on his buckwheat cakes.

“How long since this affair happened?” asked Mr. Swallow, when the party had seated themselves at the table.

“Three weeks,” replied Tim. “Took every thing I had--tried to get a situation--couldn’t find one.”

“But where were Funks, Hunks, and Co.? Didn’t they want you?” asked Maria.

Tim looked at her--looked queer.

“No; they have a man now,” replied he.

“What are you going to do?” inquired Mr. Swallow.

“I happened to meet White in New York, and told him how I was situated--offered me five hundred a year to come on as salesman--accepted his offer.”

Maria looked at Belladonna, and thought of furnishing a house at an expense of six thousand dollars.

After breakfast, when Tim and Charles had gone out, Mrs. Buttercup introduced another topic.

“How pleasant it would be if we could board with you!” said she abruptly.

Mrs. Swallow did not think it would be so pleasant; but of course she could not say so, and, being too honest to belie her own heart, she remarked that they did not live in very good style.

“Good enough for any body, Maria.”

“But if your friends, the Smallheads or the Flunkeys, should happen to visit you----”

“O, there is no fear of that; if they did, I should not care.”

“But we live so plainly compared with your fashionable boarding houses.”

“You live well enough; and your house is so nice and convenient.--O, I should be so happy!”

“We have every thing comfortable,” added Maria, slyly.

Mrs. Belladonna Buttercup stopped to think. That remark sounded familiar to her ears.

“Very comfortable, and nice, and pretty! I wish Tim had just such a house!”

“You have altered your mind.”

“And just such furniture--I should be so happy!”

At dinner time the matter was still further discussed. Though Mr. Swallow liked Tim very well, he did not like his wife; but in consideration of their unfortunate condition, he consented to receive them as boarders.

Mrs. Buttercup never says a word now about an establishment, and Tim has a more serious and respectful way of speaking of a hundred thousand dollars. The Smallheads are never mentioned, and Tim thinks he missed it when he moved into a larger store. Belladonna declares she never heard of such a thing as a mirror twenty feet long by fifteen high, and is quite sure the Smallhead carpet did not cost above three dollars a yard.

Mrs. Swallow is satisfied that fine furniture does not make a happy wife. She regards the New York experience of her brother and his wife as an excellent commentary on the vanity of magnificent pretensions. And though her husband has been elected cashier of the Bay State Bank, with a salary of twenty-five hundred dollars per annum, she is still content with having “EVERY THING COMFORTABLE.”

FAMILY JARS.

A LESSON FOR WIVES.

_CHAPTER I._

“He’s real ugly, there! He treats his wife shamefully!” exclaimed Mrs. Benson, a pretty little woman, who had been a wife just eleven months and twelve days.

“Perhaps not, my dear,” replied the young husband, quietly crossing his legs over the top of the fire frame, and puffing out a long wreath of smoke from his mouth as he removed the fragrant regalia.

“Perhaps not! Why, haven’t I seen it myself?”

“You are not acquainted with all the circumstances.”

“Pshaw! A man that can treat his wife so rudely is a perfect brute; I don’t care what the circumstances are.”

“Brown always was a good-hearted fellow, and if he is changed at all, matrimony has done it.”

“Thank you, Charles; you are very complimentary. I wonder if matrimony has changed you.”

“Why, Julia, we have not been married quite a year yet,” replied the husband, smiling.

“Indeed!”

“Brown has been married five years,” replied Mr. Benson, with admirable self-possession.

“Then you think _I_ have not shown out what I am yet?”

“Bah! My dear, you are making quite a personal matter of it. We were speaking of Brown.”

“Brown is a brute--a hog!” said the lady, in a pet.

“What has Brown done?”

“Done? Why, good gracious! He is enough to wear out a woman’s patience.”

“I dare say, my dear; but what has he done?”

“Every thing. He is wearing his poor, patient wife out; she will die--poor, weak, sensitive thing--under such treatment.”

“No doubt of it; but you do not tell me what he has done.”

“I don’t mean to say that he beats her.”

“No.”

“Nor starves her.”

“Does he scold at her?”

“No; if he would only scold, it would be a relief to her.”

“Poor Mrs. Brown!”

“He is so cold and distant; I am sure he married her for her money.”

“Quite likely; but how is it with Mrs. Brown? Is _she_ an angel?”

“I don’t know as she is an angel; but she bears her sorrows _like_ an angel. The poor thing had been crying, I know, when I called there this afternoon.”

“Did she tell you what the matter was?”

“Yes; you know we were children together, and never had any secrets,” replied the young wife, with a troubled expression; for she had some doubts as to the propriety of what she had done.

“Don’t meddle with a quarrel between man and wife, Julia,” said Mr. Benson, shaking his head.

“I could not bear to see her suffering; so I asked her what the matter was.”

“I am sorry you did.”

“I could not help it, Charles; I pitied her so, and I was pretty well satisfied as to the cause of her grief.”

“And her husband illtreats her?”

“He does not love her. She says he has been two or three days without speaking to her.”

“That is bad; but who is to blame?”

“Who is to blame? Why, _he_, of course;” and the pretty little Mrs. Benson looked up in astonishment from the little cap she was embroidering.

“Why ‘_of course_’?”

“He don’t consult her tastes in regard to his dress. If she asks him to bring her home any thing from down town, ten chances to one he forgets it. He don’t seem to care for her feelings. The poor thing says she has cried for an hour in his presence, and he has sat like a log, perfectly unmoved--so different from _you_, Charles.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Brown is not in every respect like _you_, my dear.”

The young wife looked up with a smile of gratified pride. She was yet young and beautiful, and, what was far better than youth and beauty, she was good tempered, kind, and reasonable. Mrs. Brown’s case excited all her sympathies, and she proceeded to detail to her husband a list of the poor lady’s trials. But, as the reader will be better able to appreciate them by being present during the scene described, we will introduce the injured lady and her unfeeling husband.

_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Brown sat by the fire in the parlor, turning over the pages of the last new novel. Occasionally she sighed, as though the world had used her badly, and she had not the means of paying off the world for its ill treatment.

Mr. Brown kept a dry goods store, and, being a prudent, industrious man, he substituted his own services for those of an extra clerk, which kept him busily occupied from an early hour in the morning till late in the evening.

He had been married five years, and, for some reason unknown beyond the pale of his own home, his matrimonial experience, without being decidedly stormy, was very far from being pleasant and profitable to either party. Brown was a good-hearted fellow, and always looked on the bright side of things. If the world would only move along smoothly, he was perfectly satisfied, and never felt disposed to quarrel with any body.

Mrs. Brown’s disposition was not particularly objectionable; she was kind-hearted, clever, and amiable, as the world goes; but somehow nothing ever went right with her. It seemed as though every body took a malicious pride in tormenting her--Brown in particular. If Brown bought sausages for dinner, she was sure to want mutton, and if mutton, she was sure to want sausages.

Brown could not understand it. Whatever he did was sure to be exactly wrong. But Brown was a philosopher; and, though he sometimes got so disgusted that he held his tongue for several days, he maintained a very tolerable degree of good nature.

Brown treated himself to a new overcoat. Being reasonably independent in such matters, he had assumed the responsibility of purchasing the garment without consulting his wife.

Imprudent Brown, thus to expend the sum of eighteen dollars without consulting Mrs. B! Reckless Brown, thus to buy that brown coat, when all the experience of the past pointed to the appalling consequences! Did you not remember the last time you purchased a pair of pants, that neither the hue nor the texture suited your amiable partner? Did you not call to mind the last curtain lecture on this very topic, when you audaciously ordered the tailor to make you a coat off that piece? Knew you not that Mrs. B. likes not black, drab, green, brown, olive, blue, nor any thing of the fancy order?

But Brown recklessly ordered the coat, and when it was done, he recklessly put it on. What made the offence a hundred fold more horrible, he coolly marched, with the coat on, into the parlor where Mrs. B. sat by the fire, turning over the pages of the last new novel.

The lady was thunderstruck; but she was not one of your spitfires, who make a tremendous tempest in your presence when anything does not suit them. She was meek, patient, suffering, under any indignity, even one so pointed and wicked as in the present case.

The lady looked up from her book, and bestowed a languid smile upon the partner of her joys, and, alas! of her sorrows too.

Brown smiled in return; he could not do less than smile. He even looked innocent, as though he had done nothing wrong--as though he had not aimed a blow at the peace of his amiable lady.

“What have you got on, Jonas?” asked she, mildly.

“An overcoat,” replied Brown, sententiously.

“A new one?” sighed the lady.

“Just from the tailor’s shop,” answered Brown, screwing up his courage to meet the onslaught.

“You know I don’t like brown, Jonas.”

“_I_ do,” replied Brown, valorously.

“You know I _never_ like brown.”

Brown had half a mind to construe the remark into a pun; but he was forbearing, thought no evil, and so kept silence.

“It’s a sack too; you know I _never_ liked a sack.”

“I always did.”

“A surtout would become you much better.”

“I like a sack.”

“It is a horrid-looking coat,” sighed Mrs. Brown.

“Muddle says it is the best looking coat I ever had on.”

“Muddle! Of course _he_ would say so.”

“Temple said so too.”

“Temple has no taste.”

“I agree with Temple.”

“You never _will_ wear a coat that suits me.”

Brown thought this was strictly true, but, being a prudent man, he held his peace.

“You still persist in letting Muddle make your clothes, though he charges you more than any one else would.”

“His prices are reasonable.”

“I wish you would let some other tailor make your coat; Muddle’s clothes _never_ set well.”

“Fit me to a T.”

“If it had only been black!”

“But, my dear, you forget that my last coat was black, and you did not like that.”

“It suits your figure better than brown.”

Just at that moment the door bell rang, and the servant brought in a pair of pants.

“What is that?” asked the lady.

“Pants.”

Mrs. B eagerly opened the bundle. The garment was black.

“Black pants!” exclaimed the lady, holding them up before her; “you _know_ I don’t like black pants.”

“Indeed, my dear, you just now said you did like black.”

“Not black _pants_; you know I never _did_ like them; besides, they won’t wear well.”

“But, Mrs. B., I do not wish _you_ to wear them.”

The lady thought this was exceedingly cruel of Mr. Brown; for she, poor woman, had no more idea of “wearing the breeches” than she had of going to Congress.

“They suit me, my dear. _I_ never interfere with your taste in regard to bonnets and dresses.”

“I wish you would tell me what you like best; I am sure I desire to conform to your taste.”

“Don’t wish to. I cannot tell what is good taste in furbelows and flounces, any more than a woman can in coats and pants.”

“But you might be a little more attentive to my wishes. You used to _once_.”

This was a hard hit, and Mr. Brown was silent.

“You don’t seem to care whether I am suited or not, now.”

Brown still was silent; the story had been repeated so often that he knew precisely what to expect.

Mrs. Brown continued to rehearse her grievances, believing herself the most miserable woman in the world. Finally, the tears gathered in her eyes, and she sobbed bitterly. Brown was a monster; he never tried to please her, even in the slightest things; and the thought that her husband’s affections were alienated was perfectly overwhelming.

Brown had picked up the last new novel, which had fallen from Mrs. B.’s lap, and sat turning over the leaves with the most stoical indifference. How could Brown sit and see his beloved wife, the partner of his joys and sorrows, weeping as though her heart would break, and not offer her a word of consolation? Brown was a philosopher.

_CHAPTER III._

It was after such a scene as we have described that Mrs. Benson called upon the friend of her early years, and found her in tears. She believed that poor Mrs. Brown was cruelly treated by her hard-hearted husband.

Several months elapsed, and the difficulty between Brown and his wife increased. The lady was an habitual grumbler; she grumbled for the sake of grumbling, because it seemed to be a “fixed fact” with her that grumbling was one of the essentials of her existence--one of the luxuries of life.

Though Brown _was_ a philosopher, there is a point beyond which even philosophy cannot go to defend its votaries. The lady’s unamiable peculiarity grew upon her, and Brown’s disgust threatened to produce a fatal rupture. Several times after the lady had given him a lesson on the duty of consulting a wife’s taste,--after she had cried her eyes out with vexation because she could not grumble any more,--her unfeeling spouse had deserted the house, remaining out till midnight. Some flying rumors were in circulation, too, that he had been seen “lingering long at the bowl,” and even that he frequented gambling houses.

Then people felt sorry for poor Brown, an honest, hardworking, economical man as he was; it was a great pity that he should go to destruction.

Mrs. Benson felt keenly for her friend. Brown was a monster; and the injured lady told her she should certainly die if a drunken husband were added to her other miseries. She even wished Mrs. Benson to request her husband to talk to Brown about his vicious propensities.

Mr. Benson had done so. Brown was a little “stuck up” at first, but quietly informed the obliging remonstrant that since home had become a hell to him, he had been obliged to seek comfort in a grog shop, and concluded his cold-blooded remark by suggesting that people had better mind their own business.

Benson thought so too, and fully resolved not to meddle with the matter again. But, although Brown had resisted his well-meaning neighbor’s interference, it was not without its effect, and the injured lady had the satisfaction of informing her sympathizing friend that he did much better, that his breath did not smell half so strong of rum, and that he was at home every evening by nine o’clock.

Mrs. Benson was encouraged, and a few days after accepted an invitation to tea at the Browns’.

That day, the reckless, obstinate husband had worn home to dinner a new plaid vest--a pattern in fashion at that time.

The lady did not like plaid--she _never_ liked plaid; and poor Brown went to the store leaving his wife in tears at his perverse taste. She had exhausted all her rhetoric in grumbling at the offending garment, and her hard-hearted husband had maintained his usual indifference to sighs and tears. Brown was disgusted; and, though we heartily approve of husbands pleasing their wives in these matters, some how we cannot find it in our heart to blame him. She always grumbled at him, and, poor fellow, what could he do?

Mrs. Benson did not arrive in season to hear the lady’s story about the vest before Brown himself came. He was in high glee, apparently, notwithstanding the recent tempest. The visitor thought him a “very nice man,” and she sighed when she thought of his vicious propensities.

Brown was polite, very polite, and the pretty little Mrs. Benson felt no reserve in his presence.

“What a pretty vest you have got on, Mr. Brown!” said she, smiling sweetly upon the horrible husband.

“Do you think so?” exclaimed Brown, rubbing his hands with excitement.

“Certainly, I do; it’s a perfect love of a vest. I shall persuade Charles to have one just like it.”

“How strange you talk, Julia!” said Mrs. Brown.

“Strange! why?”

“To call _that_ vest pretty.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“It’s a perfect fright. My husband has no taste in his dress.”

“Why, now, I think he dresses with admirable taste,” replied Mrs. Benson, surveying the apparel of Brown, who stood like a show image in the middle of the room. “I admire his taste.”

“It is not _my_ taste,” sighed Mrs. Brown.

The pretty little sympathizing woman was seized with a doubt whether Brown was such a monster, after all.

Just then Bridget popped her head in at the door to say that the baker had not sent the tea cakes.

“The tea cakes, Jonas,” said Mrs. Brown.

“There! by all that is sweet and pleasant to the taste, I forgot all about them,” exclaimed Brown, seizing his hat.

“Just the way always,” groaned the suffering wife. “You never will do the little errands I ask you to.”

“Why, my dear, I _intended_ to do the errand, but I forgot it,” pleaded Brown, with abundant good humor.

“You always forget what _I_ want you to do.”

“But, my love, I did not forget it on purpose.”

“It’s always the way;” and Mrs. Brown threw herself into a chair with an exhibition of despondency which would have answered very well for the concentrated miseries of a whole lifetime.

“There’s no harm done; it is only half past five, and I will have the tea cakes here in ten minutes.”

“You might just as well have brought them before.”

Brown looked cross, threw down his hat in a pet, and settled himself upon the sofa.

Mrs. Benson was silent with astonishment. Brown rose fifty degrees in her estimation.

“Are you not going to get the tea cakes, Jonas?” asked Mrs. Brown, meekly, after the lapse of a few minutes.

Brown was silent.

“You will not get back in season if you don’t go soon.”

Brown picked up the evening paper but said nothing.

“I must go myself then,” said the suffering lady, rising from her chair.

Brown knew this was only a part of his wife’s tactics; but the pretty little Mrs. Benson, for whose good opinion he entertained some anxiety, was present, and he concluded to go himself.

When he had gone, Mrs. Brown fixed a melancholy gaze upon her visitor.

“Now you have seen just how he behaves,” said she, with a deep sigh.

“I have,” replied Mrs. Benson, who for the first time perceived that poor Brown was not the greatest sinner in the world.

“And so he wears my life out.”

“Perhaps your husband is not wholly to blame,” suggested Mrs. Benson.

“Why, Julia!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown, with languid emphasis. “I am sure I bear and suffer every thing. I had nearly cried my eyes out once before to-day.”

“Mr. Brown seems disposed to be very good natured.”

“Good natured, Julia! Didn’t you see how angry he got? He went out without speaking a word.”

“But you do not reflect how cruelly you provoked him by needlessly finding fault with him. If I should say half as much to my husband as you said to Mr. Brown, he would turn me out of the house,” answered Mrs. Benson, who, as she found herself implicated in the quarrel, was disposed to be very candid.

“I was not conscious of doing any thing to provoke him.”

“You found fault with his vest.”

“But such a horrid looking vest!”

“There you and he differ; you say he never complains of your dress.”

“No.”

“He respects your tastes, then. You know how bad you feel when any person says any thing disparaging of your clothes; everybody does.”

“But he always dresses so shamefully out of taste.”

“Other people do not think so; but even if he did, you should not find fault with him.”

“I don’t find fault,” sighed Mrs. Brown; “I only mention what I like best.”

“And the tea cakes,--you ought not to have said a word.”

“Why, he is so careless----”

“All men are of things about the house; but you must consider that their minds are full of business. My husband is just so; but then he has so many things to think of, I wonder that he does not forget _every_ little commission I give him.”

“But your husband is different from mine. He _tries_ to remember.”

“Ah, Mary, I see now what has caused the rupture between you and Mr. Brown.”

“Then you think _I_ am altogether to blame?”

“Perhaps not entirely; but I am satisfied, from what I know of your husband, that, if you cease to find fault with him, he will be all that a husband should be.”

Mrs. Brown bit her lip, and was silent. The truth had forced itself home to her understanding. She was, as we have before remarked, an amiable, good-hearted body; but the fact that she had actually _grumbled_ away the peace of her once happy fireside had never before occurred to her. Her eyes were opened, and she saw that even so little a thing as habitual fault finding can alienate the affections of man and wife, and transform home--the temple of love and peace--into a hell. Her resolution was formed, and fortified by all the strength of her nature.

Brown returned with the tea cakes. He was cold, sullen, and reserved; but a smile from his wife--albeit a boon seldom vouchsafed him--restored him to his former equanimity.

“Jonas, did you think to order some more coal to-day? Bridget says there is not enough to get breakfast with,” observed Mrs. Brown, as she handed her husband his second cup of tea.

Brown confessed that he had forgotten it, and braced up his nerves to meet the storm.

“Never mind, Jonas; we will contrive to get along with wood.”

Brown dropped his knife and fork in wonder, and looked aghast at his wife.

It was no illusion; his wife was as gentle in her thoughts as in her actions. She found no fault; and, for the first time in many months, Brown felt sorry that he had forgotten to execute her commission.

After tea, Mr. Benson came to spend the evening, and it was one of the happiest evenings ever known beneath the roof of the Browns. Nobody but the two ladies could tell why, but, some how, every thing went different from the ordinary course of events in the family circle. Brown was bewildered--didn’t know what to make of it, that his wife found no fault.

And she never found fault to any immoderate degree again. Peace was restored. Brown went no more to the drinking saloons, never staid out late at night, and never let his wife cry without wiping away her tears.

He never knew what had produced the wonderful change in his wife’s temperament, but he always laid it to the visit of the pretty little woman who admired his plaid vest.

We never see a married man enter a drinking shop to spend an evening without thinking that, perhaps he has been driven from his fireside by a snarling, petulant, discontented, fault-finding wife.

LIFE INSURANCE;

OR,

THE POOR MAN’S LEGACY.

_CHAPTER I._

“Got his life insured! Then he will certainly die!” exclaimed Mrs. Jones, the mother of a family of three children, to her intimate friend Mrs. Brown, also rejoicing in the maternity of a promising brood of little ones. “For my part, I would no more let my husband get his life insured than I would let him cut his head off. He will certainly die.”

“That is the lot of all mortals, Mrs. Jones, and I presume my husband does not consider himself exempt from the common lot,” replied Mrs. Brown.

“You know what I mean; he will die before his time comes.”

“His time will have come when he dies.”

“How captious you are!”

“I do not understand you. The good book says that ‘no man knoweth the day nor the hour.’”

“But I never knew any man to get his life insured without dying very soon after.”

“Do you mean to say that getting a life insured is likely to hasten the end of the assured?” asked Mrs. Brown, with a pleasant smile at the superstition of her friend.

“Well, no, not exactly that; only it is a bad sign.”

“Pshaw! Do you think your husband’s barn is any more likely to be burned down because he has taken the precaution to have it insured?”

“But that is not like getting one’s life insured; it really seems to me just like trifling with serious things.”

“How absurd!”

“But it does. Only think of attempting to thwart the will of God. Insuring a life!”

“You take the wrong view of it.”

“Our minister takes the same view of it,” returned Mrs. Jones, with triumphant assurance.

“He does not understand the subject then.”

“Our minister don’t?”

“I am sure he does not.”

Mrs. Jones permitted a sneer to play upon her lips, as she paused in her sewing, and gazed at her friend.

“You don’t mean to say that you know more than the Rev. Mr. Schism, a regularly educated minister of the gospel, in good and regular standing?” continued she, scarcely able to restrain her indignation within a reasonable limit.

“I presume the Rev. Mr. Schism has confined his attention mostly to the study of theology, and knows much more about that than he does about the practical affairs of every-day life,” rejoined Mrs. Brown, somewhat warmly.

“He says that it is trifling with death to get one’s life insured; and I am sure, if my husband got his life insured, I should certainly expect he would die the very next day after he did the sacrilegious thing.”

“I think you told me the other day that Mr. Jones had put some money in the Savings Bank.”

“Only twenty dollars--all he could spare.”

“What did he put it there for?”

“What for? Why, to keep, of course.”

“Why does he wish to keep it?”

“What a fool you pretend to be!”

“Pray answer me.”

“Against a rainy day.”

“Has he no definite purpose in laying up money?”

“To be sure he has. He means to have something for his family, in case he should be taken away.”

“But isn’t this trifling with serious things? What does your minister say about it?”

“How silly you are!”

“But you are providing against such a calamity as the death of your husband.”

“It is not like life insurance.”

“Just like it, only less efficient.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Suppose your husband should die this year.”

“Don’t talk so.”

“Nay, Mrs. Jones, it is well to look these things in the face, especially when you have used your influence to prevent your husband from making a provision for you in the event of his death.”

“He is opposed to the whole thing himself.”

“Only think, if he should die this year, what would become of you and your three children?”

“Well, I suppose we should get along just as a thousand others have done under the same circumstances.”

“Think what a struggle you would have!”

“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” replied Mrs. Jones, coldly. “But here is my husband; he can speak for himself.”

_CHAPTER II._

The two ladies, with whose conversation we have prefaced our simple story, had been intimate friends for many years. About the same time they had married men in humble circumstances, and taken houses near each other.

Their husbands were journeymen mechanics, honest, industrious, and frugal men, fair specimens of the bone and sinew of New England. Their families had increased in about the same ratio, and though they received good wages, they found it required the most rigid system of domestic economy to enable them to keep along, and save a trifling sum against a “rainy day.”

Brown was a thoughtful man, whose domestic and affectional nature was fully developed. He loved his wife and children with a devotion worthy a reasonable being. His happiest hours were spent by the cheerful fireside of home. He was a conscientious parent, and his care for his dependent loved ones reached beyond the day of their present prosperity.

In the future might be clouds and storms. The whirlwind of adversity might burst upon him, and then what would become of his wife--of Charley, and Joey, and Emma?

It was a question with which few would have troubled themselves; but it was a question of momentous importance. It was not borrowing trouble; it was prudent forethought. But Brown was strong in his bone and muscle, and while he had an arm, and there was bread in the land, he could procure it. All he could do was to save a scanty pittance from his wages to meet the hour of trial, if it should ever come.

Death is no respecter of persons. It takes not only those who leave houses, and lands, and money, and stocks behind them, but it snatches the poor man away from his dependent family. It robs the toiling wife and the helpless little ones of the protecting arm which had been bread, raiment, and shelter to them.

Brown hoped to live many years, to bring up his family, and when, by and by, business prospered with him, to be enabled to make a decent provision for them when he should go hence.

Every man hopes thus much; many more than hope--they feel sure of it.

Brown was reasonable. A falling timber, a fever, a thousand calamities, might carry him off before the year expired. And what would become of his family then? What more could his wife do, with three helpless children, than take care of them? He could leave them no legacy. He was a poor man.

The reflection was startling. The fear of death took possession of him--not the fear of passing through the dark valley, for Brown was an honest man, and trembled not in view of judgment and retribution, but the fear of leaving his wife and children to hunger for food, to tremble with cold, to starve for intellectual sustenance. For several weeks he was gloomy and sad, and more than once he questioned the wisdom of his getting married before he had the means to support his family in case of his decease.

While thus depressed in spirits, his eye was attracted by the advertisement of a Life Insurance Company. His countenance brightened up with a smile, as he read the notice. The remedy was before him, and it seemed worse than folly not to embrace it.

Before another week had passed away, he had thoroughly investigated the whole subject, and insured his life in the sum of three thousand dollars.

Like a true apostle of a good cause, he was not content to enjoy the blessing alone; and more than once he had called the attention of his fellow-workmen to the subject. Many of them had followed his example; many of them were obstinate, and among them Jones was the most obstinate of all.

Brown was always pleased to discuss his favorite topic. Life insurance had been a boon of happiness to him; it had dispelled the dark clouds which lowered over the future; it had done more to calm his mind in relation to that great change which must come to all, than the sermons of a hundred years could have done; and he was eager to confer these blessings upon others.

Mrs. Brown was quite as enthusiastic as her husband; and when Jones entered the room where we left the ladies, a strong hope that she might yet convert him to her faith pervaded her mind.

But Jones was more than usually obstinate.

“It’s all a humbug, Mrs. Brown, you may depend upon it,” said he. “These fellows mean to get your money, and keep it. You never will catch them paying the policies.”

Mrs. Brown pointed him to the recorded experience of the past.

“I put my money in the bank, and feel that it is safe.”

“How much can you save in a year?”

“Well, about a hundred dollars, as wages are now.”

“Which is just my husband’s estimate.”

“But he pays nearly as much as that to keep insured.”

“Very true. He is insured for three thousand dollars. If he should die to-day--which God forbid!--his family would realize that sum.”

“_Perhaps_ they would.”

“But, by putting one hundred dollars a year into the bank, even if you got six per cent., compound interest, your money would amount to only about six hundred dollars in five years.”

“Call it twenty years--how then?”

“If you could be sure of living twenty years, perhaps the money would amount to more than the policy. But only think of your family if you should die within one, or even five years!”

“You are a shrewd one!” said Jones, evasively.

“In twenty years your children will be able to take care of themselves.”

“It’s all a humbug, you may depend upon it, Mrs. Brown; got up to support lazy fellows in idleness--nothing more, I candidly believe,” replied Jones; and there the conversation ended, much to the regret of Mrs. Brown, that she had been unable to win a convert to the faith.

_CHAPTER III._

Some six months after, while Jones was engaged in raising a house, he fell from the plate to the ground, striking upon a rock in his fall. He was conveyed to his home, and a council of physicians pronounced it a hopeless case. His spine was injured, and there was no possibility of recovery.

He lingered along for a month in the most excruciating agony, and then died. The expenses of his sickness and of the funeral absorbed all his little savings; and when his disconsolate wife, followed by her three fatherless children, returned from the grave of her husband, she realized that she was not only alone in the world, but that she was penniless--literally penniless.

It was a sad thought for the poor woman. Not even a short season of mourning, which her widowed heart craved, could be allowed her. Her children must not starve, and there was no bread in the house.

Her neighbors, suspecting her situation, were kind to her, and sent in provisions in abundance; but instinctively she shrunk from the mortifying alternative of accepting charity.

Poor woman! what could she do? How could she support her fatherless children? She had no wealthy relatives--she was from the house of poverty herself. But she could not live on charity.

The village in which she resided was a large place, and though she was too proud to accept a gift, she was not too proud to solicit work. With her eyes yet red with weeping over her husband’s bier, she called upon several wealthy families to ask for their washing.

It was given her, and she began to feel a certain sense of independence again, as she returned with her bundles of clothes to her desolate home.

All she could do was given her; and with a severe struggle, she was able to support herself and children, and refused any overtures of aid which were made her by her neighbors. Mrs. Brown attempted to assist her friend, in a delicate way, but without success. Mrs. Jones toiled on with all her strength and energy, preferring independence to every other consideration.

But it soon became evident to her neighbors that her health was suffering severely from this unremitting toil. Remonstrances were in vain; and ere another six months had rolled away, Mrs. Brown was watching over the dying bed of her friend. Little children, not old enough to understand their lonely condition, were gathered around it to receive the parting kiss of a dying mother.

Poor orphans! God will take care of you, though all the world be cold and cruel! Ye shall not find another mother, but the Father of the fatherless shall watch over and protect you.

She died, and they placed her by the side of her husband, over whose grave the grass had not yet grown. The hard lot of poverty had hurried her into that early grave. The want of a few of those dollars which the gay and heartless thoughtlessly squander by the thousand, had carried her down to that bourn where there is no sorrow, and the weary are at rest.

The orphans were carried to the poorhouse. Life was a desert to them. Home was no more. Love was in the cold grave.

Was Jones right, or was he wrong? Would not that boon of our progressive age, life insurance, have averted some part of this long list of calamities? Would it not have saved a mother’s life? Would it not have redeemed those lonely orphans from the degradation and neglect of the poorhouse?

It could not have saved Jones’s life, but it could have been a blessing to his family--a blessing that would have reached down to distant generations. It might have saved a home, and more, far more than all beside, a devoted mother, to those fatherless little ones.

Brown, too, has gone to his rest. But his death entailed none of the miseries upon his family, which were the lot of Jones’s. His widow is a frugal and industrious woman; but labor is her helpmate--her husband now: she is not the slave of toil. Brown left her the POOR MAN’S LEGACY.

LAST DAY OF GRACE;

OR,

MR. LAWTON’S MOTHER-IN-LAW.

_CHAPTER I._

“I can’t stand it any longer, Lottie; I won’t have her in the house!” exclaimed Samuel Lawton to his wife.

“But what are you going to do about it, Samuel? You surely wouldn’t have me turn my own mother into the street.”

“No, no--not exactly that; but can’t you give her a hint that she has staid long enough?”

“I’m sure I can’t, Samuel,” replied the young wife, with a sad and troubled look on her pretty face. “I don’t see why you should be so prejudiced against her.”

“Don’t you, my dear? Do you think it is pleasant for me to have one continually telling me I am extravagant, or something of that sort? She told me just now that I could not afford to buy turkeys for our Sunday dinner, when she saw me bring one home.”

“She meant right, Samuel.”

“But it is none of her business, Lottie.”

“She is older and more experienced in these matters than we are.”

“Fudge! Do you believe, Lottie, that I don’t know my own business a great deal better than she or any one else can teach me?” and the young husband put on a look of dignity which showed how deeply conscious he was of his own ability.

“I hope you do, Samuel,” replied Lottie, who, as can easily be supposed, was sorely perplexed by the difficulties of her unfortunate position.

Poor thing! She was a gentle-hearted, kind, and tender woman, and loved her mother as truly as becomes a married daughter. She was conscious that her mother had her peculiarities--as who has not?--and it was a source of continued regret to her that her husband could neither understand nor bear with them.

They had been married about a year and a half. Samuel Lawton was a merchant on a small scale. His employer had set him up in business about a year before his marriage, and he had done well; that is, above his expenses he had cleared some eight hundred or a thousand dollars, which was considered a very fair income for a young man.

The young merchant was elated with his success, and, like very many others in his situation, felt that he was an enterprising young man, and a thorough financier. The road to wealth was before him, and already he had formed a very clear idea of being at the head of a large importing house, with clerks and lumpers by the dozen at his command. His fancy also gilded the picture with a very costly mansion on Pemberton Hill, with a carriage and two sleek horses, a footman, and opera, concerts, and great parties to match.

Samuel Lawton formerly belonged to a “debating society,” in which the question of “early marriages” had been thoroughly discussed. The chairman had appointed him to sustain the affirmative; and either on account of the skill and eloquence with which he argued the point, or because the members were in favor of matrimony at the earliest possible day, it was decided that early marriages _were_ eminently conducive to the morality and happiness of mankind in general.

One of the strongest arguments which our hero could offer in support of his cause was, that matrimony would save the young man from early dissipation. He even went so far in his zeal as to declare that a young man, even if he had not a penny in the world, had better be married than wait till he had the means. I will not trouble the reader with the facts and statistics by which he made it appear that it was cheaper to support man and wife than to support man alone. But the best evidence he could give of his devotion to his philosophy was to get married himself; and accordingly, though he had not the means of furnishing his house, and though he was still deeply in debt for his stock, he took a wife in the person of the youngest and last remaining daughter of a widow lady, possessing a little property in her own right.

Of course the young man had to run in debt for all the appurtenances of housekeeping; but this was nothing; he was doing well. It made no difference how much a man owed, provided he had the means to pay. He was very sanguine of his future success. His profits would be at least a thousand dollars a year; but, reckless follow, he had no more idea how far a thousand dollars would go than a baby. It seemed to him a very large sum, and he gauged his domestic expenditures on a pretty high scale.

When he married Mrs. Harding’s last remaining daughter, the widow was left alone. Lottie said it would be so nice to have her “dear mother” with her, and accordingly Samuel had invited her to make his house her home.

The good lady was in the main a very clever sort of person, who probably talked quite as bad, possibly a little worse, than she meant. She saw that her son-in-law was going too fast, and, in her own way, she made such comments as she deemed it the duty of a faithful mother-in-law to make.

Mr. Lawton did not relish what he deemed her interference. He was very clear in his own way, and to have a woman dictate to him, and croak about the possible result of his lavish expenditure, was intolerable; and when his patience was thoroughly exhausted, he spoke to his wife upon the subject, as we have written.

Truth has been compared to a two-edged sword, though it is generally believed that one edge to the sinner is sufficiently uncomfortable. Samuel Lawton had listened to his mother-in-law’s good advice, to her suggestions on the economy of the household, for more than a year, and Mrs. Lawton could not but wonder what it was that made her husband so “touchy” about it just now. He had always turned off the point of her rebuke with a jest; but now he looked sour, and actually wanted to get her mother out of the house.