Please read Carrefully and enjoy
THE WATKINSON
EVENING
[From Godey's Lady's Book,
December, 1846.]
By Eliza Leslie (1787-1858)
Mrs. Morland, a polished and
accomplished woman, was the
widow of a distinguished senator
from one of the western states, of
which, also, her husband had
twice filled the office of governor.
Her daughter having completed her
education at the best boardingschool
in Philadelphia, and her son
being about to graduate at
Princeton, the mother had planned
with her children a tour to
Niagara and the lakes, returning
by way of Boston. On leaving
Philadelphia, Mrs. Morland and
the delighted Caroline stopped at
Princeton to be present at the
annual commencement, and had the
happiness of seeing their beloved
Edward receive his diploma as
bachelor of arts; after hearing
him deliver, with great applause, an
oration on the beauties of the
American character. College youths
are very prone to treat on
subjects that imply great experience of
the world. But Edward Morland was
full of kind feeling for
everything and everybody; and his
views of life had hitherto been
tinted with a perpetual
rose-color.
Mrs. Morland, not depending
altogether upon the celebrity of her
late husband, and wishing that
her children should see specimens
of the best society in the
northern cities, had left home with
numerous letters of introduction.
But when they arrived at New
York, she found to her great
regret, that having unpacked and
taken out her small traveling
desk, during her short stay in
Philadelphia, she had strangely
left it behind in the closet of her
room at the hotel. In this desk
were deposited all her letters, except
two which had been offered to her
by friends in Philadelphia. The
young people, impatient to see
the wonders of Niagara, had
entreated her to stay but a day
or two in the city of New York, and
thought these two letters would
be quite sufficient for the present.
In the meantime she wrote back to
the hotel, requesting that the
missing desk should be forwarded
to New York as soon as
possible.
On the morning after their
arrival at the great commercial
metropolis of America, the
Morland family took a carriage to ride
round through the principal parts
of the city, and to deliver their
two letters at the houses to
which they were addressed, and which
were both situated in the region
that lies between the upper part of
Broadway and the North River. In
one of the most fashionable
streets they found the elegant
mansion of Mrs. St. Leonard; but on
stopping at the door, were
informed that its mistress was not at
home. They then left the
introductory letter (which they had
prepared for this mischance, by
enclosing it in an envelope with a
card), and proceeding to another
street considerably farther up,
they arrived at the dwelling of
the Watkinson family, to the
mistress of which the other
Philadelphia letter was directed. It was
one of a large block of houses
all exactly alike, and all shut up
from top to bottom, according to
a custom more prevalent in New
York than in any other city.
Here they were also unsuccessful;
the servant who came to the
door telling them that the ladies
were particularly engaged and
could see no company. So they
left their second letter and card and
drove off, continuing their ride
till they reached the Croton water
works, which they quitted the
carriage to see and admire. On
returning to the hotel, with the
intention after an hour or two of rest
to go out again, and walk till
near dinner-time, they found waiting
them a note from Mrs. Watkinson,
expressing her regret that she
had not been able to see them
when they called; and explaining
that her family duties always
obliged her to deny herself the
pleasure of receiving morning
visitors, and that her servants had
general orders to that effect.
But she requested their company for
that evening (naming nine o'clock
as the hour), and particularly
desired an immediate answer.
"I suppose," said Mrs.
Morland, "she intends asking some of her
friends to meet us, in case we accept
the invitation; and therefore is
naturally desirous of a reply as
soon as possible. Of course we will
not keep her in suspense. Mrs.
Denham, who volunteered the letter,
assured me that Mrs. Watkinson
was one of the most estimable
women in New York, and a pattern
to the circle in which she
moved. It seems that Mr. Denham
and Mr. Watkinson are
connected in business. Shall we
go?"
The young people assented, saying
they had no doubt of passing a
pleasant evening.
The billet of acceptance having
been written, it was sent off
immediately, entrusted to one of
the errand-goers belonging to the
hotel, that it might be received
in advance of the next hour for the
dispatch-post—and Edward Morland
desired the man to get into an
omnibus with the note that no
time might be lost in delivering it.
"It is but right"—said
he to his mother—"that we should give Mrs.
Watkinson an ample opportunity of
making her preparations, and
sending round to invite her
friends."
"How considerate you are,
dear Edward"—said Caroline—"always
so thoughtful of every one's
convenience. Your college friends
must have idolized you."
"No"—said Edward—"they
called me a prig." Just then a
remarkably handsome carriage
drove up to the private door of the
hotel. From it alighted a very
elegant woman, who in a few
moments was ushered into the
drawing-room by the head waiter,
and on his designating Mrs.
Morland's family, she advanced and
gracefully announced herself as
Mrs. St. Leonard. This was the
lady at whose house they had left
the first letter of introduction.
She expressed regret at not
having been at home when they called;
but said that on finding their
letter, she had immediately come
down to see them, and to engage
them for the evening.
"Tonight"—said Mrs. St.
Leonard—"I expect as many friends as I
can collect for a summer party.
The occasion is the recent marriage
of my niece, who with her husband
has just returned from their
bridal excursion, and they will
be soon on their way to their
residence in Baltimore. I think I
can promise you an agreeable
evening, as I expect some very
delightful people, with whom I
shall be most happy to make you
acquainted."
Edward and Caroline exchanged
glances, and could not refrain
from looking wistfully at their
mother, on whose countenance a
shade of regret was very
apparent. After a short pause she replied
to Mrs. St. Leonard—"I am
truly sorry to say that we have just
answered in the affirmative a
previous invitation for this very
evening."
"I am indeed
disappointed"—said Mrs. St. Leonard, who had been
looking approvingly at the
prepossessing appearance of the two
young people. "Is there no
way in which you can revoke your
compliance with this unfortunate
first invitation—at least, I am
sure, it is unfortunate for me. What
a vexatious contretemps that I
should have chanced to be out
when you called; thus missing the
pleasure of seeing you at once,
and securing that of your society
for this evening? The truth is, I
was disappointed in some of the
preparations that had been sent
home this morning, and I had to go
myself and have the things
rectified, and was detained away longer
than I expected. May I ask to
whom you are engaged this evening?
Perhaps I know the lady—if so, I
should be very much tempted to
go and beg you from her."
"The lady is Mrs. John
Watkinson"—replied Mrs. Morland—
"most probably she will
invite some of her friends to meet us."
"That of course"—answered
Mrs. St. Leonard—"I am really very
sorry—and I regret to say that I
do not know her at all."
"We shall have to abide by
our first decision," said Mrs. Morland.
"By Mrs. Watkinson,
mentioning in her note the hour of nine, it is
to be presumed she intends asking
some other company. I cannot
possibly disappoint her. I can
speak feelingly as to the annoyance
(for I have known it by my own
experience) when after inviting a
number of my friends to meet some
strangers, the strangers have
sent an excuse almost at the
eleventh hour. I think no inducements,
however strong, could tempt me to
do so myself."
"I confess that you are
perfectly right," said Mrs. St. Leonard. "I
see you must go to Mrs.
Watkinson. But can you not divide the
evening, by passing a part of it
with her and then finishing with
me?"
At this suggestion the eyes of
the young people sparkled, for they
had become delighted with Mrs.
St. Leonard, and imagined that a
party at her house must be every
way charming. Also, parties were
novelties to both of them.
"If possible we will do
so," answered Mrs. Morland, "and with
what pleasure I need not assure
you. We leave New York tomorrow,
but we shall return this way in
September, and will then
be exceedingly happy to see more
of Mrs. St. Leonard."
After a little more conversation
Mrs. St. Leonard took her leave,
repeating her hope of still
seeing her new friends at her house that
night; and enjoining them to let
her know as soon as they returned
to New York on their way home.
Edward Morland handed her to her
carriage, and then joined his
mother and sister in their
commendations of Mrs. St. Leonard, with
whose exceeding beauty were
united a countenance beaming with
intelligence, and a manner that
put every one at their ease
immediately.
"She is an evidence,"
said Edward, "how superior our women of
fashion are to those of Europe."
"Wait, my dear son,"
said Mrs. Morland, "till you have been in
Europe, and had an opportunity of
forming an opinion on that point
(as on many others) from actual
observation. For my part, I believe
that in all civilized countries
the upper classes of people are very
much alike, at least in their
leading characteristics."
"Ah! here comes the man that
was sent to Mrs. Watkinson,"
said Caroline Morland. "I
hope he could not find the house and
has brought the note back with
him. We shall then be able to go at
first to Mrs. St. Leonard's, and
pass the whole evening there."
The man reported that he had found
the house, and had delivered
the note into Mrs. Watkinson's
own hands, as she chanced to be
crossing the entry when the door
was opened; and that she read it
immediately, and said "Very
well."
"Are you certain that you
made no mistake in the house," said
Edward, "and that you really
did give it to Mrs. Watkinson?"
"And it's quite sure I am,
sir," replied the man, "when I first came
over from the ould country I
lived with them awhile, and though
when she saw me to-day, she did
not let on that she remembered
my doing that same, she could not
help calling me James. Yes, the
rale words she said when I handed
her the billy-dux was, 'Very
well, James.'"
"Come, come," said
Edward, when they found themselves alone,
"let us look on the bright
side. If we do not find a large party at
Mrs. Watkinson's, we may in all
probability meet some very
agreeable people there, and enjoy
the feast of reason and the flow
of soul. We may find the
Watkinson house so pleasant as to leave
it with regret even for Mrs. St.
Leonard's."
"I do not believe Mrs.
Watkinson is in fashionable society," said
Caroline, "or Mrs. St.
Leonard would have known her. I heard
some of the ladies here talking
last evening of Mrs. St. Leonard,
and I found from what they said
that she is among the élite of the
lite."
"Even if she is,"
observed Mrs. Morland, "are polish of manners
and cultivation of mind confined
exclusively to persons of that
class?"
"Certainly not," said
Edward, "the most talented and refined youth
at our college, and he in whose
society I found the greatest
pleasure, was the son of a
bricklayer."
In the ladies' drawing-room,
after dinner, the Morlands heard a
conversation between several of
the female guests, who all seemed
to know Mrs. St. Leonard very
well by reputation, and they talked
of her party that was to
"come off" on this evening.
"I hear," said one
lady, "that Mrs. St. Leonard is to have an unusual
number of lions."
She then proceeded to name a
gallant general, with his elegant wife
and accomplished daughter; a
celebrated commander in the navy;
two highly distinguished members
of Congress, and even an expresident.
Also several of the most eminent
among the American
literati, and two first-rate
artists.
Edward Morland felt as if he
could say, "Had I three ears I'd hear
thee."
"Such a woman as Mrs. St.
Leonard can always command the best
lions that are to be found,"
observed another lady.
"And then," said a
third, "I have been told that she has such
exquisite taste in lighting and
embellishing her always elegant
rooms. And her supper table,
whether for summer or winter
parties, is so beautifully
arranged; all the viands are so delicious,
and the attendance of the
servants so perfect—and Mrs. St.
Leonard does the honors with so
much ease and tact."
"Some friends of mine that
visit her," said a fourth lady, "describe
her parties as absolute
perfection. She always manages to bring
together those persons that are
best fitted to enjoy each other's
conversation. Still no one is
overlooked or neglected. Then
everything at her reunions is so
well proportioned—she has just
enough of music, and just enough
of whatever amusement may add
to the pleasure of her guests;
and still there is no appearance of
design or management on her
part."
"And better than all,"
said the lady who had spoken firsts "Mrs. St.
Leonard is one of the kindest,
most generous, and most benevolent
of women—she does good in every
possible way."
"I can listen no
longer," said Caroline to Edward, rising to change
her seat. "If I hear any
more I shall absolutely hate the Watkinsons.
How provoking that they should
have sent us the first invitation. If
we had only thought of waiting
till we could hear from Mrs. St.
Leonard!"
"For shame, Caroline,"
said her brother, "how can you talk so of
persons you have never seen, and
to whom you ought to feel
grateful for the kindness of
their invitation; even if it has interfered
with another party, that I must
confess seems to offer unusual
attractions. Now I have a
presentiment that we shall find the
Watkinson part of the evening
very enjoyable."
As soon as tea was over, Mrs.
Morland and her daughter repaired
to their toilettes. Fortunately,
fashion as well as good taste, has
decided that, at a summer party,
the costume of the ladies should
never go beyond an elegant
simplicity. Therefore our two ladies in
preparing for their intended
appearance at Mrs. St. Leonard's, were
enabled to attire themselves in a
manner that would not seem out
of place in the smaller company
they expected to meet at the
Watkinsons. Over an under-dress
of lawn, Caroline Morland put
on a white organdy trimmed with
lace, and decorated with bows of
pink ribbon. At the back of her
head was a wreath of fresh and
beautiful pink flowers, tied with
a similar ribbon. Mrs. Morland
wore a black grenadine over a
satin, and a lace cap trimmed with
white.
It was but a quarter past nine
o'clock when their carriage stopped at
the Watkinson door. The front of
the house looked very dark. Not a
ray gleamed through the Venetian
shutters, and the glimmer
beyond the fan-light over the
door was almost imperceptible. After
the coachman had rung several
times, an Irish girl opened the door,
cautiously (as Irish girls always
do), and admitted them into the
entry, where one light only was
burning in a branch lamp. "Shall
we go upstairs?" said Mrs.
Morland. "And what for would ye go
upstairs?" said the girl in
a pert tone. "It's all dark there, and there's
no preparations. Ye can lave your
things here a-hanging on the
rack. It is a party ye're
expecting? Blessed are them what expects
nothing."
The sanguine Edward Morland
looked rather blank at this
intelligence, and his sister
whispered to him, "We'll get off to Mrs.
St. Leonard's as soon as we
possibly can. When did you tell the
coachman to come for us?"
"At half past ten," was
the brother's reply.
"Oh! Edward, Edward!"
she exclaimed, "And I dare say he will not
be punctual. He may keep us here
till eleven."
"Courage, mes enfants,"
said their mother, "et parlez plus
doucement."
The girl then ushered them into
the back parlor, saying, "Here's the
company."
The room was large and gloomy. A
checquered mat covered the
floor, and all the furniture was encased
in striped calico covers,
and the lamps, mirrors, etc.
concealed under green gauze. The front
parlor was entirely dark, and in
the back apartment was no other
light than a shaded lamp on a
large centre table, round which was
assembled a circle of children of
all sizes and ages. On a backless,
cushionless sofa sat Mrs.
Watkinson, and a young lady, whom she
introduced as her daughter Jane.
And Mrs. Morland in return
presented Edward and Caroline.
"Will you take the
rocking-chair, ma'am?" inquired Mrs.
Watkinson.
Mrs. Morland declining the offer,
the hostess took it herself, and
see-sawed on it nearly the whole
time. It was a very awkward,
high-legged, crouch-backed
rocking-chair, and shamefully
unprovided with anything in the
form of a footstool.
"My husband is away, at
Boston, on business," said Mrs.
Watkinson. "I thought at
first, ma'am, I should not be able to ask
you here this evening, for it is
not our way to have company in his
absence; but my daughter Jane
over-persuaded me to send for
you."
"What a pity," thought
Caroline.
"You must take us as you
find us, ma'am," continued Mrs.
Watkinson. "We use no
ceremony with anybody; and our rule is
never to put ourselves out of the
way. We do not give parties
[looking at the dresses of the
ladies]. Our first duty is to our
children, and we cannot waste our
substance on fashion and folly.
They'll have cause to thank us
for it when we die."
Something like a sob was heard
from the centre table, at which the
children were sitting, and a boy
was seen to hold his handkerchief
to his face.
"Joseph, my child,"
said his mother, "do not cry. You have no idea,
ma'am, what an extraordinary boy
that is. You see how the bare
mention of such a thing as our
deaths has overcome him."
There was another sob behind the
handkerchief, and the Morlands
thought it now sounded very much
like a smothered laugh.
"As I was saying,
ma'am," continued Mrs. Watkinson, "we never
give parties. We leave all sinful
things to the vain and foolish. My
daughter Jane has been telling
me, that she heard this morning of a
party that is going on tonight at
the widow St. Leonard's. It is only
fifteen years since her husband
died. He was carried off with a
three days' illness, but two
months after they were married. I have
had a domestic that lived with
them at the time, so I know all about
it. And there she is now, living
in an elegant house, and riding in
her carriage, and dressing and
dashing, and giving parties, and
enjoying life, as she calls it.
Poor creature, how I pity her! Thank
heaven, nobody that I know goes
to her parties. If they did I would
never wish to see them again in
my house. It is an encouragement
to folly and nonsense—and folly
and nonsense are sinful. Do not
you think so, ma'am?"
"If carried too far they may
certainly become so," replied
Mrs. Morland.
"We have heard," said
Edward, "that Mrs. St. Leonard, though one
of the ornaments of the gay
world, has a kind heart, a beneficent
spirit and a liberal hand."
"I know very little about
her," replied Mrs. Watkinson, drawing up
her head, "and I have not
the least desire to know any more. It is
well she has no children; they'd
be lost sheep if brought up in her
fold. For my part, ma'am,"
she continued, turning to Mrs. Morland,
"I am quite satisfied with
the quiet joys of a happy home. And no
mother has the least business
with any other pleasures. My
innocent babes know nothing about
plays, and balls, and parties;
and they never shall. Do they
look as if they had been accustomed
to a life of pleasure?"
They certainly did not! for when
the Morlands took a glance at
them, they thought they had never
seen youthful faces that were
less gay, and indeed less
prepossessing.
There was not a good feature or a
pleasant expression among them
all. Edward Morland recollected
his having often read "that
childhood is always lovely."
But he saw that the juvenile
Watkinsons were an exception to
the rule.
"The first duty of a mother
is to her children," repeated Mrs.
Watkinson. "Till nine
o'clock, my daughter Jane and myself are
occupied every evening in hearing
the lessons that they have
learned for to-morrow's school.
Before that hour we can receive no
visitors, and we never have
company to tea, as that would interfere
too much with our duties. We had
just finished hearing these
lessons when you arrived.
Afterwards the children are permitted to
indulge themselves in rational
play, for I permit no amusement that
is not also instructive. My
children are so well trained, that even
when alone their sports are
always serious."
Two of the boys glanced slyly at
each other, with what Edward
Morland comprehended as an
expression of pitch-penny and
marbles.
"They are now engaged at
their game of astronomy," continued
Mrs. Watkinson. "They have
also a sort of geography cards, and a
set of mathematical cards. It is
a blessed discovery, the invention
of these educationary games; so
that even the play-time of children
can be turned to account. And you
have no idea, ma'am, how they
enjoy them."
Just then the boy Joseph rose
from the table, and stalking up to
Mrs. Watkinson, said to her,
"Mamma, please to whip me."
At this unusual request the
visitors looked much amazed, and Mrs.
Watkinson replied to him,
"Whip you, my best Joseph—for what
cause? I have not seen you do
anything wrong this evening, and
you know my anxiety induces me to
watch my children all the
time."
"You could not see me,"
answered Joseph, "for I have not done
anything very wrong. But I have
had a bad thought, and you know
Mr. Ironrule says that a fault
imagined is just as wicked as a fault
committed."
"You see, ma'am, what a good
memory he has," said Mrs.
Watkinson aside to Mrs. Morland.
"But my best Joseph, you make
your mother tremble. What fault
have you imagined? What was
your bad thought?"
"Ay," said another boy,
"what's your thought like?"
"My thought," said
Joseph, "was 'Confound all astronomy, and I
could see the man hanged that
made this game.'"
"Oh! my child,"
exclaimed the mother, stopping her ears, "I am
indeed shocked. I am glad you
repented so immediately."
"Yes," returned Joseph,
"but I am afraid my repentance won't last.
If I am not whipped, I may have
these bad thoughts whenever I
play at astronomy, and worse
still at the geography game. Whip
me, ma, and punish me as I
deserve. There's the rattan in the
corner: I'll bring it to you
myself."
"Excellent boy!" said
his mother. "You know I always pardon my
children when they are so candid
as to confess their faults."
"So you do," said
Joseph, "but a whipping will cure me better."
"I cannot resolve to punish
so conscientious a child," said
Mrs. Watkinson.
"Shall I take the trouble
off your hands?" inquired Edward, losing
all patience in his disgust at
the sanctimonious hypocrisy of this
young Blifil. "It is such a
rarity for a boy to request a whipping,
that so remarkable a desire ought
by all means to be gratified."
Joseph turned round and made a
face at him.
"Give me the rattan,"
said Edward, half laughing, and offering to
take it out of his hand.
"I'll use it to your full satisfaction."
The boy thought it most prudent
to stride off and return to the
table, and ensconce himself among
his brothers and sisters; some
of whom were staring with stupid
surprise; others were whispering
and giggling in the hope of
seeing Joseph get a real flogging.
Mrs. Watkinson having bestowed a
bitter look on Edward,
hastened to turn the attention of
his mother to something else.
"Mrs. Morland," said
she, "allow me to introduce you to my
youngest hope." She pointed
to a sleepy boy about five years old,
who with head thrown back and
mouth wide open, was slumbering
in his chair.
Mrs. Watkinson's children were of
that uncomfortable species who
never go to bed; at least never
without all manner of resistance. All
her boasted authority was
inadequate to compel them; they never
would confess themselves sleepy;
always wanted to "sit up," and
there was a nightly scene of
scolding, coaxing, threatening and
manoeuvring to get them off.
"I declare," said Mrs.
Watkinson, "dear Benny is almost asleep.
Shake him up, Christopher. I want
him to speak a speech. His
school-mistress takes great pains
in teaching her little pupils to
speak, and stands up herself and
shows them how."
The child having been shaken up
hard (two or three others helping
Christopher), rubbed his eyes and
began to whine. His mother went
to him, took him on her lap,
hushed him up, and began to coax
him. This done, she stood him on
his feet before Mrs. Morland,
and desired him to speak a speech
for the company. The child put
his thumb into his mouth, and
remained silent.
"Ma," said Jane
Watkinson, "you had better tell him what speech
to speak."
"Speak Cato or Plato,"
said his mother. "Which do you call it?
Come now, Benny—how does it
begin? 'You are quite right and
reasonable, Plato.' That's
it."
"Speak Lucius," said
his sister Jane. "Come now, Benny—say
'your thoughts are turned on
peace.'"
The little boy looked very much
as if they were not, and as if
meditating an outbreak.
"No, no!" exclaimed
Christopher, "let him say Hamlet. Come
now, Benny—'To be or not to
be.'"
"It ain't to be at
all," cried Benny, "and I won't speak the least bit of
it for any of you. I hate that
speech!"
"Only see his
obstinacy," said the solemn Joseph. "And is he to be
given up to?"
"Speak anything,
Benny," said Mrs. Watkinson, "anything so that
it is only a speech."
All the Watkinson voices now
began to clamor violently at the
obstinate child—"Speak a
speech! speak a speech! speak a
speech!" But they had no
more effect than the reiterated
exhortations with which nurses
confuse the poor heads of babies,
when they require them to
"shake a day-day—shake a day-day!"
Mrs. Morland now interfered, and
begged that the sleepy little boy
might be excused; on which he
screamed out that "he wasn't sleepy
at all, and would not go to bed
ever."
"I never knew any of my
children behave so before," said Mrs.
Watkinson. "They are always
models of obedience, ma'am. A look
is sufficient for them. And I
must say that they have in every way
profited by the education we are
giving them. It is not our way,
ma'am, to waste our money in
parties and fooleries, and fine
furniture and fine clothes, and
rich food, and all such
abominations. Our first duty is
to our children, and to make them
learn everything that is taught
in the schools. If they go wrong, it
will not be for want of
education. Hester, my dear, come and talk
to Miss Morland in French."
Hester (unlike her little brother
that would not speak a speech)
stepped boldly forward, and
addressed Caroline Morland with:
"Parlez-vous Français,
mademoiselle? Comment se va madame
votre mère?
Aimez-vous la musique? Aimez-vous la danse? Bon
jour—bon soir—bon repos. Comprenez-vous?"
To this tirade, uttered with
great volubility, Miss Morland made no
other reply than, "Oui—je comprens."
"Very well, Hester—very well
indeed," said Mrs. Watkinson. "You
see, ma'am," turning to Mrs.
Morland, "how very fluent she is in
French; and she has only been
learning eleven quarters."
After considerable whispering
between Jane and her mother, the
former withdrew, and sent in by
the Irish girl a waiter with a basket
of soda biscuit, a pitcher of
water, and some glasses. Mrs.
Watkinson invited her guests to consider
themselves at home and
help themselves freely, saying:
"We never let cakes, sweetmeats,
confectionery, or any such things
enter the house, as they would be
very unwholesome for the
children, and it would be sinful to put
temptation in their way. I am
sure, ma'am, you will agree with me
that the plainest food is the
best for everybody. People that want
nice things may go to parties for
them; but they will never get any
with me."
When the collation was over, and
every child provided with a
biscuit, Mrs. Watkinson said to
Mrs. Morland: "Now, ma'am, you
shall have some music from my
daughter Jane, who is one of Mr.
Bangwhanger's best
scholars."
Jane Watkinson sat down to the
piano and commenced a powerful
piece of six mortal pages, which
she played out of time and out of
tune; but with tremendous force
of hands; notwithstanding which,
it had, however, the good effect
of putting most of the children to
sleep.
To the Morlands the evening had
seemed already five hours long.
Still it was only half past ten
when Jane was in the midst of her
piece. The guests had all tacitly
determined that it would be best
not to let Mrs. Watkinson know
their intention to go directly from
her house to Mrs. St. Leonard's
party; and the arrival of their
carriage would have been the
signal of departure, even if Jane's
piece had not reached its
termination. They stole glances at the
clock on the mantel. It wanted
but a quarter of eleven, when Jane
rose from the piano, and was
congratulated by her mother on the
excellence of her music. Still no
carriage was heard to stop; no
doorbell was heard to ring. Mrs.
Morland expressed her fears that
the coachman had forgotten to
come for them.
"Has he been paid for
bringing you here?" asked Mrs. Watkinson.
"I paid him when we came to
the door," said Edward. "I thought
perhaps he might want the money
for some purpose before he
came for us."
"That was very kind in you,
sir," said Mrs. Watkinson, "but not
very wise. There's no dependence
on any coachman; and perhaps
as he may be sure of business
enough this rainy night he may never
come at all—being already paid
for bringing you here."
Now, the truth was that the
coachman had come at the appointed
time, but the noise of Jane's
piano had prevented his arrival being
heard in the back parlor. The
Irish girl had gone to the door when
he rang the bell, and recognized
in him what she called "an ould
friend." Just then a lady
and gentleman who had been caught in the
rain came running along, and
seeing a carriage drawing up at a
door, the gentleman inquired of
the driver if he could not take them
to Rutgers Place. The driver
replied that he had just come for two
ladies and a gentleman whom he
had brought from the Astor
House.
"Indeed and Patrick,"
said the girl who stood at the door, "if I was
you I'd be after making another
penny to-night. Miss Jane is
pounding away at one of her long
music pieces, and it won't be
over before you have time to get
to Rutgers and back again. And if
you do make them wait awhile,
where's the harm? They've a dry
roof over their heads, and I
warrant it's not the first waiting they've
ever had in their lives; and it
won't be the last neither."
"Exactly so," said the
gentleman; and regardless of the propriety of
first sending to consult the
persons who had engaged the carriage,
he told his wife to step in, and
following her instantly himself, they
drove away to Rutgers Place.
Reader, if you were ever detained
in a strange house by the nonarrival
of your carriage, you will easily
understand the excessive
annoyance of finding that you are
keeping a family out of their
beds beyond their usual hour. And
in this case, there was a double
grievance; the guests being all
impatience to get off to a better
place. The children, all crying
when wakened from their sleep,
were finally taken to bed by two
servant maids, and Jane
Watkinson, who never came back
again. None were left but
Hester, the great French scholar,
who, being one of those young
imps that seem to have the
faculty of living without sleep, sat bolt
upright with her eyes wide open,
watching the uncomfortable
visitors.
The Morlands felt as if they
could bear it no longer, and Edward
proposed sending for another
carriage to the nearest livery stable.
"We don't keep a man
now," said Mrs. Watkinson, who sat
nodding in the rocking-chair,
attempting now and then a snatch of
conversation, and saying
"ma'am" still more frequently than usual.
"Men servants are dreadful
trials, ma'am, and we gave them up
three years ago. And I don't know
how Mary or Katy are to go out
this stormy night in search of a
livery stable."
"On no consideration could I
allow the women to do so," replied
Edward. "If you will oblige
me by the loan of an umbrella, I will
go myself."
Accordingly he set out on this
business, but was unsuccessful at
two livery stables, the carriages
being all out. At last he found one,
and was driven in it to Mr.
Watkinson's house, where his mother
and sister were awaiting him, all
quite ready, with their calashes
and shawls on. They gladly took
their leave; Mrs. Watkinson
rousing herself to hope they had
spent a pleasant evening, and that
they would come and pass another
with her on their return to New
York. In such cases how difficult
it is to reply even with what are
called "words of
course."
A kitchen lamp was brought to
light them to the door, the entry
lamp having long since been
extinguished. Fortunately the rain had
ceased; the stars began to
reappear, and the Morlands, when they
found themselves in the carriage
and on their way to Mrs. St.
Leonard's, felt as if they could
breathe again. As may be supposed,
they freely discussed the
annoyances of the evening; but now those
troubles were over they felt
rather inclined to be merry about them.
"Dear mother," said
Edward, "how I pitied you for having to
endure Mrs. Watkinson's perpetual
'ma'aming' and 'ma'aming'; for I
know you dislike the word."
"I wish," said
Caroline, "I was not so prone to be taken with
ridiculous recollections. But
really to-night I could not get that old
foolish child's play out of my
head—
Here come three knights out of
Spain A-courting of your
daughter Jane."
"I shall certainly
never be one of those Spanish knights," said
Edward. "Her daughter Jane
is in no danger of being ruled by any
'flattering tongue' of mine. But
what a shame for us to be talking of
them in this manner."
They drove to Mrs. St. Leonard's,
hoping to be yet in time to pass
half an hour there; though it was
now near twelve o'clock and
summer parties never continue to
a very late hour. But as they
came into the street in which she
lived they were met by a number
of coaches on their way home, and
on reaching the door of her
brilliantly lighted mansion, they
saw the last of the guests driving
off in the last of the carriages,
and several musicians coming down
the steps with their instruments
in their hands.
"So there has been a
dance, then!" sighed Caroline. "Oh, what we
have missed! It is really too
provoking."
"So it is," said
Edward; "but remember that to-morrow morning we
set off for Niagara."
"I will leave a note for
Mrs. St. Leonard," said his mother,
"explaining that we were
detained at Mrs. Watkinson's by our
coachman disappointing us. Let us
console ourselves with the hope
of seeing more of this lady on
our return. And now, dear Caroline,
you must draw a moral from the
untoward events of to-day. When
you are mistress of a house, and
wish to show civility to strangers,
let the invitation be always
accompanied with a frank disclosure of
what they are to expect. And if
you cannot conveniently invite
company to meet them, tell them
at once that you will not insist on
their keeping their engagement
with you if anything offers
afterwards that they think they
would prefer; provided only that
they apprize you in time of the
change in their plan."
"Oh, mamma," replied
Caroline, "you may be sure I shall always
take care not to betray my
visitors into an engagement which they
may have cause to regret,
particularly if they are strangers whose
time is limited. I shall
certainly, as you say, tell them not to
consider themselves bound to me
if they afterwards receive an
invitation which promises them
more enjoyment. It will be a long
while before I forget, the Watkinson evening."
