THE WATKINSON EVENING

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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."