vants, such an equipage; such must be the style of residence and living; so and so in dress and furniture, and other matters, is it necessary to follow the fashions. To do all this is expensive, un easy, ruinous; but otherwise, "How would it look ?" But to others than the denizens of Mayfair we address this fraction of a shilling's-worth. It no less concerns those of humbler degree. Among themselves, we would ask, how much peace and comfort are sacrificed, what discord, what misery, are owing, to this pernicious principle, or rather no-principle, which governs "How will it look?" We speak especially to the married, and persons about to marry. Miss Peacock was going out for a rural walk, and her beloved Truman was to attend her; they were to return after the excursion to a good dinner, with a quiet evening party to follow. It was a fine April morning. "I think, mama, " said Peacock, "I shall wear my green velvet bonnet." Miss "You had better wear your chip, my dear," said the parent. 'La, mama!" exclaimed the daughter. 66 66 My dear," pursued Mrs. Peacock, "the weather is very uncertain. You will spoil your velvet." "You had better," interposed Mr. Truman, "take your mama's advice, Jane. It is very likely to rain. Let us see the chip.-Oh, I am sure it looks very well." And if, he thought, she looks well in my eyes, what need she care how she looks in those of others? "It's an old fright," replied the young lady, pouting. 66 But, my dear girl, the wet won't hurt it," reasoned the lover. "How will it look ?" murmured the damsel piteously: and her advisers were silenced. So they walked forth. The sun shone joyously, and they were very happy for some time. Gradually, however, the sky darkened; and with it Miss Peacock's brow. They had gone two miles from home when it began to drizzle. "How very provoking!" she exclaimed in great vexation. "You had much better have worn your chip, my dear," observed Truman. She answered not; she was angry with herself, and in a pet with him. earnest. They hastened homeward; and now it came down in good There was a rent in their umbrella, and the wet got to the bonnet. Mutual expressions of annoyance and disappointment formed their sole conversation all the way. By the time of their arrival the bonnet was soaked through. "I told you," said Mrs. Peacock, "how it would be ;" and the young lady rushed upstairs sulking. In vain did Truman try to please her during dinner. She was absent, and out of spirits. Her mind was running on her bonnet. Thus she continued all the evening, till poor Truman, who feared either that he had offended her, or that she was ill, pressing to know what was the matter with her, she broke out into tears, and sought her room. The walk, the dinner, the evening had all been failures. Truman, with a sore heart, went away without seeing her; and at least a month's coolness was the issue of the transaction. Life is made up of little events, which, with those who quarrel about them, form a succession of discords. "Uncle," said pretty Fanny Faddleton, to bluff, hearty Mr. Bulworth, "I want you to take me out; I am going to buy a few things." "Well girl, well," said the good-natured old bachelor; "go along then, and get your things on. I hate waiting. Never wait for anybody. Run along. She reappeared in a fashionable walking-dress. 66 Hey-what! why the deuce!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "You don't mean to go out in those flimsy things! Hey?" And he poked her feet with his walking-stick. "Dear me, uncle! what do you mean?" "Mean? Why does the girl mean to dance the Polka along the streets? One would think you were shod for a waltz. Don't you see how damp the pavement is? Go and put on a good thick pair of stockings, and sensible stout boots, directly. Now Fanny Faddleton had an extremely neat foot and ankle, which she wished to exhibit to the world in general. To display them to advantage, she would always wear an elegant French shoe. 66 Oh!" groaned Miss Faddleton. 6 "Oh!" repeated Mr. Bulworth, mimicking her. "What do you mean by Oh?' Boots-boots! Who'd think of walking in the mud in any thing but boots-thick, substantial, clumpsoled?" They are so very ugly," she complained. "So very comfortable," said Uncle Bulworth. At every "But how will they look ?" was the unanswerable answer. "Well, well!" exclaimed Mr. Bulworth; "have your own way. Catch cold if you like it; but if you do, don't blame me.” They went forth, and Miss Faddleton, hanging on her uncle's arm, tripped, picking her way over the wet pavement. step the moisture penetrated the thin kid, and Mr. Bulworth kept telling her that he would not be in her shoes. They walked all about Bond-street, Regent-street, Oxford-street, stopping at different shops for half-an-hour at a time, during which the damsel sat, literally, in a slipper-bath. Her uncle's prediction was verified. She did catch cold; was nearly dying; and recovered, with a loss of her complexion. The bloom of her cheek was transferred to the end of her nose, and its former situation occupied with pimples. How did she look, indeed! The heart and hand of Clara Dashwell were successfully sought by Tom Spoonbill. They became man and wife. Spoonbill's profession yielded him about five hundred a-year. Miss Dashwell brought him a moderate portion. This was to be devoted to furnishing a house. The house was first to be chosen. Two offered; one was a little beyond their probable means, in a fashionable situation near the Regent's Park; the other, of a moderate rent, at a respectable one in Chelsea. "Chelsea will do well enough for us, dearest ?" said Spoonbill; "eh ?" "How will it look?" answered the lady. "The other house, love," urged Spoonbill," is as much dearer." "But it looks so much better," replied his wife. They took the dearer house. Among the furniture to be purchased were some chairs and tables, of which the money to be so applied would just procure one decent plain set. But there was another to be had at a rather higher rate, being, however, more elegant. "How will they look?" asked Mrs. Spoonbill, speaking of the former, and the latter were chosen. In like manner was the question settled between a grand and cabinet piano. Thus also were Brussels preferred to Kidderminster carpets. So, too, were some plain honest red curtains rejected for rose-coloured muslin. Then they wanted some spoons and forks. Spoonbill faintly sang "Rule Britannia;" but his wife would not listen to the tune. "Britannia!" she exclaimed. " Horrid! How dreadful it would look!" Nothing would serve her but silver. Glasses, decanters, plates, tea-things, fenders, and fire-irons, were all purchased by the same rule. The uppermost idea on Mrs. Spoonbill's mind was, how everything would look. The consequence was, that in a great measure they furnished their house on credit. They might have adopted a more economical plan: but then, as Mrs. Spoonbill observed,-How would it have looked? Thus they went on. Thus, too, was Mrs. Spoonbill guided in the selection of her attire; bonnets, shawls, capes, dresses, everything-satin was dearer than mousseline de laine; but how would mousseline de laine look? Plain capes were more economical than cardinals ; but how would they look? Cotton stockings were cheaper than silk; but cotton-oh, clumsy, common, mean cotton! how would they look ? Spoonbill often timidly remonstrated, and tried to show what these extras in detail would by-and-by amount to in the gross : but Mrs. Spoonbill, like a few other ladies, was incapable of viewing anything, even household management, as a system. If she yielded, it was with an ill-grace. It was all very well, she said, to convince her that a thing was too dear; she knew that: but could not help, nevertheless, repining at the want of it. And unless she had her own way, she was sure to be sad and melancholy, and to prove a wet blanket to the spirits of poor Spoonbill. She made him, too, poor fellow, dress according to her own notions. Once he wanted a pair of boots. He would have been content with high-lows. He pleaded hard for high-lows. No: Wellingtons was his only wear. "High-lows!" exclaimed Mrs. Spoonbill. Frightful. How would high-lows look ?" 66 Under these circumstances, is it wonderful that Spoonbill, in process of time, went through the Insolvent Court, and that his wife, for a long period, was obliged to "go home to her friends," who taught her to wear brown holland aprons, and stuff gowns! In the end, her husband's affairs were re-arranged; and they again lived together: but, with an increasing family, under the privation of real comforts for the rest of their lives. "Don't care," may come to a bad end, comes to the workhouse, indeed; but "How will it look ? There is a peculiar meanness in this question-“ How will it look ?" There is a base subserviency to other, and those vulgar, minds, that we hold in especial contempt. Of what consequence is the opinion of others, unless it corroborates our self-estimation? Who but a crawling, abject creature, will growl, and cringe, and crave for the mere approbation of his fellows? And who, but a poor fool, would sacrifice his real good, or interest, to such an object? But above all, who but an untrue, ignoble being, whether man or woman, would, for that low consideration, put in peril a wife's or husband's happiness? There is nothing more ridiculous as well as odious, than unfruitful selfishness. One word in conclusion. The love of praise is a natural feeling, and there is no objection to its reasonable indulgence. View every action with reference to honesty and goodness, and then, as often as you like, ask, "How will it look?" P. L. THE SURPLICE. To the Right Rev. Father in God Henry Lord Bishop of Exeter. BARONIAL Apostolic Sir! If our poor limping church must stir, I who am zealous for your order, From the cope-point to bottom-border, And lower my eyes before the surplice, But bear most reverence where the purple is, Ready my very soul to pawn Where I have pinn'd my faith, on lawn: I supplicate you to advise Your children, changing their disguise, They put on one that does not show A reverent and pious son, I can not bear that folks make fun W. S. L. |