by T. S. Arthur
admonished us that it was getting time to enlarge our borders; and
so we were determined to go to housekeeping. In matters of domestic
economy both my wife and myself were a little “green,” but I think
that I was the greenest of the two.
To get a house was our first concern, and to select furniture was
our next. The house was found after two months’ diligent search, and
at the expense of a good deal of precious shoe leather. Save me from
another siege at house-hunting! I would about as soon undertake to
build a suitable dwelling with my own hands, as to find one “exactly
the thing” already up, and waiting with open doors for a tenant. All
the really desirable houses that we found ticketed “to let,” were at
least two prices above our limit, and most of those within our means
we would hardly have lived in rent free.
At last, however, we found a cosey little nest of a house, just
built, and clean and neat as a new pin, from top to bottom. It
suited us to a T. And now came the next most important
business—selecting furniture. My wife’s ideas had always been a
little in advance of mine. That is, she liked to have every thing of
the best quality; and had the weakness, so to speak, of desiring to
make an appearance. As my income, at the time, was but moderate, and
the prospect of an increase thereof not very flattering, I felt like
being exceedingly prudent in all outlays for furniture.
“We must be content with things few and plain,” said I, as we sat
down one morning to figure up what we must get.
“But let them be good,” said my wife.
“Strong and substantial,” was my reply. “But we can’t afford to pay
for much extra polish and filigree work.”
“I don’t want any thing very extra, Mr. Jones,” returned my wife, a
little uneasily. “Though what I do have, I would like good. It’s no
economy, in the end, to buy cheap things.”
The emphasis on the word cheap, rather grated on my ear; for I was
in favor of getting every thing as cheap as possible.
“What kind of chairs did you think of getting?” asked Mrs. Jones.
“A handsome set of cane-seat,” I replied, thinking that in this, at
least, I would be even with her ideas on the subject of parlor
chairs. But her face did not brighten.
“What would you like?” said I.
“I believe it would be more economical in the end to get good
stuffed seat, mahogany chairs,” replied Mrs. Jones.
“At five dollars a-piece, Ellen?”
“Yes. Even at five dollars a-piece. They would last us our
life-time; while cane-seat chairs, if we get them, will have to be
renewed two or three times, and cost a great deal more in the end,
without being half so comfortable, or looking half-so well.”
“Sixty dollars for a dozen chairs, when very good ones can be had
for twenty-four dollars! Indeed, Ellen, we mustn’t think of such a
thing. We can’t afford it. Remember, there are a great many other
things to buy.”
“I know, dear; but I am sure it will be much more economical in the
end for us to diminish the number of articles, and add to the
quality of what we do have. I am very much like the poor woman who
preferred a cup of clear, strong, fragrant coffee, three times a
week, to a decoction of burnt rye every day. What I have, I do like
good.”
“And so do I, Ellen. But, as I said before, there will be, diminish
as we may, a great many things to buy, and we must make the cost of
each as small as possible. We must not think of such extravagance as
mahogany chairs now. At some other time we may get them.”
My wife here gave up the point, and, what I thought a little
remarkable, made no more points on the subject of furniture. I had
every thing my own way; I bought cheap to my heart’s content. It was
only necessary for me to express my approval of an article, for her
to assent to its purchase.
As to patronizing your fashionable cabinet makers and high-priced
upholsterers, we were not guilty of the folly, but bought at
reasonable rates from auction stores and at public sales. Our parlor
carpets cost but ninety cents a yard, and were handsomer than those
for which a lady of our acquaintance paid a dollar and
thirty-eight. Our chairs were of a neat, fancy pattern, and had cost
thirty dollars a dozen. We had hesitated for some time between a set
at twenty-four dollars a dozen and these; but the style being so
much more attractive, we let our taste govern in the selection. The
price of our sofa was eighteen dollars, and I thought it a really
genteel affair, though my wife was not in raptures about it. A pair
of card tables for fifteen dollars, and a marble-top centre table
for fourteen, gave our parlors quite a handsome appearance.
“I wouldn’t ask any thing more comfortable or genteel than this,”
said, I, when the parlors were all “fixed” right.
Mrs. Jones looked pleased with the appearance of things, but did not
express herself extravagantly.
In selecting our chamber furniture, a handsome dressing-bureau and
French bedstead that my wife went to look at in the ware-room of a
high-priced cabinet maker, tempted her strongly, and it was with
some difficulty that I could get her ideas back to a regular maple
four-poster, a plain, ten dollar bureau, and a two dollar
dressing-glass. Twenty and thirty dollar mattresses, too, were in
her mind, but when articles of the kind, just as good to wear, could
be had at eight and ten dollars, where was the use of wasting money
in going higher?
The ratio of cost set down against the foregoing articles, was
maintained from garret to kitchen; and I was agreeably disappointed
to find, after the last bill for purchases was paid, that I was
within the limit of expenditures I had proposed to make by over a
hundred dollars.
The change from a boarding-house to a comfortable home was, indeed,
pleasant. We could never get done talking about it. Every thing was
so quiet, so new, so clean, and so orderly.
“This is living,” would drop from our lips a dozen times a week.
One day, about three months after we had commenced housekeeping, I
came home, and, on entering the parlor, the first thing that met my
eyes was a large spot of white on the new sofa. A piece of the
veneering had been knocked off, completely disfiguring it.
“What did that?” I asked of my wife.
“In setting back a chair that I had dusted,” she replied, “one of
the feet touched the sofa lightly, when off dropped that veneer like
a loose flake. I’ve been examining the sofa since, and find that it
is a very bad piece of work. Just look here.”
And she drew me over to the place where my eighteen dollar sofa
stood, and pointed out sundry large seams that had gaped open, loose
spots in the veneering, and rickety joints. I saw now, what I had
not before seen, that the whole article was of exceedingly common
material and common workmanship.
“A miserable piec
e of furniture!” said I.
“It is, indeed,” returned Mrs. Jones. “To buy an article like this,
is little better than throwing money into the street.”
For a month the disfigured sofa remained in the parlor, a perfect
eye-sore, when another piece of the veneering sloughed off, and one
of the feet became loose. It was then sent to a cabinet maker for
repair; and cost for removing and mending just five dollars.
Not long after this, the bureau had to take a like journey, for it
had, strangely enough, fallen into sudden dilapidation. All the
locks were out of order, half the knobs were off, there was not a
drawer that didn’t require the most accurate balancing of forces in
order to get it shut after it was once open, and it showed
premonitory symptoms of shedding its skin like a snake. A five
dollar bill was expended in putting this into something like
usable order and respectable aspect. By this time a new set of
castors was needed for the maple four-poster, which was obtained at
the expense of two dollars. Moreover, the head-board to said
four-poster, which, from its exceeding ugliness, had, from the
first, been a terrible eye-sore to Mrs. Jones, as well as to myself,
was, about this period, removed, and one of more sightly appearance
substituted, at the additional charge of six dollars. No tester
frame had accompanied the cheap bedstead at its original purchase,
and now my wife wished to have one, and also a light curtain above
and valance below. All these, with trimmings, etc., to match, cost
the round sum of ten dollars.
“It looks very neat,” said Mrs. Jones, after her curtains were up.
“It does, indeed,” said I.
“Still,” returned Mrs. Jones, “I would much rather have had a
handsome mahogany French bedstead.”
“So would I,” was my answer. “But you know they cost some thirty
dollars, and we paid but sixteen for this.”
“Sixteen!” said my wife, turning quickly toward me. “It cost more
than that.”
“Oh, no. I have the bill in my desk,” was my confident answer.
“Sixteen was originally paid, I know,” said Mrs. Jones. “But then,
remember, what it has cost since. Two dollars for castors, six for a
new head-board, and ten for tester and curtains. Thirty-four dollars
in all; when a very handsome French bedstead, of good workmanship,
can be bought for thirty dollars.”
I must own that I was taken somewhat aback by this array of figures
“that don’t lie.”
“And for twenty dollars we could have bought a neat, well made
dressing-bureau, at Moore and Campion’s, that would have lasted for
twice as many years, and always looked in credit.”
“But ours, you know, only cost ten,” said I.
“The bureau, such as it is, cost ten, and the glass two. Add five
that we have already paid for repairs, and the four that our maple
bedstead has cost above the price of a handsome French, one, and we
will have the sum of twenty-one dollars,—enough to purchase as
handsome a dressing-bureau as I would ask. So you see. Mr. Jones,
that our cheap furniture is not going to turn out so cheap after
all. And as for looks, why no one can say there is much to brag of.”
This was a new view of the case, and certainly one not very
flattering to my economical vanity. I gave in, of course, and,
admitted that Mrs. Jones was right.
But the dilapidations and expenses for repairs, to which I have just
referred, were but as the “beginning of sorrows.” It took, about
three years to show the full fruits of my error. By the end of that
time, half my parlor chairs had been rendered useless in consequence
of the back-breaking and seat-rending ordeals through which they had
been called to pass. The sofa was unanimously condemned to the
dining room, and the ninety cent carpet had gone on fading and
defacing, until my wife said she was ashamed to put it even on her
chambers. For repairs, our furniture had cost, up to this period, to
say nothing of the perpetual annoyance of having it put out of
order, and running for the cabinet maker and upholsterer, not less
than a couple of hundred dollars.
Finally, I grew desperate.
“I’ll have decent, well made furniture, let it cost what it will,”
said I, to Mrs. Jones.
“You will find it cheapest in the end,” was her quiet reply.
On the next day we went to a cabinet maker, whose reputation for
good work stood among the highest in the city; and ordered new
parlor and chamber furniture—mahogany chairs, French bedstead,
dressing-bureau and all, and as soon as they came home, cleared the
house of all the old cheap (dear!) trash with which we had been
worried since the day we commenced housekeeping.
A good many years have passed since, and we have not paid the first
five dollar bill for repairs. All the drawers run as smoothly as
railroad cars; knobs are tight; locks in prime order, and veneers
cling as tightly to their places as if they had grown there. All is
right and tight, and wears an orderly, genteel appearance; and what
is best of all the cost of every thing we have, good as it is, is
far below the real cost of what is inferior.
“It is better—much better,” said I to Mrs. Jones, the other day.
“Better!” was her reply. “Yes, indeed, a thousand times better to
have good things at once. Cheap furniture is dearest in the end.
Every housekeeper ought to know this in the beginning. If we had
known it, see what we would have saved.”
“If I had known it, you mean,” said I.
My wife looked kindly, not triumphantly, into my face, and smiled.
When she again spoke, it was on another subject.
CHAPTER VI.
LIVING AT A CONVENIENT DISTANCE.
THERE are few of us who do not feel, at some time in life, the
desire for change. Indeed, change of place corresponding, as it
does, in outward nature, to change of state in the mind, it is not
at all surprising that we should, now and then, feel a strong desire
to remove from the old, and get into new locations, and amid
different external associations. Thus, we find, in many families, an
ever recurring tendency to removal. Indeed, I have some housekeeping
friends who are rarely to be found in the same house, or in the same
part of the city, in any two consecutive years. Three moves,
Franklin used to say, were equal to a fire. There are some to whom I
could point, who have been, if this holds true, as good as burned
out, three or four times in the last ten years.
But, I must not write too long a preface to my present story. Mr.
Smith and myself cannot boast of larger organs of Inhabitativeness—I
believe, that is the word used by phrenologists—than many of
our neighbors. Occasionally we have felt dissatisfied with the
state of things around us, and become possessed of the demon of
change. We have moved quite frequently, sometimes attaining superior
comfort, and some times, getting rather the worst of, it for
“the change.�
�
A few years ago, in the early spring-time, Mr. Smith said to me, one
day:
“I noticed, in riding out yesterday, a very pleasant country house
on the Frankford Road, to let, and it struck me that it would be a
fine thing for us, both as to health and comfort, to rent it for the
summer season. What do you think of it?”
“I always, loved the country, you know,” was my response.
My heart had leaped at the proposition.
“It is such a convenient distance from the city,” said Mr. Smith.
“How far?”
“About four miles.”
“Do the stages pass frequently?”
“Every half hour; and the fare is only twelve and a half cents.”
“So low! That is certainly an inducement.”
“Yes, it is. Suppose we go out and look at the house?”
“Very well,” said I. And then we talked over the pleasures and
advantage that would result from a residence in the country, at such
a convenient distance from the city.
On the next day we went to look at the place, and found much, both
in the house and grounds, to attract us. There was a fine shaded
lawn, and garden with a stock of small and large fruit.
“What a delightful place for the children,” I exclaimed.
“And at such a convenient distance from the city,” said my husband.
“I can go in and out to business, and scarcely miss the time. But do
you think you would like the country?”
“O, yes. I’ve always loved the country.”
“We can move back into the city when the summer closes,” said Mr.
Smith.
“Why not remain here permanently? It will be too expensive to keep
both a city and country house,” I returned.
“It will be too dreary through the winter.”
“I don’t think so. I always feel cheerful in the country. And, then,
you know, the house is at such a convenient distance, and the stages
pass the door at every half hour. You can get to business as easily
as if we resided in the city.”
I was in the mood for a change, and so it happened was Mr. Smith.
The more we thought and talked about the matters, the more inclined
were we to break up in the city, and go permanently to the country.
And, finally, we resolved to try the experiment.
So the pleasant country house was taken, and the town house given
up, and, in due time, we took our flight to where nature had just
