My Wife's Legacy

“We must really have a civility-dinner next week. There are the—” here my wife enumerated some half-dozen or so of acquaintances, who had not ripened into intimates— “to whom we are in debt.”

“Then let us settle the score as soon as possible,” I replied. “Send out your invitations, and give me the number, that I may know what wine to order from Bookay & Baddy.”

For I blush to confess that I had no cellar. I had twice attempted to “lay down” wine, but it would keep rising up again with such pertinacity that I gave up the experiment. I believe, however, that although cellarless, I am rather of a hospitable disposition, and like playing host, so that I spoke with a cheerful accent, which rather aggravated my spouse.

“Ah,” she said, and with perfect truth, “it is easy enough to order the wine; but if you had before you the task of looking after the collection of the silver, with the bother, and anxiety, and responsibility which I feel till it is all returned safely, you would not be so pleased at the prospect. Let me see: there is Cousin Mary’s dozen of forks and spoons. Mrs. Tomkins’ epergne. Louisa’s fish-slice” — and the little woman soon made out a list of the friends who were to supply us with the silver requisite to make our table sufficiently imposing in the eyes of comparative strangers.

For on ordinary occasions we ate off, sipped out of, and stirred with electroplate. With the exception of a few bachelor teaspoons, and a tobacco-box bearing an inscription which tended to perpetuate the remembrance of the grace and dexterity with which a certain undergraduate was once wont to handle an oar, there was not an article of silver in the house. It is true that our tea pot has hitherto always borne the credit of being genuine, but that was owing to a ruse of mine; for, learning at an early period of hymeneal initiation that plated tea-pots were distinguished by… Read More