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“Anna Antoinette De Orville”–said Mrs. Fitz, suddenly rallying, ” is a name, only made plain by your ugly and countryfied prefix. De Orville is a name,” said the lady.

“I should like to know,” said the old gentleman, “upon what pretext, Mrs. Fitzfaddle, you lay claim to such a Frenchy and flighty name or title as De Orville?”

“Wasn’t it my family name, you brute?” cried Mrs. Fitz.

“Ho! ho! ho! Sook, Sook, Sook,” says Fitzfaddle.

” Sook! ” almost screams Mrs. Fitz.

“Yes, Sook, Sook Scovill, daughter of a good old-fashioned, patriotic farmer– Timothy Scovill, of Tanner’s Mills, in the county of Tuggs–down East. And when I married Sook (Mrs. Fitz jumped up, a rustling of silk is heard–a door slams, and the old gentleman finishes his domestic narrative, solus! ), she was as fine a gal as the State ever produced. We were poor, and we knew it; wasn’t discouraged or put out, on the account of our poverty. We started in the world square; happy as clams, nothing but what was useful around us; it is a happy reflection to look back upon those old chairs, pine table, my father’s old chest, and Sook’s mother’s old corner cupboard–the cracked pots and pans–the old stove–Sook as ruddy and bright as a full-blown rose, as she bent over the hot stove in our parlor, dining room, and kitchen–turning her slap-jacks, frying, baking and boiling, and I often by her side, with our first child, Nanny, on my–“

“Well, I hope by this time you’re over your vulgar Pigginsborough recollections, Fitzfaddle!” exclaims Mrs. Fitz, re-entering the parlor.

“I was just concluding, my dear, the happy time when I sat and read to you, or held Nanny, while you–“

“Fitzfaddle, for goodness’ sake–“

“While you–ruddy and bright, my dear, as the full-blown rose, bent over your mother’s old cook stove–“

“Are you crazy, Fitz, or do you want to craze me?” cried the really tried woman.

“Turning your slap-jacks,” continues Fitz, suiting the action to the word.

“Fitzfaddle!” cries Mrs. Fitz, in the most sublimated paroxysm of pity and indignation, but Fitz let it come.

” While I dandled Nanny on my knee! “

A pause ensues; Fitzfaddle, in contemplation of the past, and Mrs. Fitz fortifying herself for the opening of a campaign to come. At length, after a deal of “dicker,” Fitz remembering only the bad dinners, small rooms, large bills, sick, parboiled state of the children, clash and clamor of his trips to the Springs, sea-side and mountain resorts; and Mrs. Fitz dwelling over the strong opposition (show and extravagance) she had run against the many ambitious shop-keepers’ wives, tradesmen’s, lawyers’ and doctors’ daughters–Mrs. Fitz gained her point, and the family,–Mrs. Fitz, the two now marriageable daughters–Anna Antoinette De Orville, and Eugenia Heloise De Orville, and Alexander Montressor De Orville, and two servants–start in style, for the famed city of Hull!

It was yet early in the season, and Fitzfaddle had secured, upon accommodating terms, rooms etc., of Mrs. Fitzfaddle’s own choosing. With the diplomacy of five prime ministers, and with all the pride, pomp and circumstance of a fine-looking woman of two-and-forty,–husband rich, and indulgent at that; armed with two “marriageable daughters,” you may–if at all familiar with life at a “watering-place,” fancy Mrs. Fitzfaddle’s feelings, and perhaps, also, about a third of the swarth she cut. The first evident opposition Mrs. Fitz encountered, was from the wife of a wine merchant. This lady made her entree at —- House, with a pair of bays and “body servant,” two poodles, and an immensity of band boxes, patent leather trunks, and–her husband. The first day Mrs. Oldport sat at table, her new style of dress, and her European jewels, were the afternoon talk; but at tea, the Fitzfaddles spread, and Mrs. Oldport was bedimmed, easy; the next day, however, “turned up” an artist’s wife and daughter, whose unique elegance of dress and proficiency in music took down the entire collection! Mrs. Michael Angelo Smythe and daughter captivated two of Mrs. Fitzfaddle’s “circle”–a young naval gent and a ‘quasi Southern planter, much to her chagrin and Fitzfaddle’s pecuniary suffering; for next evening Mrs. F. got up,–to get back her two recruits–a grand private hop, at a cost of $130! And the close of the week brought such a cloud of beauty, jewels, marriageable daughters and ambitious mothers, wives, etc., that Mrs. Fitzfaddle got into such a worry with her diplomatic arrangements, her competitions, stratagems,–her fuss, her jewels, silks, satins and feathers, that a nervous-headache preceded a typhus fever, and the unfortunate lady was forced to retire from the field of her glory at the end of the third week, entirely prostrated; and poor Jonas Fitzfaddle out of pocket–more or less– five hundred dollars! The last we heard of Fitzfaddle, he was apostrophizing the good old times when he rejoiced in five old chairs–cook stove–slap-jacks, etc.!