Papa, too, had _his_ male millennium. No more marketing to do; no more coal, or wood, or kindling to buy; no cistern, or pump, or gaspipe to keep in repair. Such a luxury as it was to have a free pass to the “smoking room,” (alias _bar-room_,) where the atmosphere was so dense that he couldn’t tell the latitude of his nose, and surrounded by “hale fellows well met.” His eldest boy accompanied him, listening, on his knee, to questionable jokes, which he repeated at bed-time to pert Nannie, the nurse, who understood their significance much better than his innocent little lordship. Papa, to be sure, had _some_ drawbacks, but they were VERY trifling;--for instance, his shirts were quite buttonless, his dickeys stringless, and his stockings had ventilator toes;--but then, how could mamma be seen patching and mending in such an aristocratic atmosphere?--she might lose caste; and as to Nannie, _her_ hands were full, what with babies and billet-doux. You should have seen Mrs. Emily in the evening; with sparkling eyes and bracelets, flounced robe and daintily-shod feet, twisting her Chinese fan, listening to moustached idlers, and recollecting, with a shudder, the long Caudle evenings, _formerly_ divided between _her_ husband, _his_ newspaper, and _her_ darning-needle. Then the _petite soupers_ at ten o’clock in the evening, where the ladies were enchanting, the gentlemen _quite entirely_ irresistible; where wit and champagne corks flew with equal celerity; and headaches, and dyspepsia, and nightmare, lay _perdu_ amid fried oysters, venison steaks, chicken salad, and _India-rubber, anti-temperance jellies_. Then followed the midnight reünion in the drawing-room, where promiscuous polkaing and waltzing, (seen through champagne fumes,) seemed not only proper, but delightful. It was midnight. There was hurrying to and fro in the entry halls and lobbies; a quick, sharp cry for medical help; the sobs and tears of an agonized mother, and the low moan of a dying child; for nature had rebelled at last, at impure air, unwholesome food, and alternate heats and chills. “No hope,” the doctor said; “no hope,” papa mechanically repeated; “_no hope!_” echoed inexorable Death, as he laid his icy finger on the quivering little lips. It was a dearly bought lesson. The Lady Emily never forgot it. Over her remaining bud of promise she tearfully bends, finding her quiet happiness in the healthful, sacred and safe retreat of the _home fireside_. AMERICAN LADIES. “The American ladies, when promenading, cross their arms in front, and look like trussed turkeys.”