"Softly--softly--wife!" interrupted old Abraham--and turning to our hero, he proceeded--"well, as I was telling you, Edward, I endeavour to enjoy what I have worked so hard to acquire, and to enjoy it in a manner that really improves our condition, and renders it in every respect better. You know, that in former times, though I had very little leisure to read, I liked to take up a book whenever I had a few moments to spare, if I was not too tired with my work; and when I went to town with marketing, I always bought a book to bring home with me. Also, I took a weekly paper. As soon as I could afford it, I brought home more than one book, and took a daily paper. I gave my children the benefit of the best schooling that could be procured without sending them to town for the purpose; but at the same time, I was averse to their learning any showy and useless accomplishments." "Well," rejoined Mrs. Hilliard, "we were certainly wiser than the Newmans, who sent their girls to a French school in Philadelphia, and had them taught music, both guitar and piano. And the Newman girls mix up their talk with all sorts of French words that sound very ugly to me. Instead of 'good night' they say _bone swear_;[77] and a 'trifle' they call a _bagtau_;[78] and they are always talking about having a _Gennessee Squaw_;[79] though what they mean by that I cannot imagine; for, I am sure I never saw any such thing in this part of the country. And the tunes they play on the piano seem to me like no tunes at all, but just a sort of scrambling up and down, that nobody can make either head or tail of. And when they sing to the guitar, it sounds to me just like moaning one minute, and screaming the next, with a little tinkling between whiles." [Footnote 77: Bonsoir.] [Footnote 78: Bagatelle.] [Footnote 79: Je ne sais quoi.] "Wife--wife," interrupted Abraham, "you are too severe on the poor girls." "Well--well," proceeded Mrs. Hilliard, "I'll say nothing more, only this: that the airs they take on themselves make them the talk of the whole country--And then they've given up all sorts of work. The mother spends most of her time in taking naps, to make up, I suppose, for having had to rise early all the former part of her life. The girls sit about all day in stiff silk frocks, squeezed so tight in them that they can hardly move. Or they go round paying morning visits, interrupting people in the busy part of the day. And they invite company to their house, and give them no tea; and say they're having a _swearey_.[80] To be sure it's a shame for me to say so, but it's well known that they never have a good thing on their table now, but pretend it's genteel to live on bits and morsels that have neither taste nor substance. And no doubt that's the reason the whole family have grown so thin and yellow, and are always complaining of something they call dyspepsy." [Footnote 80: Soirée.]