_Tom._ What do I think of it! I think he’s an impudent jackanapes, and you are a――! _Mrs. T._ Hold your tongue, Tom――hold your tongue! Dick Flint’s the height of fashion: everybody is running after him. He’s been abroad, sir――yes, he’s been abroad, sir! That’s more than you can say for yourself. So, hold your tongue, and listen to me. Try to be a gentleman, as becomes your station. Hold up your head, carry a stiff upper lip, and keep up an important air. There should always be about a person of consequence, something which says, “Clear the road, for _I_ am coming.” _Tom._ I suppose you mean the jinnysyquaw. This last observation was made by Tom with a quizzical look, as if he was poking fun at his spouse. But she took it in good part, for she was too well satisfied with herself to suspect that she could be the object of ridicule. We have thus given some idea of certain vexations which marred the happiness of Squire Trudge. Nor was this the only evil of his lot. Though he had a sort of impression that he was so rich as to justify any degree of extravagance, yet he was sometimes disturbed by the sums of money which his ambitious wife lavished upon her follies. Nor was that lady wholly without her annoyances, however she might seem to be floating upon a sea of bliss. She could not but feel the superiority of Mrs. Million, who was a woman of talent and education, and the only mode she had to supply her own deficiency, was to excel her rival in dash and splendor. Accordingly, she had fine horses and a splendid carriage. She gave parties, at which there was always an abundant feast. She appeared in the most costly dresses, and carried every fashion to its height. While she affected to despise and hate Mrs. Million, she imitated her in everything. At last, she became so complete a caricature of that fashionable dame, that everybody discovered the ridiculous resemblance. Mrs. Million, far from being flattered by seeing such a grotesque reflection of herself, was infinitely more vexed at the involuntary homage thus rendered by Bridget, than she could have been by her envy and spleen. A new fancy now crept into the brain of our heroine. Mrs. Million had just got a piano from New York, and, as it was the only one in the town, and a great rarity in those days, it excited quite a sensation among the fashionable circles of Buckwheat. Perceiving this, and determined to be behind in nothing, Bridget resolved to get one, and a much more splendid one than Mrs. Million’s. Accordingly, the following conversation ensued between herself and Tom the next morning. _Mrs. T._ My dear Mr. Trudge, I wish you had been at Mrs. Million’s last night. She’s got the beautifullest _pianny_ in her parlor that you ever see. Now I want you to send to New York for one for me, and I want to have the beautifullest that can be got. _Tom._ What’s the use of sending to New York? Can’t you get one here?