“Yes,—­and she said she would as soon, and sooner, go to a silversmith’s and pull over all the things on the counter.  There were knives and forks, tea-spoons and table-spoons, fish-knives and pie-knives, strawberry-shovels and ice-shovels, large silver salvers and small silver salvers and medium silver salvers.  Everything useful, and nothing you want to look at.  There wasn’t a thing that was in good taste to show, but just a good photograph of the minister that married them,—­and a beautiful little wreath of sea-weed, that one of her Sunday-school scholars made for her.  As to everything else, I would, as far as good taste goes, have just as soon had a collection of all Waterman’s kitchen-furniture.”

Laura stopped at last, indignant, and out of breath.

“There was a tremendous display of silver, I allow,” said I; “the piano and sideboard were covered with it.”

“Yes, and thoroughly vulgar, for that reason.  A wedding-gift should be something appropriate,—­not merely useful.  As soon as it is only that, it sinks at once.  It should speak of the bride, or to the bride, or of and from the friend,—­intimately associating the gift with past impressions, with personal tastes, and future hopes felt by both.  The gift should always be a dear reminder of the giver; a picture,—­Evangeline or Beatrice; something you have both of you loved to look at, or would love to.  But think of the delight of cutting your meat with Edward’s present! forking ditto with Mary’s! a crumb-scraper reminding you of this one, table-bell of that one; large salver, Uncle,—­rich; small salver, Uncle,—­mean; gold thimble, Cousin,—­meanest of all.  Table cleared, ditto mind and memory, of the whole of them—­till next meal, perhaps!”

Laura ceased talking, but rocked herself swiftly to and fro in her chair.  It is not necessary to say we were in our chambers,—­as, since our British cousins have ridiculed our rocking-chairs, they are all banished from the parlor.  Consequently we remain in our chambers to rock and be useful, and come into the parlor to be useless and uncomfortable in fauteuils, made, as the chair-makers tell us, “after the line of beauty.”  Laura and I both detest them, and Polly says, “Nothing can be worse for the spine of a person’s back.”  To be

  “Stretched on the rack of a too-easy chair,”

let anybody try a modern drawing-room.  So Laura and I have cane sewing-chairs, which, it is needless to add, rock,—­rock eloquently, too.  They wave, as the boat waves with the impetus of the sea, gently, calmly, slowly,—­or, as conversation grows animated, as disputes arise, as good stories are told, one after another, so do the sympathizing and eloquent rocking-chairs keep pace with our conversation, stimulating or soothing, as it chances.

And now I come to my first trouble,—­first, and, as it happened, of long standing now; insomuch that, when Laura asked me once, gravely, why I had not made it a vital objection, in the first place, I had not a word to reply, but just—­rocked.