last new chimney ornament, and we have to pay for them when the play is
over. Skinflint is a nice man,--pious and genteel, a good father,
husband, etc. He made money in that famous Rotten-Iron Company, which
paid the original purchasers cent per cent, and then, some how or other,
passed off from the stock list. He was largely concerned in the
well-known Cheetamall Copper Company, which gave the first block-takers
such a great profit, but has not been quoted lately,--is not worked,
probably. He took a fabulous sum out of that celebrated corner in the
Greenipluck Lead Company. Mr. S. drives his span, goes to Newport in the
summer, is conspicuous at the opera, and loves to see Mrs. S. in
gorgeous array. What more would you have? Does Skinflint ever think his
candle is snuffy or burns dimly? Does he like that great red eye which
gleams out of the flame, as though it foretold an unwelcome guest? Could
it be young Spooney, who was ruined in that Rotten-Iron affair? or his
friend Shallow, who was induced to borrow privately of his employers in
hopes of making a fortune in the Cheetamall Copper; but lost both
fortune and name thereby? Might it be the dying glare of his friend
Needy, who hung himself after the Greenipluck _expose_, which reduced
him to beggary? Or is it the eye of Society which he knows looks on his
span, and his Newport house, and his wife's jewels, with the flash of
contempt? How is it, Mrs. Grundy? which candle is best to sit
beside,--Mr. Skinflint's, or the one you thought shone on a Godiva I was
spying? Do you think S.'s candle is really worth the price?

And there is your friend, Miss Free-manners,--you are shocked that I
mention her name to you, are you? Why, she used to be your childhood's
companion; but since she has taken to gentlemen's society in particular,
you don't notice her, and are struck with virtuous indignation when
Grundy nods to her in the street. Surely Miss F. dresses beautifully and
is handsome as a picture, and is much sought after by gentlemen of
doubtful nicety in the choice of female friends. She leads a jolly life,
certainly; for she rides in an elegant barouche, has nothing to do, no
household cares to vex her, no pork to boil, no potatoes to peel, and
has genuine wax candles in the private boudoir where she receives those
not over-nice gentlemen. What more could feminine heart wish? You don't
know her now. Mrs. Asmodeus, kind-hearted as she is, declines to
recognize her; and even