Daytons live the Mores; and the Mores
are the very opposites of the Daytons.

Everything about their establishment is brought to the highest point of
culture. The carriage-drive never shows a weed, the lawn is velvet, the
flower-beds ever-blooming, the fruit-trees and vines grow exactly like
the patterns in the best pomological treatises. Within doors the
housekeeping is faultless,--all seems to be moving in time and
tune,--the table is more than good, it is superlative,--every article is
in its way a model,--the children appear to you to be growing up after
the most patent-right method, duly trained, snipped, and cultured, like
the pear-trees and grape-vines. Nothing is left to accident, or done
without much laborious consideration of the best manner of doing it; and
the consequences, in the eyes of their simple, unsophisticated
neighbors, are very wonderful.

Nevertheless this is not a happy family. All their perfections do not
begin to afford them one tithe of the satisfaction that the Daytons
derive from their ragged and scrambling performances.

The two daughters, Jane and Maria, had naturally very sweet voices, and
when they were little, trilled tunes in a very pleasant and bird-like
manner. But now, having been instructed by the best masters, and heard
the very first artists, they never sing or play; the piano is shut, and
their voices are dumb. If you request a song, they tell you that they
never sing now; papa has such an exquisite taste, he takes no interest
in any common music; in short, having heard Jenny Lind, Grisi, Alboni,
Mario, and others of the tuneful shell, this family have concluded to
abide in silence. As to any music that _they_ could make, it isn't to be
thought of.

For the same reason, the daughters, after attending a quarter or two on
the drawing-exercises of a celebrated teacher, threw up their pencils in
disgust, and tore up very pretty and agreeable sketches which were the
marvel of their good-natured admiring neighbors. If they could draw like
Signor Scratchalini, if they could hope to become perfect artists, they
tell you, they would have persevered; but they have taken lessons enough
to learn that drawing is the labor of a life-time, and, not having a
life-time to give to it, they resolve to do nothing at all.

They have also, for a similar reason, given up letter-writing. If their
chirography were as elegant as Charlotte Cushman's,--if they were
perfect mistresses of polite English