"But what do you mean, now, by a fine
day?" persists Miss Martha.

My young legal friend is put on his mettle
by this time, and answers with professional
readiness and precision:

"At this uncertain spring season, my definition
of a fine day, is a day on which you do
not feel the want of your great-coat, your
goloshes, or your umbrella."

"Oh, no," says Miss Martha, "surely not!
At least, that does not appear to me to be at
all a definition of a fine day. Barbara?
Charlotte?"

"We think it quite impossible to call a day
— when the sun is not shining— a fine day,"
says Miss Barbara.

"We think that when clouds are in the sky
there is always a chance of rain; and, when
there is a chance of rain, we think it is very
extraordinary to say that it is a fine day,"
adds Miss Charlotte.

My young legal friend starts another
topic, and finds his faculty for impromptu
definition and his general capacities for arguing,
exercised by the three Miss Cruttwells,
always in the same useful and stimulating
manner. He goes away— as I hope and
trust— thinking what an excellent lawyer's
wife any one of the three young ladies would
make— how she would keep her husband's
professional power of disputing everything,
constantly in activity— how she would send
him into Court every morning bristling at
all points with argumentative provocation,
even before he put on his wig and gown.
And if he could only be present in the spirit,
after leaving the abode of the Miss Cruttwells
in the body, my young legal friend's
admiration of my three disputatious spinsters
would, I think, be immensely increased. He
would find that, though they could all agree
to a miracle in differing with him while he
was present, they would begin to vary
amazingly, in opinion, the moment their visitor's
subjects of conversation were referred to
in his absence. He would, probably, for
example, hear them take up the topic of the
weather, again, the instant the house-door had
closed after him, in something like these terms:

"Do you know," he might hear Miss
Martha say, "I am not so sure after all,
Charlotte, that you were right in saying that
it could not be a fine day, because there were
clouds in the sky?"

"You only say that," Miss Charlotte would
be sure to reply, "because the sun happens to
be peeping out, just now, for a minute or two.
If it rains in half-an-hour, which is more
than likely, who would be right then?"

"On reflection," Miss Barbara might
remark, next, "I don't agree with either of
you, and I also dispute the opinion of the
gentleman who has just left us. It is neither
a fine day, nor a bad day."

"But it must be one or the other."

"No, it need'nt. It may be an indifferent
day."

"What do you mean by an indifferent
day?"

So my three disputatious spinsters would
go on, exercising themselves in the art of
argument, throughout their hours of domestic
privacy, by incessant difference of opinion,
and then turning the weapons which they
have used against each other while alone,
against any common enemy in the shape of
an innocent visitor, with the most sisterly
unanimity of purpose. I have not presented
this sample from my collection, as one which
is likely to suit any great number. But,
there are peculiarly constituted bachelors in
this world; and I like to be able to show
that my assortment of spinsters is various
enough to warrant me in addressing even the
most amazing eccentricities of taste. Perhaps
if no legal gentleman will venture on one of
the Miss Cruttwells, some of my philosophic
friends who lament the absence of the
reasoning faculty in women, may be induced
to come forward and experience the sensation
of agreeable surprise. Is there really no
bid for the Disputatious Lot? Not even for
the dog-fancying Miss Charlotte, with the
two fat puppies thrown in? No? Take
away Lot Two, and let us try what we can
do with Lot Three.

I confidently anticipate a brisk competition
and a ready market for the spinsters now
about to be submitted to inspection. All
marriageable young gentlemen who believe
that fondly-doting daughters and perpetually
kissing sisters are sure, when removed from
the relatives whom they passionately adore,
to make the most devotedly-affectionate
wives— all bachelors who believe this, and
what coarsest bachelor does not?— are
recommended to cluster round me eagerly without
a moment's delay. I have already offered a
sentimental lot, and a disputatious lot. ln
now offering a domestic lot, I have but one
regret, which is, that my sample on the
present occasion is unhappily limited to two
spinsters only. I wish I had a dozen to
produce of the same interesting texture and
unimpeachable quality.

The whole world, gentlemen, at the present
writing, means, in the estimation of the
two Miss Duckseys, papa, mama, and brother
George. This loving Lot can be warranted
never yet to have looked, with so much as
half an eye, beyond the sacred precincts of
the family circle. All their innocent powers
of admiration and appreciation have been
hitherto limited within the boundaries of
home. If Miss Violet Ducksey wants to see
a lovely girl, she looks at Miss Rose Ducksey,
and vice versa; if both want to behold
patriarchal dignity, matronly sweetness, and
manly beauty, both look immediately at
papa, mama, and brother George. I really
cannot speak composedly of the delicious and
brimming affectionateness of the present Lot.
I have been admitted into the unparalleled
family circle, of which I now speak. I have