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respective duties; and are, for the most part, unknown to me. That I may be subjected to calumny is but too apparent, while placed so nearly in contact with vulgar indelicacy—not to say indecency. I hope my good aunt and cousin will yield to me in this, and not attribute my refusal to visit the theatre (except on occasions when duty to them requires) to false delicacy or any improper motive."

Her "good aunt" sat petrified during this address. She had never heard any thing like it from female mouth before, and thought the girl "possessed." Mrs. Spiffard's countenance had varied as Emma spoke. As she looked at her animated face, her own dark eyes sparkled-as she listened to the accents of truth, purity, and feeling, she thought of the innocence of childhood, and the train of events which had since occurred and changed her to that which she knew herself now to be.

When Emma ceased to speak, her cousin dismissed these remembrances of former days and subsequent events—she felt as if she would willingly be in union with the holiness of the beautiful object before her, and at the same time be its prop. All her better self filled her bosom and glowed in her countenance, as she exlaimed, "I will never ascribe any of my Emma's actions to an improper motive!" and she kissed the girl with enthusiasm, while tears of affection dimmed the lustre of her eyes-but the jewel, which nature has bestowed on all her children, shone with its native radiance through those healing tears.

"I don't know what is the matter with me this morning," said Mrs. Epsom. "I have not felt well since breakfast," and she went to a closet, and mixing something in a tumbler applied to it as a medicine.

Before the good lady had taken the emptied glass from her mouth, Spiffard entered-in that frame of mind which the reader may imagine to have been the result of the conversation and inuendos heard in the park, the ramble with Cooke, and the soliloquy which followed; all of which we have made the world duly acquainted with.

The first thing that caught his sight was the tumbler at the mouth of Mrs. Epsom. His eye was fixed upon it, and upon the old lady, with an expression, the description of which, words cannot convey. All the terrific images which he had been combatting rushed again triumphantly upon his imagination. His lips were compressed-he was fixed to the spotand the eyes of his wife and her mother were fixed upon him.

The latter turned away, put by the tumbler, and resumed her seat with great and dignified composure.

Spiffard turned his eye to his wife with a look of inquiry. "What's the matter, Mr. Spiffard?" she asked.

"The matter? nothing-I-I have had a long walk with Mr. Cooke-I—I am a little fatigued." And he sat down. His feelings approached to that sickness which occasions total prostration of bodily power-some times called heart-sickness.

"I hope," said Mrs. Spiffard, "that the old gentleman was gay and agreeable. He was not very clear at rehearsal, and cut it rather short, leaving the prompter to supply his place. I am afraid he has been busier with his bottle than his book." This was spoken in a forced manner, and to hide the feelings occasioned by the previous scene.

"What a pity it is," said Emma, who had now resumed her secluded seat by the window, "that a man of such talents should be a slave to such a dehasing vice."

"It is a great pity," said the old lady, with a most hypocritical sigh, as she took a huge pinch of Irish blackguard.

"It is damnable," cried Spiffard, with a tone and look which was as new to his auditory as it was unaccountable from any thing that had occurred since his appearance among them.

It is thus that we bring into new scenes and companies the feelings acquired elsewhere-and which are discordant, and sometimes irritating, to those of the persons we approach; and thus we, by our ill temper, mar the social harmony of our friends. How is this to be avoided? By repressing our selfish sensations, and adapting ourselves to those we mingle with.

"Perfectly damnable," he continued. "How can rational creatures be reconciled to the infamy which must attend so loathsome a habit, even if they do not dread the misery that precedes the death they purchase by their folly? We do not sufficiently show our detestation of the practice in men, but even the most thoughtless are shocked when they see it in a woman:" and he looked at Mrs. Epsom, not unobserved by his wife.

"Indeed, Mr. Spiffard, you take the matter up too seriously, and speak too severely," she said. "A little stimulus is necessary, absolutely necessary after, and sometimes during the exertions our profession demands."

"I deny the necessity, madam. If it exists, the profession ought to be abandoned. This stimulating, when often repeated, becomes a habit. The practitioner from a little goes to more, until the stomach becomes vitiated, and the appetite depraved. Then the time inevitably comes, when to refrain appears worse

than death; worse than the worst of deaths; a death of madness and remorse! unless some friendly hand, or blessed circumstance, snatches the victim from destruction."

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I believe there is much truth in what you say," said his wife; "but I do not see what has occasioned your great warmth on the subject at this moment. Before you came in, we were engaged in a very interesting discussion-one in which you will take part; and I must make an appeal to you. What do you think? our little Emma has determined never to enter within the walls of the theatre; and I can assure you that she has delivered her determination with an emphasis and manner-not to say discretion-which has convinced me that she would be the ornament of any stage in the world. But she abjures playhouses in toto-at least all behind the curtain, if not both boxes and stage."

"She is right!" said Spiffard, emphatically; "the stage! no! she is right!"

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Right?" exclaimed the two actresses.

"Yes, right. She is innocent-she is pure-she is unsophisticated and uncontaminated: and to remain so let her hold to her determination."

"Thank you, sir," said his wife, and her eyes flashed their lightnings, and then were overclouded by the dark black descending brow; while her previously flushed cheek blanched. My mother and myself are indebted to you!"

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"The husband was silent. His silence was not that of one who has said that which was wrong or untrue. He looked firmly in the eyes of his wife, as if to read his destiny there.

Emma felt as if she was the cause of this threatening silence -the stillness which precedes the thunder's crash--and she wished to conduct, harmless, the lightnings of the gathering storm. She lifted her sunny eyes as she spoke, and fixed them upon Mrs. Spiffard.

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Nay, cousin, Mr. Spiffard knows, as we all do, that many, very many ladies, exemplary for virtues, as well as conspicuous for talents and acquirements, have not only frequented the theatre, but trod the stage. Ladies, who have adorned real life by their good conduct, their prudence, and their charity, as splendidly as they did the stage by their accomplishments and genius. I need not go to a foreign land for examples, when I can name so many at home-and when I know and feel the purity and virtues of my kind and good cousin.”

This was spoken by the charming girl with the full confidence of truth, for such was her conviction. But the words

entered the soul of Mrs. Spiffard like a two-edged sword. The blood rushed to her face-her cheeks burned-and from her lowering brow and dark eyes, flashed a glance upon Emma, such as only truth might bear unharmed. But it met the open eye and arched brow of innocence, unconscious of offending, and the glance of the conscience-stricken was cast on the floor, with an expression of troubled emotion, confused ideas, and wandering thoughts, almost too much for endurance.

Emma felt that she had failed to produce the good she wished; but could little conceive the cause of the failure. The gloomy silence continued. At length Spiffard spoke, mildly and in a subdued tone. "Mrs. Spiffard," said he, rising, and taking her hand, "I have something to communicate to you."

The lady rose gloomily to accompany her lord.

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I will finish this ruffle up stairs, and bring it to you in a minute or two," said Emma; and without waiting reply she left the room with an air as light and graceful as we may imagine the waving of an angel's plumes, when winged to the regions of bliss.

There was a pause of a few moments. Zeb seemed to think that as the young lady had left the room, the old lady might do the same; but old ladies do not always follow the example of young ones; and when they do, they do not always move upon angels' wings. She did not seem inclined to move at all. The husband sat down. His wife took her seat again in a dignified He revolved in his mind the communication he had to make. "Should he speak of the remarks of the young men?" He dismissed the thought. "How should he break the subject?" His reverie was interrupted by his wife's voice.

sullen silence.

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Mamma, Mr. Spiffard, it appears, has some private communication to make to me. Shall we retire?" and she again moved from her seat.

"I am going, child." And the stately dame took a liberal pinch of snuff, gathered together her sewing materials, and her book, and with a swimming air and no very sweet expression of countenance, left her son and daughter to the matrimonial happiness which appeared to await them.

Mrs. Spiffard looked gloomily upon her spouse. He started up-walked-and then sat down again.

The importance of our subject-viz.-conjugal happiness, or the reverse, is so great, that we are compelled to commence another chapter before venturing upon it.

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CHAPTER IV.

Explanations and Concealments.

66 -will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk pannel, and like green timber, warp-warp!"

"Wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig;****** the first-full as fantastical-the wedding mannerly-modest-then comes repentance and *** falls into a cinque-pace-till he sinks into his grave."-Shakspeare.

It is no trifling matter, gentle reader, for us to draw aside the veil of the matrimonial sanctuary-and expose to your gaze the mysteries of wedded life. Be assured it is not to gratify your idle curiosity that we do it, but to show you the inevitable consequences of ill-assorted unions-matches that smell of the brimstone-and to point out the blessings which as certainly flow from a marriage in which the parties are induced to make the important contract from a knowledge of each other's good qualities founded upon long continued observation, and a sense of their moral duties. To such the quotations at the head of this chapter do not apply.

Neither will we exclude from the list of good qualities, in male or female, youth, health, or beauty. We would have you, madam (or miss,) to marry a man a little older than yourself, even ten years older if you should be foolish enough to think of a husband at fifteen. Now, our hero, Zebediah Spiffard, was five years younger than his wife, and this was not as it ought to be, though the experiment may succeed. But, my dear young ladies, as you value soul or body, do not marry an old man-or even an elderly gentleman of fifty-wig or no wig-however tempting his riches, his accomplishments, his knowledge of the world, or even his virtues. Nature has forbidden it; and she will be obeyed, or the pains and penalties must be inflicted for the breach of her laws. She does not bring those who break them into court, formally to arraign, try, condemn, and punish them-the crime, as in many other cases, brings its own punishment." As to the old gentleman, or man of fifty, if he must have a wife, let him be content to marry merit, and waive pretensions to youth and beauty. But it is time we return to the man and wife of our story.

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Mr. and Mrs. Spiffard, were left, by the departure of Emma Portland and Mrs. Epsom, to the full and free enjoyment of

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