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SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE.
“One thing, Amy, you must remember: Mr. Selmar has promised to say nothing of marriage till he has made a fortune; I trust he will keep his word.”
“Rely upon it, father; Edward will be faithful to his promise.” And here the conversation ended.
"Her aged parent's warning words
She does not heed, she may not mind;
Amy felt great anxiety about the effect of her letter upon Fanny. “If,” she would say to herself, “if she would only show it to her husband, and it should be the means of establishing a more free and intimate communion of thought between them, O, how happy I should be! It was not many days before she received the following answer :
I should have replied to your letter before, but have been prevented by company at home and engagements abroad.
Such visiting, such running and driving, such hurrying to and fro, as we have in New York! There is more life and motion here in a week than there is in Boston or Philadelphia in a year.
Here we go up up up,
I mean to propose to the city council to erect an arch at the entrance of Broadway, and put upon it these admirable lines of Mother Goose, who must have had a prospective vision of this noisy, restless city, when she indited them. But I am getting to like New York better than I thought I should. People are too busy here to take much care of their neighbors' concerns. Perhaps you will account for my change of opinion entirely, when I tell you that I am quite a favorite with them. They don't patronize me; they don't set out to make much of me, as Mrs. Loveall does; but they like me. We are out almost every evening, and the little time that we are at home we are as agreeable as possible to each other, and always have some pleasant gossip together. I vent all my naughtiness upon the oddities I
husband fares all the better for it.
What strange creatures we are, that we should go to people we care nothing about, to learn to enjoy the society of those whom alone we truly love in this world! Go abroad in order to enjoy home! It seems a strange doctrine ; but rely
upon it, it is the right one. I am more and more convinced that all the little difficulties that must arise between friends, particularly married people, should be got over as easily as possible. Little things must be treated as little things — forgotten, passed over. Now, nothing helps us more effectually to drive away those petty domestic cares than large parties. The music, the careless chat, and the champaign, in what sweet oblivion do they drown all these matrimonial troubles !
I do assure you we come home from every party quite delighted with each other; my husband, because the world admires me, and I, because he, who is all the world to me, is pleased. A propos — champaign. It reminds me of a little occurrence of the other day, that illustrates the truth of what I have just said. One of the unco gude of this city called upon me — I wonder she should notice such a sinner as I am. In the course of conversation, this good lady expressed a deal of righteous horror at what she called a too free use of champaign, at parties. My husband rather joined in with her censure, partly, I suppose, from complaisance. The parrot, also, who happened to be present, encouraged by my husband, much to my astonishment, joined in the conversation, and did her part in this good talk. I bore it for some time, but at last could stand it no longer; and said, I fear rather saucily, to my husband, “Had not you and Mrs. Hawkins better join the Tetotums ?” The parrot, supposing that I had only mistaken the word, corrected me, and said, in her peculiar voice and manner, “Teetotals, Mrs. Roberts."
This set me laughing, immoderately, which more than half affronted my husband; and, after the good lady left us, we might have had one of those pleasant matrimonial duets, had not the servant happily announced the carriage to take us to Mr. Jacobs', where we were engaged to dine with half-a-dozen delightful people, not unco gude, and where all was forgotten; and even my husband became reconciled again to champaign.
But I have not yet noticed the subject of your letter. Never suppose it possible, dear Amy, that I should be displeased with you : your letter requires no apology; asks for no forgiveness. The fault was mine, in giving you a wrong impression. I perceive I led you to suppose that I am not happy. Surely, I am as happy as any one has a right to be. I never thought that there was any very particular meaning in the word, or reality in the thing; all the better on this very account, for the purpose of cheating us along our way. Every one sees something beautiful out of his reach, which he tries to get hold of, and can