THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 I
 
 SKETCHES 
 
 MARRIED LIFE 
 
 BY MRS. FOLLEN, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " SELECTIONS FROM FENELON," " THE 
 
 SKEPTIC," "WELL-SPENT HOUR," &c. 
 
 Perfect esteem, enlivened by desire 
 
 Ineffuble, and sympathy of soul ; 
 
 Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will, 
 
 With boundless confidence: for nought but love 
 
 Can answer love, and render bliss secure. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 HILLIARD, GRAY AND CO. 
 1838.
 
 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838. 
 
 by MILLIARD, GRAY, & Co. 
 in tbeClerk'i office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 PRINTED BT WILLIAM A. HALL & Co. 

 
 DEDICATED 
 
 T O 
 
 CHARLES POLLEN, 
 
 BY HIS WIFE. 
 
 16:1715?
 
 I
 
 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I 
 
 " I make a broken delivery of the business." 
 
 WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 " WALK in ! La ! was it only you, Jerry, 
 that was knocking so loud ? " said Ruth to a 
 trim, brisk little man, as he entered the well- 
 furnished kitchen in which she was employ 
 ed at her customary work. " And so, Jerry, 
 you have found out, at your house, that riches 
 take to themselves wings, and fly away ; and 
 that a light purse is a heavy curse." 
 
 "And what if we have, Ruth? nobody 
 knows whose turn may come next; and I 
 should think you might ask a-body to sit 
 down, before you begin to twit him of his 
 misfortunes, or, what is worse, of his friends' j 
 >for I call Mr. Selmar my friend, especially 
 now he is poor." 
 
 1
 
 2 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " Well, well ; do sit down, Jerry, I know it 
 is hard for empty bags to stand upright." 
 
 Jerry did not much like the application of 
 the proverb to himself, or his master's purse ; 
 but he loved his ease, and could not resist the 
 offer of a chair from Ruth, who had a power 
 over him, which his philosophy had never 
 enabled him to explain. So he seated him 
 self, as he said, with a look of offended pride, 
 " I did think, Ruth, that you were a more 
 feeling person, and had better manners ; but 
 I have not eat a peck of salt yet with you." 
 
 " A peck of nonsense, Jerry ; I do'nt mean 
 any harm, you know ; I am sorry enough for 
 Mr. Selmar, but one must either laugh or 
 cry at such things, and my notion is. it is 
 best to laugh. I can tell you that I respect 
 Mr. Selmar as much as I ever did, and more 
 too, if he has behaved honorably." 
 
 " If he has behaved honorably ! " repeated 
 Jerry indignantly ; " a likely story, that Mr. 
 Selmar could behave otherwise than honor 
 ably. Why he is going to sell everything 
 he has ; give up his elegant lodgings, sell his 
 gig, and his horses, even Robinette, his beau 
 tiful saddle-horse ; and, more than all, he 
 means to wait upon himself; for he told 
 me this morning I must look out for a place,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 3 
 
 because he could not afford to keep me. But, 
 come ! I 'm in a great hurry ; do take this 
 note to Miss Amy ; I suppose there is no an 
 swer to it, and I can 't stay, either." 
 
 " Poh ! Jerry, you always say that. I can 
 tell you that he that's in a hurry, fishes in an 
 empty pond. Here, John," she said to the 
 footman, "carry up this billet to Miss Amy, 
 and tell her that Jerry brought it, and that he 
 is in no hurry at all, and will wait just as 
 long as she pleases for an answer." 
 
 " Well, now, if that is n't funny," drawled 
 out Jerry, half vexed and half amused. " I 
 never in all my life saw such a queer wo 
 man." 
 
 " Never mind, Jerry ; crooked sticks make 
 even fires. But come, tell me all about Mr. 
 Selmar ; has he lost all ? " 
 
 " All ! " groaned out Jerry. 
 
 " Do folks say any thing against him ? " 
 
 " Not a word ; everybody knows that it was 
 brought on by the failure of others who owed 
 him money, and he has given up all he has, 
 and he means to deny himself everything. 
 Why I tell you, Ruth, he means even to part 
 with me." 
 
 " May-be that 's the gain of a loss, Jerry ; 
 but that 's acting like a man ; now I respect
 
 4 SKETCHES OF 
 
 him, and if I have a chance I shall befriend 
 him, though it 's no more than he ought to 
 do." 
 
 " But only think, Ruth, what a hard case 
 it is for him, an only child, and his father 
 died when he was only three years old, and 
 left him such a heap of money ; and then he 
 was all the world to his mother : he has 
 never known what hardship is." 
 
 "Time he did," said Ruth; "I suppose 
 he has been a sort of fatted calf." 
 
 " No such thing ; his mother was a pious 
 woman ; she taught him to read his Bible, 
 and she kept him out of bad company, and 
 she made all his masters come to him for fear 
 he should get any harm at school." 
 
 " The more 's the pity. I dare say he 
 thinks he is not made of the same flesh and 
 blood as the rest of the world." 
 
 " Oh, but I tell you, Ruth, his mother used 
 to tell him he was, and to teach him not to 
 think too much of himself; I have heard her 
 myself, when I was a boy, and used to go 
 there to do chores." 
 
 " An ounce of practice is worth a pound 
 of preaching, Jerry depend upon it. But, 
 did n't you say that Mr. Selmar's saddle-horse 
 was for sale ? "
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 5 
 
 " Yes I did ; and what 's that to you. Ruth ? 
 but may-be Miss Amy wants him ?" 
 
 " Every may-be has a may-not-be, Jerry ; 
 but tell me, is he kind and well broke ? " 
 
 " I tell no lies, Ruth, not even when I sell 
 a horse. Robinette is as steady as a parson, 
 and he 's a lump of good nature. But now 
 do tell me if you do n't want him for Miss 
 Amy ? " 
 
 " We two can keep a secret when one is 
 away ; all I tell you is, I engage the refusal 
 of the horse." 
 
 To this Jerry agreed. John returned to 
 say there was no answer to the note, and 
 Jerry again remembered that he was in a 
 great hurry, and departed, saying, " Well, I 
 must be back in less than no time." 
 
 " How shall I manage the business ? " said 
 Ruth to herself ; " when there's a will there's 
 always a way." She could not talk even to 
 herself without a proverb. " Let me see ; 
 Miss Amy is in the breakfast-room ; I have 
 not dusted the pictures yet." In another 
 minute Ruth was apparently very busily em 
 ployed dusting the pictures. As she stood 
 behind the sofa, where Amy Weston was 
 sitting with a book in her hand, she noticed 
 that she held it upside down.
 
 D SKETCHES OF 
 
 " I calculate," said Ruth to herself, " that 
 she will not be much the wiser for what she 
 reads this morning. She 's only making 
 believe read : well, the honestest folks are 
 not always to be trusted. Do you expect a 
 great many folks this evening, Miss Amy ? " 
 
 "No, Ruth, scarcely any body." 
 
 " Then I suppose John can tend alone ? " 
 
 " 4 Certainly, I want no further preparations 
 made than those I have mentioned." 
 
 " Just as I thought," said Ruth to herself; 
 " straws show which way the wind blows. 
 She does not value the party now the worth 
 of a pin, and before she got that note she 
 seemed to think of nothing else. I 'm sorry 
 for her ; there 's no herb will cure love." 
 . Ruth sighed audibly, as if she had reference 
 to her own experience. " I will," thought 
 she, " try speaking to her about Robinette." 
 
 Amy was fully aware of Ruth's loquacity, 
 and had a sort of intuitive knowledge that 
 she was about exercising it upon her at this 
 time, when she was not disposed to indulge 
 her. She rose from her seat with the inten 
 tion of retiring to her own room ; but Ruth 
 was not so easily baffled in her plans. 
 
 " Did n't I hear you say, Miss Amy, that 
 you wanted a saddle-horse ? " 
 
 " Yes, I did say so, Ruth."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 7 
 
 " Well, ma'am, I Ve had one offered to me 
 to-day, that I guess will suit you exactly." 
 
 " It seems odd for you and me to be in 
 treaty for a horse, Ruth ; I fear we should 
 make but poor jockeys ; but who has offered 
 you one ? " 
 
 " Why you know, ma'am, that poor Mr. 
 Selmar has lost all his money, and he 's going 
 to sell off every thing he owns, even Robin- 
 ette, his beautiful saddle-horse." 
 
 " Well, Ruth, and what of that ? " 
 
 " Why you see, Miss Amy, that Jerry says 
 that Robinette is as good as he is handsome, 
 which is n't always the case ; and you see, 
 I Ve engaged the refusal of him, for I thought 
 he would be just the thing for you." 
 
 " Surely, Ruth, you have not done such a 
 thing, and without any direction from rne 
 too." 
 
 " No harm done, Miss Amy ; no one 
 knows who I engaged him for ; but I thought 
 you would like Mr. Edward's horse better 
 than any other." 
 
 " But I do not wish, Ruth, to bargain for 
 Mr. Selmar's horse ; it was very improper in 
 you, Ruth ; you must go directly and tell 
 Jerry that you did this without my knowl 
 edge, and that I do not want Robinette.
 
 8 SKETCHES OF 
 
 How could you do such a thing?" Amy 
 left the room as she said this. 
 
 " Well, if that is n't ridiculous ! " said Ruth 
 as soon as she was alone. " I reckon she 's 
 put out with Mr. Edward for not coming this 
 evening, and that is making her so set against 
 his horse, and that 's ridiculous in her ; and I 
 suppose he 's mad because he failed, and so 
 he spites himself by staying at home, and 
 that 's ridiculous in him ; and here am I 
 meddling with what 's none of my business, 
 and that 's more ridiculous than all ; and 
 what 's the worst of the whole, Jerry will get 
 the laugh at me, if he finds it out. True 
 enough, one fool makes many. He made 
 such a palaver too about the horse ; I '11 be 
 bound he 's not such a terrible good horse, 
 after all. I mean to tell him as much when 
 I see him. I never saw Miss Amy so put 
 out before. Somehow or other it makes one 
 feel more ugly to see such a pretty spoken 
 person as Miss Amy out of sorts, than it does 
 one of your real crabbed folks. The sweetest 
 wine makes the sharpest vinegar, as Aunt 
 Polly used to say. Well, I must go to Mr. 
 Selmar's, and tell Jerry I don't want his 
 horse good, bad, or indifferent. " 
 
 Ruth was soon at Mr. Selmar's door.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 9 
 
 " Well Ruth who 'd a thought of seeing 
 you again so soon ! " exclaimed Jerry, as he 
 opened it to her. 
 
 " Why you see, Jerry, second thoughts are 
 best and I have come to the conclusion that 
 I wo'n't have any thing to do with your 
 horse : I guess there are enough others as 
 good as he any day." 
 
 " So, Miss Amy wo'n't take him, " replied 
 Jerry ; " I can tell her that she '11 not get 
 many such horses as Robinette for love or' 
 money." 
 
 " Why what had Miss Amy to do with it ? 
 I tell you, Jerry, that it is I, do n't want the 
 horse. I went all on my own hook ; but as 
 for your thinking Robinette is such a wonder, 
 you know, Jerry, that you always think your 
 crows are white." 
 
 " But I can tell you, Ruth, that I do n't half 
 like being served so by you ; you make me 
 look very cheap to Mr. Selmar. I have just 
 told him that I 'd e'en a'most sold Robinette." 
 
 " E'en a'most and very nigh, save many a 
 lie, Jerry. I do n't want the horse, and that 's 
 the long and the short on't. Mr. Selmar is 
 not at home, is he ? " 
 
 " Yes he is," said Mr. Selmar, who hap 
 pened just then to be passing through the
 
 10 SKETCHES OF 
 
 hall, and recognized her voice. Ruth brush 
 ed by Jerry, and greeted him with a most 
 vehement shake of the hand. 
 
 " How are you, Ruth ? and how is Miss 
 Amy ? " he said, as he returned it with equal 
 cordiality. 
 
 " None the better for you, Mr. Edward ; 
 why have you not been to see for yourself 
 how she is ? " 
 
 " You must have heard, Ruth, of my mis 
 fortunes ; I have been too busy to visit." 
 
 " I should think you might have found a 
 few minutes for old friends." 
 
 " You know, Ruth, that there is no place 
 where I so well love to be as at your house ; 
 but I have not been good company for any 
 body." 
 
 " Speak well, but do better. It 's not doing 
 as you would be done by, to stay away from 
 old friends when you are in trouble. Stars 
 shine in the night, Mr. Edward." 
 
 " Very true, Ruth ; but tell me something 
 of Miss Amy, is she well ? " 
 
 " Why, well enough, only rather dumpish 
 for her. But did you not send a refusal to 
 her party ? I should n't wonder if she was 
 affronted ; for when I said something to her 
 about buying your horse which Jerry recom-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 11 
 
 mended, why she looked as if I 'd advised 
 her to buy a hornet's nest. And I know 
 she 'd be angry with me if she knew I had 
 told you of this ; but, somehow or other, I 
 could not help it now, Mr. Edward." 
 
 " Thank you ! thank yon, Ruth ! now is 
 the time to find out one's true friends." 
 
 " Ruth is right," said Edward to himself, 
 after she left him. " It is not doing as I 
 would be done by. I have not acted with 
 that simple-hearted trust which such a noble- 
 minded being as Amy ought to inspire. 
 Shall I suspect her of what I should despise 
 myself for ? I have not lost anything in my 
 own eyes, why should I in hers ? But am 
 I certain that she loved me ? We have ex 
 changed no vows, we have never uttered the 
 word ; but have we not understood each 
 other ? When together we drank in the sub 
 lime glories of Niagara, and felt that its ever 
 lasting flow was but a faint image of our own 
 souls, that could be satisfied only with the In 
 finite ; then did we not know that we loved 
 each other ? When our hearts have glowed 
 with rapture at the thought of relieving the 
 oppressed, and with indignation against tyran 
 ny ; then did not our souls grow into each 
 other's likeness ? And is not this love ? holy
 
 12 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 love ! and ought it not to cast out fear ? 
 What has kept me from her at this time ? 
 pitiful pride, low-born fear. I will go to her : 
 I must see Amy ; but I must not ask her to 
 marry a beggar. Her father ! how I dread 
 to see him! I am nothing now in his 
 eyes : I could despise him, if he were not her 
 father."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " My affections 
 
 Are then most humble ; I have no ambition 
 To see a goodlier man." TEMPEST, 
 
 THE next morning Edward called at Mr. 
 Western's. He found Amy at home, and 
 alone. 
 
 " Edward ! Mr. Selmar ! I am very glad 
 to see you ; why have you staid away so 
 long?" 
 
 " Surely, Amy, you know what has occu 
 pied me ; I have now to learn the cold virtues 
 of prudence, and self-denial ; and my first 
 lesson, perhaps, ought to be to forego the 
 pleasure of your society." 
 
 Edward looked embarrassed, agitated, and 
 unhappy, as he said this. 
 
 " Would you," replied Amy, " resign your 
 friends because you have lost your money ? " 
 
 " A beggar must not expect to have friends : 
 I have been a spoiled child: they tell me 
 that I have now to learn what it is to be a
 
 
 14 SKETCHES OF 
 
 poor man ; but I did not intend to speak of 
 myself, or my affairs to you." 
 
 " These sentiments are unworthy of you, 
 Edward, if money has had anything to do 
 with our regard for each other, it is well it 
 should part us ; otherwise, why this appre 
 hension now ? I thought we were friends, 
 Edward." 
 
 Amy's color rose as she said this : she was 
 aware that she had gone farther than the 
 conventional creed of the world might au 
 thorize ; she had spoken simply from her 
 heart. Edward seized her hand ; it was in 
 vain for him to attempt to hide any longer 
 all that was in his heart. He confessed all 
 his hopes, all his fears, so long cherished; 
 his intended self-denial was suddenly over 
 come. 
 
 From that moment, what were riches to 
 her, or poverty to him ? To those who have 
 never truly loved, who have never had this 
 full mysterious harmony of souls awakened 
 within them, this question will excite a 
 smile ; but, thanks be to the great Source of 
 all true love, there are many, very many of 
 the rich as well as the poor, whose hearts 
 will understand and respond to it. 
 
 Amy and Edward knew that they had
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 15 
 
 now one severe trial to encounter, and they 
 wisely resolved to meet it at once. They 
 knew that Mr. Weston would be greatly dis 
 pleased at his daughter's engaging herself to 
 a man who had no property. 
 
 " What shall I say to your father ? " asked 
 Edward. 
 
 " Tell him the whole truth," replied Amy. 
 " Yes ; but he will be deeply offended." 
 " Very like ; but we must bear that pa 
 tiently, and let him see that in all that is 
 right we will conform to his wishes." 
 
 " I will see him at once," said Edward, 
 " and tell him that, although I have sought 
 your affection, I do not ask for your hand till 
 I have earned the means of supporting you. 
 He must not suspect me of the baseness of 
 wishing to depend upon him for my subsist 
 ence. Cannot I see him now ? " 
 
 " He is not at home," replied Amy ; " but 
 you can see him this evening ; " and they 
 parted till then. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, it was a relief to 
 them both to be separated for a while. The 
 first moment of perfect certainty that we are 
 beloved by the object of our deepest affections, 
 falls on our souls with an oppressive power. 
 The religious mind at such a time longs to be
 
 16 SKETCHES OF 
 
 alone with the Father of spirits. A true and 
 pure love cannot be spoken in all its fulness. 
 It is by faith in that which is invisible and 
 unexpressed ; it is through our own deep 
 consciousness, that we know how we are 
 loved by another. The heart involuntarily 
 rises to that Being who can penetrate the 
 depths of its love, and it is in his presence 
 alone at such moments that it seems to 
 breathe freely and calmly. So felt Amy and 
 Edward when they parted this morning. 
 
 Amy's father was, and he prided himself 
 upon being a man of the world. He also 
 prided himself upon being what is called a 
 moral man ; and he was one, if morality be 
 that cold system of expediency which is 
 sometimes all that is meant by the words, " a 
 good moral man." He thought that religion 
 was a very good thing to keep the people in 
 order ; without this safeguard, the poor, and 
 all those unfortunate beings who have none 
 of the good things of this life, would be 
 dangerous to those who have an abundance ; 
 and that they must be bribed into submission 
 by the promise of a large reversion in the life 
 to come. He believed in a just Providence, 
 because he was himself provided for. The 
 opinion of what he called the respectable
 
 . 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 17 
 
 part of the community, by which he always 
 meant the rich and powerful, was the standard 
 by which he graduated .fall his views. He 
 piqued himself upon his skill in avoiding to 
 commit himself upon any important or ques 
 tionable subject till the opinion of the wise 
 in their generation had settled it. If any 
 thing ever betrayed him into a violation of 
 this strict mental neutrality, and an argu 
 ment was brought up against him, he would 
 directly quote some high authority in defence 
 of the opinion he had ventured to advance. 
 His only very decided conviction was, that 
 money was the chief good. 
 
 Amy fully understood her father's charac 
 ter ; she dreaded the result of Edward's con 
 fession to him. She bravely resolved to 
 speak first to him herself, and thus share and 
 perhaps abate some of the indignation which 
 she knew otherwise would fall entirely on 
 his head. Amy possessed a peculiarly free 
 and fearless mind ; her nature had instinctive 
 ly rebelled against the narrowness and slavish- 
 ness of her father's mode of thinking. She 
 had early learned to think for herself. By 
 her mother's death she had been placed, at 
 the age of fourteen, at the head of her father's 
 family. He was rich ; she was his only 
 2
 
 18 SKETCHES OF 
 
 child, and he was proud of her; and the 
 darling hope of his heart was, that his daugh 
 ter should form what he considered a suita 
 ble connexion, whenever she married. 
 
 What saved Amy in this trying situation ? 
 what made her, what is said to be 
 
 " The thing that's most uncommon, 
 A reasonable woman 1 " 
 
 Partly the reaction of that saving principle 
 in our natures which God has so mercifully 
 implanted, that makes the tyrant the pro 
 moter of freedom, and the selfish and narrow 
 the teachers of an enlarged philanthropy. It 
 was partly this, but principally the religious 
 education she received from her mother. It 
 was interwoven with her earliest thoughts, 
 associated with her childish recollections, and 
 the first consciousness of her own nature, and 
 its high destiny. The religious character of 
 Amy's mind, as it had been formed by her 
 mother's life, so had it been hallowed and 
 sealed by her death. Her father had never 
 understood the treasure he possessed in his 
 daughter ; how should he ? he had never 
 understood her mother. 
 
 When Amy had resolved that it was right 
 that she should be the first to meet her 

 
 MARRIED LIFE. IV* 
 
 father's anger, she allowed no false shame, no 
 selfish fears to influence her for a moment. 
 As soon as he returned from his walk, she 
 went to his room. 
 
 11 My dear Amy," said he, as she seated her 
 self by him in the sofa, " why were you so 
 zealous in your defence of Miss Treville last 
 evening ? " 
 
 " Because, father, I thought the censures 
 that were passed upon her were unjust." 
 
 " But, Amy, I can assure you that the most 
 respectable part of the company thought 
 otherwise." 
 
 " I only expressed my own opinion, you 
 know, father ; and I thought it right to do so, 
 especially as she was not there to defend her 
 self. But, father, you know all the circum 
 stances of that affair, and know how blame 
 less she was : did not you think she did 
 right ? " 
 
 " May be so, and may be not ; but the 
 opinion of the world is never to be slighted, 
 Amy ; the wisest and best condemn her, and 
 that 's enough for me. I do not pretend to 
 be so much wiser than all the rest of the 
 world." 
 
 Amy felt that this was an unfavorable mo 
 ment for her confession ; but she bravely 
 began.
 
 20 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " I have come, my dear father, to speak 
 with you upon a subject of great interest 
 of great importance " 
 
 Amy stopped ; she could not make out a 
 finished sentence. Who can, when they 
 speak of what is more than life or anything 
 that life has to offer. She looked down, and 
 then looked up into her father's face with 
 that earnest imploring look that seems to say, 
 " Oh, if you could read my heart ! " She 
 thought of her mother to whom she could 
 have spoken with so much ease, so much 
 trust : her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " What is it you would say, my dear 
 child ? " said her father, tenderly. 
 
 Amy was encouraged. She began again. 
 
 " You have, perhaps, observed the friend 
 ship, the intimacy, the particular regard Ed 
 ward Selmar and I have long had for each 
 other." 
 
 " I do not know what you mean by par 
 ticular regard, Amy. I have seen Mr. Sel 
 mar here very often ; I supposed you thought 
 very well of him ; he has stood very well in 
 the opinion of the world, I believe." 
 
 " He has this morning declared his love 
 for me, father." 
 
 Had Amy told her father that some one
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 21 
 
 had threatened her life, he could not have 
 expressed more horror and indignation than 
 he did at this intelligence. 
 
 " He ! Amy he, a beggar, a bankrupt, 
 presume to declare his love to my daughter ! 
 he, without a cent in the world, dare to think 
 of marrying you, who are an heiress ! He is 
 a man without principle, or he has lost his 
 senses." 
 
 " When he came here this morning, father, 
 he had no intention of making such a declara 
 tion to me." 
 
 " And how came he to do such a dishonor 
 able thing ? " exclaimed Mr. Weston, stop 
 ping for a moment his violent strides across 
 the room, to take breath. " Did he suppose 
 I was going to marry my daughter to a man 
 without a dollar in his pocket ? I did, I con 
 fess, think better of him once." 
 
 " Edward has done nothing wrong, father ; 
 our attachment has existed for a long time, 
 though we have never spoken of it. He saw 
 in his failure a reason for separating himself 
 from me, and relinquishing hopes which he 
 before cherished, and which I had tacitly en 
 couraged." 
 
 " And that would have been acting like a 
 man of honor ; and why has he done so
 
 22 SKETCHES OF 
 
 shameful a thing as to speak to you upon this 
 subject now ? Why, if he is what you sup 
 pose him to be, did he not sacrifice his feel 
 ings to a sense of duty ? " 
 
 " Because he discovered that I was not 
 willing that he should make this sacrifice." 
 
 " You, Amy ! you not willing ! This sur 
 passes belief. You, a lady, so far set at defi 
 ance female delicacy as to say you were not 
 willing he should make this sacrifice ! did I 
 hear right ? " 
 
 " Yes, father, I did not disguise from him 
 the truth that he would sacrifice my happi 
 ness as truly as his own by so doing. He 
 discovered, for I did not attempt to hide it 
 from him, that I loved him as truly as he 
 loved me. The truth is, that I saw in his 
 failure a sufficient reason for a degree of 
 frankness, that, but for his misfortunes, I 
 might have thought forwardness. So you 
 see, father, if there was any one to blame, it 
 was I." 
 
 "Romantic nonsense," cried her father, 
 " absurd folly ! what would the world say to 
 it ? " and he strode about the room as if he 
 would fain run away from its fearful voice. 
 
 " I could not think of the world, father, at 
 such a time ; and I could not consent that
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 23 
 
 the world should have any voice in choosing 
 me a husband." 
 
 " Nor that your father should either, I sup 
 pose ; " said Mr. Weston, almost foaming with 
 anger. 
 
 " Forgive me, dear father," replied Amy, 
 " I should be a great hypocrite if I were to 
 pretend that I could be governed by any one's 
 authority in such a case ; though it would 
 make me very unhappy ^that you should dis 
 approve of my choice." 
 
 " I can assure you that I do entirely disap 
 prove of your choice ; and I can tell you that 
 all the most respectable part of the communi 
 ty will think very ill of Mr. Selmar, unless 
 you tell them of your unparalleled piece of 
 quixotism. I always thought that your 
 ridiculous romantic notions would be your 
 ruin ; and I cannot think it very honorable in 
 Mr. Selmar to take advantage of your folly, 
 and to propose marriage to you, now that he 
 has not a cent he can call his own." 
 
 " He has done no such thing, father ; he 
 is coming to see you this evening, to tell you 
 that he should never speak of marriage, till 
 he was again able to support me." 
 
 Mr. Weston was somewhat mollified by 
 this intelligence. Still he continued striding
 
 24 SKETCHES OF 
 
 across the room, and manifesting great vexa 
 tion. " I hate these long engagements ; very 
 tedious and disagreeable." 
 
 " But, father," said Amy, " I shall be the 
 longer with you ; you do n't want to part 
 with me, though you do think me so silly 
 and romantic." 
 
 " I did hope, Amy, that whenever you 
 were married, you would form such a con 
 nexion as would have gratified me ; all my 
 ambition centred in you." 
 
 " Did you disapprove of Mr. Selmar, father, 
 before he failed ? " 
 
 " May be so, and may be not ; I do now, 
 at any rate." 
 
 " There was nothing, I hear, dishonorable 
 in his failure : I was attached to him before 
 his misfortune ; why should I not be now ? " 
 
 " I tell you, this is all romance. You have 
 been so educated that you cannot be happy 
 without those luxuries which money alone 
 can procure. You will understand what 
 nonsense there is in the saying, Us s' aiment 
 comme les pauvres." 
 
 " I have always thought, father, that this 
 saying granted to the poor what was worth 
 more than all riches." 
 
 After a long silence, Mr. Weston stopped
 
 I 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 25 
 
 short rather abruptly, directly before Amy. 
 " One thing," he said, " I shall insist upon, 
 Amy, if I do consent to this engagement ; 
 and that is, that it shall be kept a profound 
 secret, till Mr. Selmar has so far succeeded in 
 business that he may appear a suitable match 
 for my daughter." 
 
 " I am sorry, my dear father, that I cannot 
 please you even in this." 
 
 " And why not, Miss ? " 
 
 " Because I should be a deceiver, and lead 
 people to suppose that my hand and heart are 
 disengaged when they are not." 
 
 " And of what consequence is it, whether 
 the world knows or not, that you are en 
 gaged ? It is not very modest in you to sup 
 pose this affair is of so much importance to 
 others. I should think a lady of truly re 
 fined feelings would prefer it should be kept 
 secret." 
 
 " It is natural, father, that it should seem 
 so to you ; but I have reasons for wishing 
 otherwise, which I would rather not give to 
 any one ; but you have a right to know the 
 whole. It is better that I should seem faulty 
 to you, than actually do wrong." 
 
 " And pray what may these very cogent 
 reasons be ? "
 
 26 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " I may, and I think it very probable I 
 shall, have proposals of marriage from others, 
 if it is supposed I am disengaged." 
 
 " It is very presuming in you to take this 
 for granted ; but suppose you should, you are 
 not bound to accept them." 
 
 " Why should I give unnecessary pain ? I 
 am your only child, and you are rich, and 
 there are a number of young men very atten 
 tive to me, and one who I fear loves me. He 
 is the son of your friend, Mr. Raymond." 
 
 " The very thing I most desired in this 
 world," interrupted her father ; " a suitable 
 match in every respect ; his father is one of 
 our first men. Oh, Amy, you might make me 
 so happy ! why cannot you give up that 
 foolish fancy of yours, and marry him ? " 
 Mr. Weston stood looking in Amy's face as 
 if life and death hung upon her answer. 
 
 " Simply, father, because I do not love 
 him, and I do love Mr. Selmar." 
 
 " Love Mr. Selmar ! how can you utter 
 such a thing to me to your father ?" 
 
 " Because you are my father, and I must 
 speak plainly to you. Would it not be wrong 
 not to save young Raymond the pain and 
 mortification of a refusal ? " 
 
 " Has he ever spoken to you on this sub 
 ject ? "
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 27 
 
 " No ; but I am almost certain that he 
 will." 
 
 " Well, when he * does so it will be time 
 enough to tell him of this unlucky entangle 
 ment." 
 
 " Would that be honorable ? would it be 
 generous ? would it be even modest ? Surely, 
 father, you cannot thus advise your daughter ! 
 It could be only painful to me to receive a 
 declaration of love from one whose love I 
 do not return. It is only simple justice to 
 prevent it, and the easiest way to do this is to 
 let it be known that my hand and heart are 
 pledged to another." 
 
 " This is very sentimental, to be sure ; but 
 how do you know that your feelings will not 
 change ? or that Mr. Selmar's may not ? It 
 may be many years before you can be mar 
 ried." 
 
 " I must," replied Amy, " act according to 
 my present convictions ; and I am as certain 
 of my own feelings and determinations as of 
 my existence." 
 
 Mr. Weston saw that it was in vain to at 
 tempt to influence his daughter upon a sub 
 ject involving what she considered a moral 
 principle. He tried to persuade himself that 
 she was wrong ; still he could not help re-
 
 28 SKETCHES OF 
 
 specting her. His daughter did in fact 
 possess an influence over him that might 
 seem strange to those who have never esti 
 mated the power felt, even when not under 
 stood, which a high uncompromising alle 
 giance to principle exercises over those who 
 acknowledge no higher standard than the 
 opinion of the world. 
 
 Amy had succeeded in her purpose of 
 saving Edward from many painful remarks 
 from her father. In his interview with him 
 in the evening, Mr. Weston told him, very 
 coldly, that his daughter had explained to him 
 their relation to each other ; that as he had 
 not been consulted by either of them, there 
 was nothing left for him to say ; that what 
 ever sentimentalists might think, or poets 
 might sing about love in a cottage, people 
 now-a-days had more sense, and knew that 
 such notions were absurd. Such nonsense 
 might sound well in novels, but all the re 
 spectable part of the community would vindi 
 cate him in his determination, that his daugh 
 ter should not marry a man who could not 
 support her in the way in which she had 
 been accustomed to live. " I therefore trust 
 to you, Sir, as a man of honor, that you will 
 not speak to my daughter of marriage till that 
 is the case."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 29 
 
 This Edward assured him was his purpose ; 
 but, though he expected nothing better, he 
 felt galled and fretted when he actually ex 
 perienced how much his importance was di 
 minished by the loss of his property. Mr. 
 Weston's whole manner was changed towards 
 him ; it was distant, and supercilious, and 
 entirely unlike what it had been before his 
 failure. He was now a poor man. 
 
 " No matter," said he to himself, as he left 
 Mr. Weston's apartment. " These lessons to 
 my self-love are very wholesome. Poverty 
 is a good touch-stone ; how much more suf 
 fering than all I have endured from her 
 worldly-minded father, would not one smile 
 from Amy chase away ! " 
 
 In her society we will therefore leave him, 
 to recover his composure.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good 
 earnest." As YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 "COME, dear Amy, I will spare your 
 blushes, and save you the trouble of telling 
 me why you sent for me this morning; so 
 compose yourself, while I take off my bonnet 
 and shawl, and then I am ready to hear the 
 whole story. I met Edward Selmar in the 
 hall, and he looked so provokingly happy, 
 and had such a tell-tale face, and such a 
 cousin-like manner towards me, that he has 
 not left you much to tell." 
 
 All this was said by Fanny Herbert to her 
 cousin, as she entered the room in a hurried 
 manner, and with her face all glowing with 
 emotion. 
 
 " I am too deeply happy, dear Fanny, to 
 be discomposed," said Amy; "and I am 
 afraid I shall not be sentimental enough even 
 to blush to your satisfaction." 
 
 " That is just like you, Amy ; and I dare
 
 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 31 
 
 say that you would behave exactly so, if you 
 were going to be executed instead of going 
 to be married." 
 
 " I hope," replied Amy, laughing, " that 
 you do not think it a parallel case." 
 
 " Why, not exactly, in all respects ; but it 
 has many points of resemblance. When a 
 woman promises herself away in marriage, 
 she resigns her name, her property, her affec 
 tions, her opinions, her friends, perhaps her 
 country, her will in short, herself, to her 
 future lord and master." 
 
 "No wonder," replied Amy, " that, with 
 these ideas of matrimony, you expect me to 
 be agitated ; but I do not acknowledge that I 
 have made such a surrender as this." 
 
 " Let me see, Amy ; out of your own 
 mouth, I will prove that you have. You 
 resign your name." 
 
 " Yes ; but a name is of no consequence." 
 
 " Your property will be his as soon as you 
 are married, unless you have it legally settled 
 upon yourself beforehand." 
 
 " You know that I have, in my own right, 
 only the small property my mother left me ; 
 and Edward would not choose, even if my 
 father would consent to it, to owe his support 
 to any one. But I agree, Fanny, that the
 
 32 SKETCHES OF 
 
 law is unjust, with regard to married women, 
 upon the subject of property ; it puts them 
 upon a par with children." 
 
 "Your opinions will be no longer free. 
 You must think as your husband thinks, or 
 not think at all, or else there is no peace in 
 the house. One must always yield, and of 
 course it must be the wife." 
 
 " I do not acknowledge this, Fanny. 
 Where opinions deserve the name, they 
 must be free. Married people are very like 
 to hold the same opinions on the most im 
 portant subjects, especially where there has 
 been a perfect understanding of each other's 
 most intimate thoughts before marriage, and 
 where there exists a recognition of their per 
 fect equality afterwards. But, even if we 
 differ, Edward and I agree that there can be 
 no slavish submission, where a true love 
 exists. We well know that this is a hetero 
 dox faith, but upon it we rest our hopes of 
 happiness." 
 
 " A rope of sand, my dear Amy, that you 
 are trusting to, rely upon it. But to proceed 
 with my catechising : you have promised 
 your heart exclusively to him." 
 
 " I could not promise to give what was no 
 longer my own to bestow. My heart was
 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 33 
 
 his, and I confessed it j but this is only a fair 
 exchange." 
 
 " If he does not happen to like your friends, 
 you must give them up." 
 
 " I made no vow to violate my conscience 
 or my feelings. Any encroachment that 
 even Edward Selmar should make upon the 
 freedom of my affections would be certainly 
 followed by a diminution of my love for 
 himself. I feel sure that he would despise 
 any homage that was not freely offered." 
 
 " Your place of residence : he may carry 
 you where he chooses." 
 
 " The place of our abode, as well as other 
 subjects involving duty and happiness, would 
 be decided by mutual agreement j but here I 
 confess the law is against me." 
 
 " But your will : you have no longer a 
 will of your own." 
 
 " I cannot will to resign my will. It is a 
 contradiction in terms ; it is destroying the 
 cause by the effect." 
 
 "A very philosophical conclusion, truly, 
 and sounding remarkably well, all that you 
 say, my dear; not very Miltonian though; 
 but wait till you are Mrs. Selmar, and see if 
 you do not sing a different tune then. Sub 
 mission that is the motto for a married 
 3
 
 34 SKETCHES OF 
 
 woman's story ; it is the first, second, and 
 third requisite for perfection in the good 
 wife, as you, of course, intend to be. So do 
 not flatter yourself, Amy, that you will ever 
 have your own way again." 
 
 " But, suppose, Fanny, that his way should 
 be my way ; there would be no submission 
 then on either side." 
 
 "That reminds me," said Fanny, "of the 
 German couplet we learned the other day : 
 
 ' O, wunderbare Harmonic! 
 Was er will, will auch sie.'* 
 
 Rely upon it, when you disagree, (and that 
 will happen,) you must always yield, right 
 or wrong." 
 
 " I do not grant this. If Edward should 
 ever wish' me to do wrong, I shall not feel 
 bound to comply, but think I do him more 
 honor by a refusal, than by a submission for 
 which I am sure he would and ought to 
 despise me." 
 
 " Very pretty, and apparently very just, 
 Amy ; but let us see by-and-by. You are so 
 heartily in love with Edward now, that you 
 cannot think he will eyer desire any thing 
 wrong ; but he is a man, and he is human." 
 
 * O, wonderful harmony ! 
 What he wills, wills also she.
 
 
 MARKIED LIFE. 35 
 
 " So I supposed, when I engaged to marry 
 him. I do not think either of us expect per 
 fection." 
 
 " But, if I were you, I should, as long as 
 possible, require it of him, and insist upon 
 his thinking me nothing short of divine. 
 Now is your time, Amy ; make the most of 
 your short reign." 
 
 " O, Fanny ! Fanny ! I hale to hear you 
 talk so. If it were only girlish rattle, I 
 would laugh at it, and forget it ; but I fear 
 that there is something seriously wrong at 
 the bottom of it all. I fear that you are now 
 trifling with your own happiness, as well as 
 that of another, under the influence of these 
 unworthy notions. It was to speak to you 
 upon this subject, that I wanted to see you 
 this morning." 
 
 " And so," replied Fanny, " while I flat 
 tered myself that you had sent for me to tell 
 me a very pretty love story of your own, and 
 that I was to be that important personage, a 
 confidant, upon the occasion, and know the 
 month and the day when nobody else did, 
 you, forsooth, only sent for me to favor me 
 with a lecture, followed, I suppose, by some 
 of those agreeable' didactic remarks, which 
 most of my kind friends are pleased so gratu 
 itously to bestow upon me."
 
 36 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " Are you not ashamed of such nonsense, 
 Fanny ? " 
 
 " Ashamed of nonsense, Amy ! Why, I 
 am in love with it. It is as important as my 
 daily bread to me. All other pleasures, all 
 other friends, are uncertain, unfaithful ; but 
 nonsense always more than fulfils its promise, 
 and is an unfailing help in adversity." 
 
 " I have no objection to nonsense, Fanny, 
 in its right place ; but there are occasions 
 where trifling is a sin where we should be 
 guided only by reason and conscience." 
 
 " Well, Amy, do n't look so very sober, 
 and I will be good for a little while, for your 
 sake. I love you well enough to tolerate the 
 presence of reason, if she does not bring her 
 knitting-work, and invite herself to pass the 
 whole day with me. What would reason 
 say to me now, Amy ? " 
 
 " Reason would ask," said Amy, " whether 
 you are acting right towards William Roberts. 
 You understand me now, Fanny." 
 
 " O, yes, perfectly well, Amy ; I see what 
 you are after. Excuse me ; you remind me 
 of the fox, who, having been unluckily 
 caught in a trap, and there curtailed of some 
 of his honors, (pardon this atrocious pun,) 
 cunningly called together the other foxes of
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 37 
 
 his acquaintance, and advised them, seriously, 
 with their eyes open, and of their own free 
 will, to submit to the same cruel operation 
 which a sad chance had inflicted upon him. 
 Thank you, my dear Amy ; when I am also 
 caught, I will certainly take counsel of you." 
 
 " Try to be serious, Fanny. I have some 
 thing to tell you that I think you have too 
 much heart to laugh at. 33 
 
 " Well, now, Amy, I will be as solemn 
 and well-behaved as if I was just engaged. 33 
 
 " I hear from Edward, 33 said Amy, " that 
 your friend, William Roberts, is going to 
 Europe. 33 
 
 Fanny started. " Going to Europe ! Why, 
 it was but a short time since, that he told me 
 that he should never again leave his own 
 country ; and he said some pretty things 
 about his untravelled heart, &c. What is he 
 going for ? J3 
 
 " To get rid of an aching heart, if he can, 
 and, if possible, recover a healthful tone of 
 mind.' 3 
 
 Fanny's face reddened all over, and then 
 grew very pale. She tried in vain to hide 
 her emotions at this intelligence. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Amy, " to see you suf 
 fer; but the remedy is in your own hands."
 
 38 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " What can I do ? What would you have 
 me do ? " 
 
 " Be simple be true." 
 
 " And ask him to please not go to Europe, 
 but to stop and marry me ! I would die 
 first." 
 
 " I would have you do nothing unfeminine 
 nothing inconsistent with your true digni 
 ty ; but I would have you faithfully question 
 your own heart, and then be true to yourself 
 and to him. From what I know of your 
 real feelings towards Mr. Roberts, I fear you 
 have coquetted with him ; and forgive me, 
 Fanny, if I say that it will be happy for you, 
 if some sacrifice of your pride is the only 
 punishment you receive. It is, surely, no 
 slight suffering, that can make such a man 
 willing to give up his country, and change 
 all his habits of life. Edward agreed with 
 his friend, that it was impossible that you 
 could really love him ; and surely, Fanny, if 
 I did not think your fault was mere levity, I 
 could hardly forgive you. He intends going 
 in a few days." 
 
 Poor Fanny sat like one condemned. Amy 
 continued : 
 
 " It was his intention to go away without 
 seeing you again ; he thought the interview 
 would be too painful for him ; but I told 

 
 MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 39 
 
 Edward to urge him to go and say farewell 
 to you ; for I knew that in your heart, Fanny, 
 you loved him." 
 
 Fanny made a great effort to recover her 
 self-command, and, after a minute, said, "I 
 
 "Beware, dear Fanny, of the effect ol 
 what you say now to William Roberts. You 
 cannot now gloss over to your conscience 
 any questionable act. You know to what 
 point he loves you. If you do not truly love 
 him if you do not mean to marry him, do 
 not attempt to influence him in any way ; do 
 not tempt him or yourself by the tantalizing 
 profession of a dangerous friendship, that 
 mayor may not be love. Be simple be 
 true-hearted, as you value your future peace 
 of mind." 
 
 Fanny soon rose to go home. As they parted, 
 Amy kissed her tenderly, and said, " All will 
 be well, dear Fanny, if you are only true to 
 yourself." 
 
 " How is it, Amy," replied Fanny, as she 
 hastily brushed away a tear, "that I still 
 love you so well, when you make me feel so 
 cheap, and look so silly ? "
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 A few days after her interview with 
 Fanny, Amy received the following letter 
 from her. 
 
 My dear philosophical Cousin, 
 
 As the weather prevents my seeing you to 
 day, I must e'en indite a little epistle to you ; 
 for I have too many things on my heart to 
 keep them to myself. 
 
 I took your advice, and did not put on any 
 airs when Roberts came to take leave of me. 
 I was a perfect Miranda ; I was sorry, very 
 sorry for all my naughtiness to him ; I did 
 not tell him that though ; but, somehow or 
 other I think he found it out. I told him I 
 was very sorry that he was going away, and 
 that made him very glad ; and but you 
 will easily guess all the rest we of course 
 had a little scene. But, Amy, do not think I
 
 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 41 
 
 found it easy to be so very good. I was 
 tempted sorely when I saw how pleased he 
 was at my regret at his departure, I wanted 
 dreadfully to tease him just a very little in 
 revenge for having obliged me to make such 
 a sacrifice of my pride ; but I did not. I 
 was really good all the time ; I was as good 
 as our friend Mrs. Lovell, or Loveall as I call 
 her, who, you know, says Sir to her husband, 
 and my dear, to every body else. She will 
 patronize me now, I have no doubt, as Mr. 
 Roberts is very rich. 
 
 Well I have not told you the worst of it 
 yet, Amy. I have not only had the indis 
 cretion to let Mr. Roberts find out that I 
 loved him, but I have, if you will believe it, 
 promised to marry him, as your Ruth says 
 right away, in no time. This I like, however ; 
 I could never behave well through a long 
 courtship. Old father Jacob, I am sure, de 
 served all his honors and far better wives 
 than he obtained as a reward for waiting so 
 long for each of them. I certainly should 
 not be worth waiting seven months, nor even 
 seven weeks for, I fear. It is hardly fair that 
 I should marry William Roberts. He thinks 
 me better than I am ; but the more I tell him 
 so, the more he will not believe it. Poor
 
 42 SKETCHES OF 
 
 fellow ! I hope he will not repent when it is 
 too late. I feel, dear Amy, like a Scotch 
 song, half gay, half sad. 
 
 What ails this heart o' mine 1 
 What ails this watery ee 1 
 
 I tell you, Amy, William Roberts is too 
 good for me. If I could only just discover 
 some little fault in him, I should not feel so 
 badly about marrying him. I should not 
 feel so like a cheat. What if he should come 
 to the same conclusion after we are married, 
 and there is no help for it? What if he 
 should cease to love me, when he finds just 
 what I am ; when he becomes acquainted 
 with my fidgetty, irritable temper ? What 
 should I do then ? Can I, Amy, always hope 
 to hide my weaknesses from him ? I must 
 try. I shall be happier with him than I have 
 ever been before, and he is a pattern of 
 patience, I know. 
 
 There is no help for it now ; married we 
 are to be as soon as all the ridiculous prepara 
 tions can be made which must precede this 
 catastrophe. I love him ; I always have 
 loved him better than anything in this bless 
 ed life : there are but two things that can be 
 named against him ; one is his over-estimate
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 43 
 
 of me ; the other is he is too proper, too 
 polite. You have before you, Amy, a far 
 easier task than I have ; you have only to be, 
 I have to seem excellent. I began with the 
 intention of writing just a little note to you ; 
 but somehow or other I can never be satisfied 
 with a few words especially with you, dear 
 Amy : this is one of my faults, and the cause 
 of many others. Roberts, however, is a silent 
 man ; so it is fortunate that I can talk, 
 especially when we have company. If he 
 could only be induced to talk more, perhaps 
 I should not find him so very, very wise. 
 I often think that the only difference between 
 the wise and simple, so called, is that while 
 the one talks out all his or her folly, the 
 other prudently hides it by saying nothing. 
 It is evident I am no such hypocrite as this. 
 One thing, dear Amy, I have never yet told 
 you, and that is how truly and how tenderly 
 I love you. Truly yours, 
 
 FANNY HERBERT. 
 
 Amy immediately replied to her cousin's 
 letter. 
 
 Dear Fanny, 
 
 Thank you for your long note. I rejoice at 
 its contents ; I rejoice with my whole heart
 
 44 SKETCHES OF 
 
 that you were frank and upright with Mr. 
 Roberts, when he came to take leave of you. 
 There can be no true dignity in falsehood of 
 any kind, and there is always ground for 
 suspicion that what we hide we are ashamed 
 of; surely you cannot be ashamed of return 
 ing the love of such a man as William 
 Roberts. 
 
 If I could think you in earnest when you 
 say you wanted to tease Mr. Roberts, I could 
 not forgive you ; but I believe no such thing. 
 You are only playing off a little bravado, 
 venting some of your superfluity of naughti 
 ness upon me, in revenge for being obliged, in 
 self-defence, to be good to him. 
 
 I like your comparison of the old Scotch 
 song. The deepest fountains of our nature are 
 all unsealed when two hearts pledge them 
 selves to each other in mutual love. Pleasure, 
 pain, hope, fear, strange tumult, unutterable 
 peace, alternately sweep over our new strung 
 souls, awakening there a latent music that is 
 like a reminiscence from a higher state of 
 being ; like the Lord's song in a strange land ; 
 a mingled sound of heavenly joy, and earthly 
 sadness. 
 
 Arid no wonder, dear Fanny, that we are 
 so deeply moved. To have made ourselves,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 45 
 
 as far as our influence goes, responsible for 
 the happiness and virtue of a fellow-being, is 
 a startling thought ; but when it is the hap 
 piness of one whom we love better than all 
 the world beside, the soul almost shrinks 
 with fear from the venture. Yet, is not this 
 the only right view of this connexion ? How 
 shall we make ourselves equal to these 
 things ? From whence shall we derive help 
 and strength for the faithful performance of 
 these great duties whence but from the 
 Eternal Source of our being ? 
 
 Love must have the religious principle in 
 it, or it is not true love. It must be self- 
 forgetting, self-sacrificing, infinite in its de 
 sires, infinite in its purposes, infinite in its 
 joys, or it is not true love. 
 
 I did not intend to preach a sermon, when 
 I began ; but I could not refrain from the ex 
 pression of my feelings to you who have been 
 my playfellow and companion from my child 
 hood to the present time. Now especially 
 that our hearts are throbbing with kindred 
 emotions, I could not help pouring out my 
 feelings and thoughts to you, just as I always 
 have done, as if you were my sister. 
 
 We will not allow this new attachment to 
 supplant the affection that we have always
 
 46 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 felt for each other. We will prove the truth 
 of what I have always believed, that the 
 more we love, the more we may love, if it is 
 not a narrow and selfish attachment. 
 
 I have been so much in earnest that I have 
 forgotten to banter you, as I intended, upon 
 your abuse yesterday of matrimony ; but 
 never mind, Fanny, you know my creed is, 
 Better change your mind every day, than 
 continue one day in a wrong opinion. I will 
 be generous, and forget what you have said, 
 as you have repented so truly and so soon. 
 Yours ever, 
 
 AMY WESTON.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ' Words ! words ! words ! " 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 ALL the world knows that there is no cal 
 culating about affairs of the heart ; yet all 
 have an opinion, and decide upon them as 
 though they were subject to fixed laws ; and 
 although men and women Will marry to 
 please themselves, yet the public will judge of 
 such things as though it was their particular 
 business ; and they were the party concerned. 
 Every one said, when they heard of the en 
 gagement of the two cousins, What a pity it 
 is, that they could not change lovers ! Mr. 
 Roberts is so calm and reasonable he is so 
 prudent, and has such an excellent judgment 
 he is reserved and silent ; so is Amy Wes- 
 ton ; they seem made for each other ; while 
 Mr. Selmar is so excitable rather hasty 
 something of an enthusiast very frank and 
 talkative, I should have thought that he and 
 Fanny Herbert would have been sure to 
 fancy each other.
 
 48 
 
 Now, as is generally the case, the world 
 (that many-eyed but short-sighted person 
 age) was partly right and mainly wrong. It 
 was true, that Amy and Roberts both pos 
 sessed a remarkable quietness of manner. 
 With Mr. Roberts, it was the effect of a 
 deep-rooted pride, that would have consider 
 ed it a departure from his dignity to be agi 
 tated ; not because self-control was a virtue, 
 but because it was graceful, and was a proof 
 of power and superiority, not to be moved as 
 other people are. He was a man of strong 
 passions and generous emotions ; but he kept 
 them all in subjection to an artificial standard 
 of excellence of his own raising. There 
 was a reserve a want of freedom in him, 
 which had its origin in a want of faith in 
 himself and in others. 
 
 Amy had the same calm and self-collected 
 manner ; but it arose from a different principle. 
 She never thought of the effect of it upon 
 others ; she was unconscious of the power it 
 gave her ; she " wist not that her face shone." 
 Edward Selmar, to whom she was engaged, 
 it is true, differed from herself in all externals. 
 He was frank and talkative ; she was as frank 
 when she did speak, but apt to be silent. 
 He had an excitable, ardent temperament;
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 49 
 
 in her the elements were so harmoniously 
 blended, that all the Christian graces were 
 more natural and easy to her. But, in all 
 essential principles, they were strictly united. 
 The deep under currents of their souls seemed 
 to flow from kindred sources, and mingle 
 together in harmony. Selmar's nature led 
 him to commit many faults, but he was ever 
 ready to confess and amend them. 
 
 Fanny, who, by her wit, her beauty, and 
 her many nameless attractions, had captivated 
 Mr. Roberts, was so made up of faults and 
 excellences was so whimsical so apt to 
 do wrong so sure to be sorry for it so 
 unkind in her actions at one time so mag 
 nanimous at another so without a principle 
 of right, and yet so full of all good things by 
 nature, that one might as well attempt to 
 catch and analyze a jack o' lantern as to 
 describe her. She was, however, the only 
 being in the world who had succeeded in 
 destroying Mr. Roberts' self-control, and 
 causing his prudence to be questioned. 
 
 As soon as a house could be furnished, and 
 all the fashionable paraphernalia for a bride 
 provided, Fanny and Mr. Roberts were mar 
 ried. 
 
 Next to the barbarity of the pomp and cir- 
 4 

 
 50 SKETCHES OF 
 
 cumstance of funerals, comes that of the for 
 malities and shows at weddings. It will be 
 said by some, "Is it not a fit time for a festi 
 val, when two loving hearts are united?" 
 Surely, if it be a heart-felt festival ; but have 
 our wedding visits and wedding parties this 
 character ? It is dress dress ; there is no 
 heart in it. The bride and bridegroom, if 
 they really love each other, cannot be in 
 terested in such empty show. Life has a 
 new and a more deep reality to them. They 
 can sympathize only in what is simple and 
 true. 
 
 All the world had assembled to pay their 
 compliments to the new-married couple. 
 Edward Selmar was standing by Amy Wes- 
 ton : he looked dejected. " If we are ever 
 married, Amy," he said to her, " we will not 
 have such a foolish parade as this. How 
 intolerable it must be to Roberts and Fanny ! 
 The tears are hardly dry upon poor Fanny's 
 cheek, which the ceremony called forth. She 
 looks like a victim. I think there is more 
 sense in doing as a couple did, who came 
 into a clergyman's house where I was visiting 
 the other evening. The man said, as he 
 entered, ' We have been calculating, sir, a 
 good while, to be married ; and we thought,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 51 
 
 4 
 
 as we were going by this evening, we would 
 just stop in, and be made man and wife. 5 " 
 
 " I cannot say," replied Amy, " that I 
 should fancy that way, though I do not like 
 
 this. We must not do as Dr. used 
 
 to say some folks did stand so upright as 
 to bend backwards." 
 
 " Do, Amy, look at Roberts, among all 
 those fashionables ; he looks in a sort of 
 maze. There goes Mrs. Lovell, to congratu 
 late him. How patronizing she looks ! How 
 foolish he appears. She is making much of 
 him. Deliver me from being patronized by 
 her!" 
 
 " Never fear, till you ride in your own 
 coach again. She patronizes no one who 
 goes afoot, or who is not distinguished in 
 some way or other. The sanction of public 
 opinion is necessary to secure her attentions." 
 
 " I detest such a character." 
 
 " It deserves more to be pitied. She shows 
 that she has a very low estimate of the value 
 of her own opinion that she does not judge 
 for herself. She does not value her own 
 honest thought even as much as we value it. 
 She is, in the main, kind-hearted, and would 
 be good, if she only had the courage to be 
 so."
 
 52 SKETCHES OF 
 
 $ 
 
 " It is all worldly-mindedness and ambition. 
 I am sick of it. How much longer do you 
 mean to stay, Amy ? " 
 
 " Do not you remain any longer, if you 
 wish to go, Edward." Amy spoke very 
 kindly, but Edward's mind was out of tune. 
 
 " It is not so easy," he replied, " for me to 
 leave you as you seem to suppose, Amy." 
 
 " You mistook me, Edward. You know 
 that, as Fanny's intimate friend, people would 
 think it very strange, if I were to go away 
 now." 
 
 " People would think ! These are the 
 magic words that govern the fashionable 
 world." 
 
 " They do not. you know, govern me, 
 Edward. If you really wish me to go home 
 now, I will go ; for, though I should other 
 wise prefer to remain, that is a trifle ; while 
 giving you pain can never be a trifle." 
 v " No, no, Amy ; I am not so bad as that. 
 I will stay, and try to be agreeable.. Let the 
 world govern whom it may. I am contented 
 to be governed by you." 
 
 " But I have no desire to take upon me 
 such an office." 
 
 " That is the very reason why I wish you 
 to hold it," replied Edward.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 53 
 
 ; ': : ; /** ., 
 
 " Come, come," said a brisk-looking lady, 
 who just then joined them ; " this is as bad 
 as for married people to be talking together 
 in company ; it is not fair. Tell me if you 
 have heard of the affair that took place at 
 Mrs. Longman's party." 
 
 " No," was the answer. 
 
 " O, I am glad of it. It is a capital story, 
 and I will tell you all about it. Mrs. Long 
 man had a large party of young people, and r 
 in order to entertain her company, made a 
 sort of lottery, in which every one present 
 was offered a ticket the number of each 
 ticket answering to that of one of the couplets 
 contained in two baskets, one for the ladies, 
 and the other for the gentlemen. When 
 Mr. Sharp's number was called, what do you 
 think he drew ? You know he is the very 
 genius of dullness. 
 
 'You are too tedious too prosing too sleepy; 
 What lady could fancy Sir Samuel SheepyT 
 
 Then little Miss Black was called up, a min 
 iature belle, not more than sixteen. (You 
 know she looks like a child.) She had these 
 
 lines for her portion of the amusement : 
 
 i 
 
 ' If so soon, little miss, for a husband you sigh, 
 A gingerbread one I advise you to buy.' 
 
 *s
 
 
 54 SKETCHES OF 
 
 She actually shook her little elbows with 
 vexation. A sort of titter ran through the 
 whole room. Then, you know Mr. Brush, 
 who is a very sensible man, but very partic 
 ular and quiddling he received this for his 
 dose: 
 
 1 Do walk like a man, and leave off that diddle; 
 The lady you love can't marry a quiddle.' 
 
 He supplied the last word himself, saying, 
 c That means me,' and walked off to a corner 
 of the room. There were many more almost 
 incredible chance-strokes of the same kind ; 
 but, worse than all, when the rich Miss 
 Reed's number was called, she came up, 
 laughing, and these words were heard all 
 through the room : 
 
 'Although his words are sweet as honey, 
 His heart is fixed upon your money.' 
 
 Every one knows that she was always a 
 little suspicious, though unjustly, that the 
 gentleman she was engaged to was influenced 
 in his choice by mercenary views. She 
 grew crimson red, and she and her lover 
 forthwith departed, evidently .thinking this 
 was a questionable sort of pastime. Many 
 tore their tickets in pieces, and said they did
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 55 
 
 not wish a prize in such a lottery. One after 
 another left the room, looking as if they had 
 had their noses pulled. Mrs. Longman or 
 dered in the ice creams flew from one side 
 of the room to the other fidgeted about, 
 and wondered why people went away so 
 early. She said, ' It was curious, how things 
 turned out sometimes. She thought that 
 this would be so entertaining.' Nobody 
 minded her ice creams, or her remarks ; they 
 only seemed anxious to get out of the house. 
 But the worst plight of all, perhaps, was that 
 of the ladies who had written these saucy 
 things, at Mrs. Longman's request, without 
 an idea of the possibility of such a catastrophe 
 as they witnessed. At first, they stood it 
 pretty well ; but I saw them grow redder 
 and redder ; and they looked, at last, as if 
 the candles burned blue, and they thought 
 they saw evil spirits. Poor Mrs. Longman 
 was sick a-bed the next day. A capital story, 
 is it not ? O, there's Mr. Henry. He likes 
 a good story ; I must tell it to him." And 
 away she went, to tell it to the rest of the 
 company. 
 
 " Did you," said Edward, " observe Mrs. 
 Manners' eyes how they wandered, while
 
 56 SKETCHES OP 
 
 she was telling that story ? They were in 
 search of the next person to whom she intend 
 ed to relate it. She reminded me of a person 
 whom you meet on his way to a steam-boat, 
 or rail-car, whose face says, all the time ' I fear 
 I shall be too late.' She told the story well, 
 and she is very sensible ; but what a pity that 
 she loves admiration so much. Did you see 
 her take notice of herself, and adjust her 
 sleeves as she passed the pier glass ? but she 
 does not patronize, so I forgive her." 
 
 " It is not fair," said Amy, " to stand here 
 criticising others, instead of being agreeable 
 yourself, as you promised you would." 
 
 " I am taking the part of listener," said 
 Edward, " which is always acceptable if it is 
 done well." 
 
 "A warm evening," said a young lady 
 who was near. 
 
 " duite warm," replied Edward. 
 
 " Delightful party, is it not ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, of course." 
 
 " How beautifully the bride looks." 
 
 " Yes, she is beautiful." 
 
 "Don't you think brides always look 
 handsome ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Is not her dress superb."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. O/ 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " I hear that Mr. Roberts is a delightful 
 man : is he not ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am much attached to Mr. Roberts." 
 
 " I never talk with him, I hear he is so 
 learned. I never talk with philosophers, I 
 am afraid of them. I& Mrs. Roberts blue ? " 
 
 " What do you call blue ? " 
 
 " Oh a lady that reads reviews, under 
 stands the onomies, the ologies, physics, 
 metaphysics, &c. &c." 
 
 Here the lady laughed. Before Mr. Sel- 
 mar could answer her question she tried 
 another subject. 
 
 " Have you been to the centre-table and 
 seen the caricatures ? " 
 
 " No ; I do not like caricatures, unless they 
 are very good." 
 
 " Do n't you ? I think they are beautiful ; 
 perhaps you do not like parties ? " 
 
 "Not much." 
 
 " You do n't say so ; I think they are beau 
 tiful ; there is nothing I admire so much. 
 Oh hush ; Miss Treville is going to sing. I 
 am so fond of music, my favorite song too." 
 
 After beating time through one bar with 
 her pretty fan, she entered into a loud whis 
 pering conversation with a young beau who
 
 00 SKETCHES OF 
 
 stood next to her, which she continued 
 through the remainder of the song." 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Selmar," said the 
 young lady, " that Miss Sidney is going to 
 marry Mr. Wright ? " 
 
 " No, I did not." 
 
 " Why all the world are talking about it," 
 said the young man. 
 
 " Are they ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ; and they wonder such a man 
 should marry such a woman, to whom he 
 will always have to play second fiddle." 
 
 " What do you suppose, is the reason, Mr. 
 Selmar," said the belle, " that ordinary men 
 so often take a fancy to these very fine 
 women ? " 
 
 " I suppose," answered Edward, " they 
 have the organ of marvelousness very large, 
 and for this reason are liable to being smitten 
 with what is to them most mysterious, and 
 altogether beyond their comprehension." 
 
 " How severe you are this evening," said 
 the belle, laughing. 
 
 " But how, in such a case, do you account 
 for the lady's choice ? " asked the beau. 
 
 " That is a question too deep for my 
 philosophy," replied Edward. 
 
 She then resumed her gossip with the 
 beau, in an affected whisper.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 59 
 
 I -v 
 
 "Do you know," said she, "that Miss 
 Belmont the authoress is here ? " 
 
 " Oh no, I should like to see a live au 
 thoress of note. I have never seen a first- 
 rate specimen. Where is she ? " 
 
 " There she is by Mrs. Lovell, dressed in 
 blue." 
 
 " That's right, shows her colors, so that 
 they who have not courage to meet her may 
 have a chance to run away, And live to fight 
 another day." 
 
 " It seems to me that she looks quite like 
 other folks." 
 
 " Yes ; no one would think that she was 
 anything remarkable." 
 
 " I dare say she is much overrated," said 
 the belle. 
 
 " This is very natural," answered the beau. 
 " It is so unusual for us Americans to have a 
 live curiosity of our own ; most of those we 
 have are stuffed, and came from foreign 
 parts." 
 
 Both laughed at this jeu d' esprit, and even 
 Edward smiled. 
 
 " I mean," said the lady, " to be introduced 
 to her." 
 
 "Do you? why what will you say to 
 her?"
 
 60 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " Oh I do n't intend to talk with her ; I only 
 want to be able to say that I have been in 
 troduced to her." 
 
 " She is not half so imposing in her ap 
 pearance as the lady who is standing near 
 her." 
 
 " No she has nothing of the true haut ton." 
 
 c: Very true : just compare her with Mrs. 
 Lovell, who stands by her. Miss Belmont 
 looks as if she forgot she was in company." 
 
 " Do n't you think she is graceful ? " said 
 Mr. Selmar. 
 
 " Why yes, rather graceful," replied the 
 belle. 
 
 " I think there is great dignity in her sim 
 plicity," added Mr. Selmar. 
 
 " Now I notice it, she is rather dignified." 
 
 " Then she looks so loveable." 
 
 " That is true, she has a look as if one 
 might love her. I wonder if she is writing a 
 book ! I mean to ask her." 
 
 " Do you think," asked Selmar, " that 
 would be' an agreeable question to her ? " 
 
 " Oh la ! she must be hardened to all such 
 things by this time. Come, Mr. Bowman, 
 now is a good time for us to be introduced to 
 her ; but we must take care of what we say, 
 or we shall get into her next book."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 61 
 
 " Yes," said the gentleman, " whenever 
 you associate with an authoress, your great 
 object must be to keep out of her books." 
 This sapient couple then tripped away, laugh 
 ing at their own stale jests. Mr. Selmar 
 looked up at Amy with a doleful expression 
 of face, as much as to say, Can this be en 
 dured any longer ? when Mr. Weston joined 
 them. 
 
 " I saw you, father," said Amy, " talking 
 with Miss Belmont, and I thought you look 
 ed pleased." 
 
 " Yes, I was rather pleased ; all the world 
 calls her agreeable. It is a pity that she 
 thinks she knows anything of politics. I 
 cannot bear to hear a woman talk politics." 
 
 " Is it not of equal importance to a woman 
 as to a man, what the government is under 
 which she lives ? and if so, is it not natural 
 that she should have some opinion ? " 
 
 " The wisest and best have agreed that 
 women are not equal to deciding upon the 
 great questions relating to government." 
 
 " The wisest and best are always men, are 
 they not, father ? " 
 
 " All the sensible women of my acquaint 
 ance," said Mr. Weston, who did not choose 
 to answer Amy's question, " agree with the
 
 62 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 great majority of men, in thinking that the 
 female mind is not equal to politics." 
 
 Amy was always silent when her father 
 talked about the female mind : she was so 
 heterodox as to believe that mind was of no 
 sex ; but she knew she could not change her 
 father's opinion. 
 
 " Amy," said Fanny, as she bade her good 
 night, " remember that you have not yet re 
 signed your office of monitor." 
 
 " Yes I have," replied Amy, " to Mr. 
 Roberts, as his sole right." 
 
 " No ! no ! I do not consent. I am more 
 used to being good with you ; and besides, 
 Mr. Roberts is too indulgent, he lets me be 
 as naughty as I please." 
 
 " I trust that he will be a truer friend than 
 that," said Amy, and they parted. 
 
 And now all the company one after another 
 took their leave. It seemed as if the lights 
 gradually faded away, and the flowers droop 
 ed as each belle with her attendant beau 
 departed.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ' Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
 And passions hold a fluctuating seat; 
 But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, 
 And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 
 Duty exists." WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " I HAVE been out of tune this evening," 
 said Edward, as soon as he and Amy were 
 alone together. 
 
 "So I have observed ; and I was sorry to 
 see it." 
 
 " Perhaps you have blamed me for it." 
 
 " I thought, Edward, it would have been 
 better, if you had been more willing to be 
 pleased, particularly as it was Fanny's wed 
 ding." 
 
 "You do not sympathize with my state of 
 feeling, Amy." 
 
 " I think I can understand and excuse your 
 feelings, though I do not sympathize with 
 them." 
 
 "But I should be better pleased, if you 
 did."
 
 fi SKETCHES OF 
 
 " What ! if you did not feel rightly, Ed 
 ward ? " 
 
 " It may be a great fault in me, but I fear 
 I do." 
 
 " You do yourself injustice, Edward. We 
 have agreed that we will be faithful friends 
 to each other, not flatterers." 
 
 " True, Amy ; but you forget the peculiar 
 trials of my case ; to have lost my property 
 just at this moment, when I am sure of your 
 love. But for my misfortunes, we might be 
 married, as well as Fanny and Roberts. O, 
 Amy, I have not felt like a Christian this 
 evening ; I have been envious of the happi 
 ness of my friend." 
 
 "Have faith have patience; all will yet 
 be well." 
 
 " It must be so long before I can possess 
 such a property as will satisfy your father's 
 ambition ; perhaps never." 
 
 " Should not this uncertainty about the 
 future teach us to make the most of the 
 present ? " 
 
 " I cannot be so very reasonable as you 
 are, Amy." 
 
 " Do not mistake me, Edward ; do not 
 think me cold, because, when I am with 
 you, I am too happy to think of the future.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 65 
 
 Our love is a present, enduring reality, into 
 which the spirit of fear cannot enter ; is it 
 not, Edward?" 
 
 "You are right, Amy, and I have been 
 wrong. Yours is the true, the heavenly 
 love all hoping, all trusting. You shall 
 help me to subdue the spirit of complaint. 
 You have already put a better heart into me." 
 
 In man's impatience under suffering, is 
 there not something of that sense of superior 
 ity which was the origin of the slavish state 
 in which woman has existed for ages, and to- 
 which she is still doomed in many parts of 
 the world? When exposed to the same 
 trials, do we not often see the woman endur 
 ing with a quiet patience, a cheerful cour 
 age ; while lordly man either submits with a 
 cold and haughty calmness, or fiercely resists 
 and complains, as if his chartered rights were 
 infringed. This gives rise to a fault in 
 woman, which deserves still more to be rep 
 robated ; it is that of flattering this weakness 
 in man, and, by that means, gaining by art 
 that ascendancy over him, which he finds so 
 much self-complacency in thinking he pos 
 sesses over her by nature. In both sexes, it 
 is an unrighteous love of dominion. Amy 
 equally detested any approach to the character
 
 66 SKETCHES OF 
 
 of tyrant or slave. She would neither flatter 
 nor be flattered. It was this noble inde 
 pendence of soul that first attracted Edward ; 
 and, although his self-love was sometimes 
 tried by it, yet did he always love and honor 
 her the more for her faithful allegiance to 
 his as well as her own principle of action. 
 
 After a silence of some minutes, Edward 
 resumed the conversation. 
 
 " I know, Amy, that you will have patience 
 with me ; but there is something almost in 
 tolerable in the state in which I am now 
 placed. Every one appears to me to look 
 differently upon me, since I lost my property, 
 except you ; and the only way in which I 
 can win back their regard the only way in 
 which I can win even you, Amy, is by gain 
 ing money. How I hate the very word ! 
 and yet, never before did I so desire the 
 thing." 
 
 " There is another and a far more just 
 view of your case, Edward." 
 
 "What is it, Amy?" 
 
 " Has not your failure discovered to you, 
 as well as to me, that we are bound together 
 by stronger ties than prosperity could have 
 formed? Do we not suffer together? Did 
 you not tell my father that you were satis 
 fied?"
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 67 
 
 *'* 4'" ^? * 
 
 " And I ought to be satisfied. I asked I 
 wanted nothing of him but his daughter, 
 when I can maintain her. But this odious 
 money, Amy." 
 
 " Come ! you must not quarrel so with mon 
 ey, at the same time that you say that with it 
 you can possess my hand. This is not very 
 gallant in you, Edward. I shall expect you 
 to think that money-making is very pleasant 
 work, for my sake. I only wish I could 
 help you, and do something myself; but, on 
 the contrary, here I am doomed to useless- 
 ness, because my father is a rich man." 
 
 " You are right, Amy ; you are right, and 
 I am all wrong. You shall not see me so 
 weak again. I will learn to love to make 
 bargains ; accounts, price currents, invoices, 
 shall be dear to me ; arid all the cheating I 
 see, I will forgive, for your sake." 
 
 A few days afterwards, Edward informed 
 Amy that he had made a final settlement 
 with his creditors. His affairs had turned 
 out better than he had feared. He had been 
 able to pay seventy-five cents on a dollar, 
 and had received a full release from all fur 7 
 ther claims. He then told her that he had 
 resolved to accept a very advantageous pro 
 posal, which had been made to him, to go to
 
 68 SKETCHES OF 
 
 China; that he might be gone two years, 
 perhaps more ; but that he trusted that he 
 should return with such a fortune as would 
 enable them to be married. 
 
 Poor Amy ! It was now Edward's turn 
 to teach resignation and hope. He who 
 makes a brave and cheerful sacrifice to duty, 
 always seems to acquire a new power of en 
 durance a self-supporting energy, that di 
 rectly transforms him into the comforter of 
 those for whom he devotes himself. 
 
 " And it is for me, Edward, that you are 
 leaving your country, your home ; it is for 
 me that you are risking your health, your 
 life." 
 
 "It is for myself," replied Edward. " I 
 have no true happiness, till you are my wife. 
 It is for myself; for I have no home, till you 
 are its guardian angel." 
 
 When Edward told Mr. Weston of his 
 determination, he expressed his approbation 
 in more decided terms than it was his habit 
 to do. " It seems," he said, " to promise 
 well. Some of our first men have made 
 their fortupes in this way. Your engage 
 ment to my daughter is unfortunate." 
 
 Poor Edward writhed under the torture of 
 listening to this and a few more remarks of
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 69 
 
 the same sort, and, after a short silence, said, 
 " I sail to-morrow, sir. I hope, if my life is 
 spared, that, on my return, I shall find you 
 well and happy, and, if I should be success 
 ful, that you will" he hesitated "look 
 upon me with more favorable eyes than you 
 do at present." 
 
 He rose to depart. The world had left a 
 little piece of Mr. Weston's heart unspoiled. 
 He was touched at the thought of the sacri 
 fice Edward was making at the thought of 
 that if which involves the question of life 
 and death ; he remembered his late coldness 
 and neglect ; for once, he forgot the opinion 
 of the world, and, without consulting the 
 wisest and best, he reached out his hand to 
 Edward, and said, " God bless you ! " 
 
 There was little conversation between 
 Edward and Amy, the last evening they 
 passed together. O, those sad words " the 
 last ! " With what a leaden weight do the 
 minutes seem to press on our hearts, when 
 their number can be counted before that shall 
 arrive which parts us from one who is dearer 
 to us than life ! We cannot we dare not 
 describe the parting between Amy and Ed 
 ward. Such scenes are too holy for any but 
 angels to look upon.
 
 70 SKETCHES OF 
 
 Amy's wakeful eye caught the first streak 
 of early dawn, the next morning. If the 
 wind was favorable, the vessel was to sail. 
 We have never understood the full power of 
 the sound of the wind, if we have not heard 
 it at the moment when its invisible wings 
 are bearing the object of an intense love far, 
 far away. It seemed, this morning, as if it 
 breathed on Amy's very soul, as it rose in 
 prayer to God for a blessing on him she 
 loved. 
 
 " What way is the wind ? " she inquired 
 of Ruth, who entered softly, to make her 
 fire before she rose. 
 
 " Due west, ma'am ; not a cloud as big as 
 my hand in the whole sky." 
 
 Amy sighed heavily. 
 
 " Cheer up, Miss Amy ; God is where he 
 was. Mr. Edward will be taken good care 
 of, depend upon it he's acted so honorably." 
 
 These simple words from the kind-hearted 
 Ruth seemed to do Amy good. She rose 
 and dressed herself, and made an effort to 
 appear at the morning meal, and pour out her 
 father's coffee with something of her usual 
 cheerfulness. Even Mr. Weston appreciated 
 this little sacrifice to duty ; for, after break 
 fast, he said to her, with great tenderness,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 71 
 
 " Edward has a fair wind, my child, and his 
 prospects are very good. I like his spirit." 
 
 Little as this may seem, it was a great 
 deal to Amy, and strengthened her in her 
 resolution to seek for consolation, during her 
 separation from Edward, in a more active 
 performance of duty, let that duty be what it 
 might. 
 
 While they were at breakfast, Jerry ar 
 rived, and inquired for Ruth. 
 
 " O dear ! " groaned out Jerry, as soon as 
 he saw Ruth. 
 
 " What 's the matter now, Jerry ? and 
 where did you come from ? " 
 
 " Why, I have just come in from father's 
 farm, and I feel so ugly about Mr. Selmar's 
 going away." 
 
 " And so do I," replied Ruth, " and so 
 does other folks ; but what 's the use of talk 
 ing of it ? It 's fetching tow to put out the 
 fire with." 
 
 " Well, this I know," said Jerry ; " I have 
 been as faithful to him as I knew how." 
 
 "Nobody says you have not, Jerry; but 
 self-praise goes but little ways. Do n't yon 
 want some breakfast ? " 
 
 As Ruth said this, she placed a chair at 
 the breakfast table for him. Jerry seated
 
 72 SKETCHES OF 
 
 himself, saying, as he did so, " Why, I do n't 
 know but I do want some breakfast ; for I 
 have nothing in my stomach but my sins." 
 
 " No wonder you groan so dreadfully," said 
 Ruth. " But what did you want of me, 
 Jerry ? " 
 
 " Why, you see, Ruth, I have got an idea 
 in my head." 
 
 " Have you, Jerry ? Better keep it there, 
 and make the most of it, as a sort of nest-egg." 
 
 " Come, Ruth, you are too hard upon me, 
 considering I have had no breakfast yet." 
 
 After Jerry had done his best to remedy 
 this difficulty, he said to Ruth, " I want to 
 know, Ruth, if you think Miss Amy would 
 really like Robinette ? " 
 
 " I do n't know, and I do n't want to know 
 anything about it," replied Ruth, very crusti 
 ly. " I sha' n't meddle nor make with other 
 folks' business again in a hurry, you may 
 depend upon it. He that goes out after 
 wool, comes home shorn ; " and Ruth flaunt 
 ed out of the room, as she said this. 
 
 Jerry, however, was not to be so easily 
 discouraged. He was too well pleased with 
 having an idea, to part with it till he had 
 made some use of it. When he had finished 
 his repast, he asked leave to see Mr. Weston.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 73 
 
 " What is your business with me ? " said 
 Mr. Weston, as Jerry entered. 
 
 " Why, you see, sir," said Jerry, turning 
 his hat round and round, and picking off 
 every little scrap of dust he could discover 
 on it, " you see, sir, it 's about Robinette. 
 My father, in the country, keeps horses ; and 
 when he found I had Robinette to sell, he 
 bought him ; and I got him to say, that if I 
 was ever able to lay down the cash for him, 
 he 'd let me take him at the same price, with 
 a trifle to boot for keeping." 
 
 " Well, Jerry, what of that ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, when I heard that Mr. Selmar 
 was going away, I thought that, considering 
 how things are, you would, may-be, like to 
 make a trade with me." 
 
 " I suppose you mean buy him, Jerry." 
 
 " Why, yes, sir, that 's my idea ; and I 
 can tell you that he 's as good a horse as 
 ever snapped ; and I kind o' guess Miss Amy 
 would set more by him than any other horse." 
 
 Mr. Weston's heart was somewhat tender 
 at the moment, and he resolved to purchase 
 the horse for Amy. He agreed to pay Jerry 
 his price, and desired him to bring Robinette 
 on the 1st of January, which was at hand, 
 but desired Jerry to say nothing about it.
 
 74 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 Jerry went out exulting, and snapping his 
 fingers at Ruth with great glee. 
 
 " What has happened ? " asked Ruth. 
 "Has Mr. Weston taken the horse?" 
 
 " You remember," said Jerry, " that this is 
 none of your business. I can keep a secret 
 as well as you, Ruth." 
 
 " Your being so tickled does not argue 
 that Miss Amy is going to have Robinette," 
 replied Ruth. " A little pot is soon hot. I 
 would not give much for your secret." 
 
 Jerry ran off. It was his only chance for 
 safety from Ruth's tongue. 

 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 1 The heart that feels for others' woes 
 Shall feel each selfish sorrow less ; 
 His breast who happiness bestows 
 Reflected happiness shall bless." 
 
 ARMINE AND ELVIRA. 
 
 THE resolution which Amy had formed 
 the morning her lover sailed, to seek for 
 consolation during his absence in a more 
 active performance of duty, did not pass 
 away with that intense feeling of loss, that 
 sense of utter desolation, which pressed upon 
 her heart at the time she made it, and which 
 happily for us cannot be an enduring state of 
 mind. 
 
 Fidelity to duty was no new thing to her ; 
 but Amy had made progress in her notions of 
 what duty was. To attend faithfully and 
 with a cheerful spirit to her father's house 
 hold, to be his companion and friend, as far 
 as the great dissimilarity of their characters 
 allowed, to promote the interest and welfare 
 as far as she could of every individual of the
 
 76 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 house, all this was so natural and easy, that 
 it no longer required an effort ; neither did 
 she neglect her duties to herself, to her own 
 mind ; but Edward's example had kindled in 
 her heart a higher ambition than she had 
 ever before felt. There was stirring in Amy's 
 soul, that feeling of discontent, which is eve 
 the first motion towards the attainment of a 
 higher degree of excellence than we have yet 
 reached. She had hitherto been in the habit 
 of giving a portion of the money she had at 
 her own disposal, to those who had the care 
 of the poor, to be employed by them for 
 their benefit. She now resolved to be her 
 own almoner, and to exercise that higher 
 charity which bids us give our time, our 
 thoughts, our active sympathy to the poor. 
 Amy soon found that this kept in exercise 
 all the best faculties of her mind, and called 
 upon her for continual sacrifices. She was 
 obliged to practise the strictest economy both 
 of time and money, in order not to neglect 
 any of her duties at home, and to have 
 enough to give to the needy. In order to be 
 a good adviser to the poor, she was obliged to 
 think of all their circumstances and relative 
 duties and rights. Religion became to her 
 mind a more deep, and intense, and affecting
 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 reality than it had ever before been, when 
 she was called upon to give consolation to 
 those who, in the depths of human misery, 
 and bereft of all outward comforts, had lost 
 their faith, and cried out in the agony of their 
 souls " Where now is my hope ? " All this 
 called upon Amy for constant and strenuous 
 effort : she was often wearied, but never dis 
 couraged ; disappointed, but riot disheartened. 
 She made mistakes, but she was patient with 
 herself as she was with others, and even from 
 her errors extracted useful lessons ; and she 
 never allowed any difficulty or failure to dis 
 turb her faith or her good humor. 
 
 Mr. Weston had noticed that Amy was less 
 interested than she had ever before been in 
 parties and amusements ; but he attributed it 
 to Edward's absence. She soon had an op 
 portunity of ascertaining how little sympathy 
 or aid she might expect from him in her pres 
 ent pursuits. 
 
 " Father," she said one morning at break 
 fast, " I want your assistance in a little plan 
 that I have much at heart." 
 
 " What is it, my daughter ? " 
 
 " I know of a number of poor women, who 
 cannot go out to labor for the support of their 
 families, because they cannot leave their
 
 78 SKETCHES OF 
 
 children ; now I want to find a competent 
 person, who will take the charge of these 
 little children for a few hours of every day, 
 instruct them and make them happy. In 
 order that the teacher of this infant school 
 should he well paid, my funds must be con 
 siderably enlarged ; and if you think it 
 proper, I would like to have some aid from 
 you, father." 
 
 " I have great doubts about such institu 
 tions, Amy." 
 
 " What are your objections, father ? " 
 
 " In the first place, I much doubt the ex 
 pediency of teaching the poor ; it makes 
 them discontented." 
 
 " But, father, most of them are babies, 
 what they learn cannot harm them, if knowl 
 edge were ever so dangerous ; the principal 
 object is to enable their mothers to work for 
 their support. You know not, dear father, 
 what the poor suffer ; I have been among 
 them, and I know what they endure." 
 
 " Let me tell you, Amy, that I do not ap 
 prove of your going among the poor ; you are 
 in danger of taking some disease ; it is not a 
 proper employment for a young lady in your 
 station of life, and with your prospects. This 
 duty, if it be one, should be left to those who 
 are nearer their own level."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 79 
 
 " I should be sorry, father, to leave to the 
 poor all the luxury of doing good. If you 
 had been with me, sometimes when I have 
 had the happiness to lessen some of their 
 sorrows, you would not wonder that I take 
 the pleasure I do in visiting them. Oh, 
 father, I have witnessed such gentle patience 
 under acute pain, such calm faith, such holy 
 trust under the severest trials " 
 
 " I always avoid such scenes," replied her 
 father; "Providence has taken care of me 
 and mine, and I am grateful. As I could not 
 therefore be a good counsellor to those who 
 suffer, and as my nerves are too weak to bear 
 the sight of misery, I keep out of the way of 
 such things." 
 
 " But. would it not be well, father, to save 
 these little children from suffering, if we 
 could ? " 
 
 " Where are the fathers of these children ? 
 Why do not their fathers support them ? " 
 
 " Some of them are dead, some are worse 
 than dead vicious; others are absent, and 
 others are incapacitated for labor by disease." 
 
 " You are meddling, Amy, with things out 
 of the sphere of a young lady's walk of life ; 
 the wisest and best have agreed that the poor 
 ought not to marry. All the cases you have
 
 80 SKETCHES OF 
 
 stated are the necessary results of the present 
 vicious state of things : it is only interfering 
 with the wise designs of Providence, to at 
 tempt to prevent the natural consequences 
 and legitimate punishment of what should 
 never have existed. Poverty, my daughter, 
 would die out of itself, but for the mistaken 
 efforts of benevolent enthusiasts. I make it 
 a matter of conscience to do nothing towards 
 perpetuating vice and misery ; the public 
 good requires it, I owe this to the station I 
 hold in society." 
 
 Amy still continued her hopeless appeal to 
 her father's heart. 
 
 " Did not Jesus, father, preach particularly 
 to the poor ? Were not his instructions par 
 ticularly calculated to elevate the poor ? " 
 
 " So far from it, my daughter, that his in 
 structions were, I think, intended to make 
 them quiet and submissive under all the 
 trials of life. Jesus was careful never to 
 meddle with any of the existing relations of 
 society, even that most abject poverty where 
 a man does not possess his own body even 
 slavery. Wise and pious men think it sanc 
 tioned by the conduct and teachings of Jesus 
 Christ." 
 
 Mr. Weston had fairly talked himself into
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 81 
 
 a conviction that he was the true, and Amy 
 the mistaken philanthropist ; and he actually 
 felt an increase of self-satisfaction from the 
 conversation. Amy shuddered at the cold- 
 hearted sophistry of her father's arguments, 
 and this utter perversion of the religion of 
 Jesus. She tried to persuade herself he had 
 blindly adopted these heartless views upon 
 the authority of others. She would have 
 attempted to vindicate Providence, and the 
 friend and Saviour of man from the false 
 charge of approving of evils which are caused 
 by the imperfect institutions and selfish pas 
 sions of men ; but her father's manner con 
 vinced her that he was inaccessible to any 
 arguments that were not sanctioned by the 
 opinion of the world. " I know," thought 
 Amy, " to whom I can go, and who will 
 gladly help me with their money and their 
 sympathy." With these thoughts in her 
 mind Amy endeavored on her way to her 
 cousin's house to chase away the painful im 
 pressions which her conversation with her 
 father had occasioned. She found Fanny at 
 home, and alone, and rejoiced to see her. 
 " Roberts," said Fanny, " has gone to take 
 a long walk into the country with a friend, 
 and I told him that I should be revenged 
 6
 
 82 SKETCHES OF 
 
 upon him for leaving me at home, and alone, 
 all this morning, by being very happy without 
 him ; and you have come just in right time 
 to help me keep my vow." 
 
 " I am sorry he is not at home," said Amy, 
 " for I wanted that he as well as you should 
 engage with me in a little project I have at 
 heart." 
 
 As soon as Amy had told Fanny her 
 plans, and before she had given half her rea 
 sons in favor of them, Fanny's purse was in 
 her hand and open. 
 
 " Tell me what to give, my dear ; you 
 know I have no other use for money than 
 spending it. Take what you want, and do 
 what you will with it ; 1 only stipulate for 
 one regulation in your school." 
 
 " What is that, Fanny ? " 
 
 " That the first efforts for the improvement 
 of the children should be devoted exclusively 
 to the outside. Please my dear, to lay out 
 my money for tubs, and brushes, and soap, 
 and sponges ; let the little brats be all but 
 drowned and flayed alive the first day they 
 enter the school ; and, as you value my friend 
 ship, do not put either of your nice little 
 hands upon one of the little dirty horrors till 
 this operation is duly performed. I should
 
 MARRIED LIFE. OO 
 
 like to endow a washing establishment for 
 all the dirty babies in the country." 
 
 Amy promised that this should be properly 
 attended to. " But Fanny," she said, " you 
 must go with me and see my school when it 
 is established." 
 
 " Certainly," replied Fanny ; " I presume 
 that your prime minister, Ruth, will keep 
 proper dresses for visiters as they do at 
 Niagara for those who go behind the falls ? " 
 
 " I was not aware that any peculiar dress 
 was necessary," said Amy laughing. 
 
 " Oh yes," replied Fanny ; " One ought to 
 wear a drab colored English merino pelisse or 
 gown, an old Leghorn bonnet with an ash 
 colored ribbon on it, and a green old barege 
 veil, dark cotton stockings, with large India 
 rubber shoes, loose cotton gloves with the 
 ends of the fingers hanging over, a shiny look 
 ing black silk bag with a steel clasp, and 
 chain swinging on your arm ; and on rainy 
 days a blue cotton umbrella, or, as Ruth calls 
 it, an amberill : this dress is essential for a 
 visit to a charity school." 
 
 " Come, come, Fanny ! more harm is done 
 to a good cause by ridicule than by pos 
 itive abuse ; you shall not laugh at my 
 school."
 
 84 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " But, Amy, 1 mean to share the ridicule 
 with you ; I know that we shall be laughed 
 at, but I mean to have my share of the sport. 
 Let me see your list of subscribers. It seems 
 to me, Amy, that you have not got the names 
 of the wisest and best ; more sinners than 
 saints on your list. Where shall I put down 
 my name, among the goats, or the sheep, or, 
 as Mr. Skinner says, promiscuously as it 
 were ? " 
 
 " Oh Fanny, you are as full of mischief as 
 ever; I did hope being married would im 
 prove you." 
 
 " That is an obsolete notion, Amy. The 
 march of mind has discovered that matri 
 mony is to character what the alum or 
 some other chemical preparation which the 
 dyers use to set their colors, is to cloth. This 
 is the philosophical meaning of the yankee 
 phrase, ' being fixed down, or settled in 
 life.' " 
 
 Amy observed that while Fanny was 
 rattling on she was preparing to put down 
 her name among her subscribers. She took 
 hold of her hand gently as she said, " Keep 
 the paper, dear, and show it to your husband. 
 I would rather you would consult him first ; 
 he may not approve, you know.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. OO 
 
 Fanny colored slightly, and answered, 
 "He always lets me do as I please about 
 such things ; why should I show it to him ? " 
 
 " But would he not therefore be the more 
 pleased to have you consult him ? I should 
 be glad to know his opinion, and have his 
 counsel. Keep the paper, dear, and send it 
 to me when you have done with it." 
 
 There was a short silence ; then a little 
 more chat, and the cousins parted. Mr. 
 Roberts returned from his walk with that 
 indescribable glow of health and spirits which 
 nothing but exercise in the open air can 
 give. It was just the dinner hour ; but Fanny 
 had been looking for him for some minutes. 
 
 " Well, my dear Fanny," he said, " have 
 you kept your word, and been very happy all 
 this morning ? " 
 
 " Yes, "she replied, " I have been unusually 
 happy ; my friend Amy has been with me ; 
 I always enjoy her society." As she said 
 this, she rang the bell and ordered the dinner 
 to be brought in. There was an emphasis 
 on the words "unusually," and "always," 
 which grated a little on her husband's feel 
 ings ; but he made an effort to forget it, and 
 said, with rather a forced laugh, "I trust 
 you will not carry your revenge so far as to 
 be sorry I have returned."
 
 
 86 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " Wives," said Fanny, " must always be 
 glad to see their lords and masters, come 
 when they may." 
 
 Mr. Roberts made no reply ; the tone of 
 his spirits fell even below their usual level. 
 He was silent and dull during dinner, and 
 immediately after, took the newspaper. Fan 
 ny's heart was troubled ; she was conscious 
 that she had given her husband pain ; but 
 she tried to persuade herself that he was 
 too sensitive, instead of frankly confessing 
 that she had done wrong. Roberts was too 
 proud to say he was hurt at her manner. 
 Presently Fanny remembered the subscrip 
 tion paper for Amy's school. 
 
 "If," said she, "you could lay aside your 
 paper one moment, I have something I want 
 to speak of with you. There is a little 
 charitable project of Amy's, which I should 
 be glad to assist her in, if you approve of it." 
 
 Fanny meant to say just the right thing ; 
 but there was an overstrained respect in her 
 tone, a precision of manner that her husband 
 felt was disagreeable, and her eifort failed to 
 restore him to a cheerful state of mind. 
 
 " I will attend to it," he replied, " as soon 
 as I have finished reading these debates in 
 congress."
 
 MARRIED LITE. 87 
 
 Fanny now thought that she was the 
 aggrieved party, and, drawing a long sigh, she 
 took up a book, and was soon apparently 
 absorbed in its contents. Mr. Roberts finish 
 ed what he was reading, and, looking up, saw 
 his young, beautiful and lovely wife with an 
 expression of sadness in her face. He thought 
 he was foolish to have noticed such a trifle, 
 and that after all it was only Fanny's way ; 
 then he thought of his want of courtesy in 
 not attending to what she had to say to him, 
 and at last he came to the conclusion that 
 after all he alone was to blame. He seated 
 himself by the side of Fanny in the sofa, and 
 said to her in the most affectionate tone, " I 
 fear, my dear wife, that I was not very civil 
 to you ; I am sorry if I gave you pain ; but 
 you hurt me a little by your tone and manner 
 of speaking to me when I returned from my 
 walk." 
 
 " What did I say ? " replied Fanny, " I am 
 unconscious of having done any wrong. " 
 
 " It was but a trifle," replied her husband, 
 and he repeated what she said, and tried to 
 imitate her tone. 
 
 Fanny denied it. " My heart,' 1 she said, 
 " would have forbidden my speaking in such 
 a way to you." Her husband was not con-
 
 88 SKETCHES OF 
 
 vinced, but he could not bear any further 
 contention. 
 
 " Perhaps I was mistaken," he said ; " let 
 it pass. What did you want to speak of with 
 me?" 
 
 Fanny brought the paper, and told him of 
 Amy's school ; but her husband's mind was 
 otherwise occupied. 
 
 " Do just as you please, my dear ; I dare 
 say if Amy and you approve of it, it is a 
 good thing." 
 
 Fanny put down her name for what sum 
 she thought proper, and this trifle as they 
 thought it, was apparently forgotten. In the 
 course of the evening Fanny sent the paper 
 to Amy, and wrote on the envelope, " Mr. 
 Roberts entirely approves of your school. I 
 enclose you my subscription." 
 
 Amy was much pleased at the liberal aid 
 and cordial approbation of her friends in her 
 favorite plan. She found many others wil 
 ling to assist her with their money, or in any 
 other way that she should point out. She 
 discovered that there were not many people 
 who held her father's opinions upon the sub 
 ject of the education of the poor : here and 
 there she met with a loyal conservative of the 
 barbarous times which he represented, stand-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 89 
 
 ing like a blighted tree among the green 
 foliage and full blossoming branches of a 
 more genial, a more hopeful age. 
 
 As Fanny had supposed, Ruth was a great 
 help to Amy in all her labors of charity. If 
 anything was to be sent to the sick or the 
 sorrowful, Ruth was always at leisure to take 
 it : if Amy expressed the apprehension lest 
 she were too much fatigued with her duties 
 at home to visit the poor, she would answer, 
 " Kindness will creep, ma'am, where it can 
 not run ; what good I can do will never hurt 
 me." 
 
 Soon after Amy's school was established, 
 she went to pass the evening at her cousin's. 
 When Mr. Roberts came in, she said to him, 
 " I have been wanting to tell you how much 
 pleased I am that you approve of my school, 
 and to thank you for your very liberal aid." 
 
 Mr. Roberts had only a slight, and that not 
 a very agreeable recollection, of what Fanny 
 had said to him, about the school, and did 
 not know what she had given. 
 
 " I was not aware," he said, " of deserving 
 your thanks ; what school do you mean ? I 
 doubt not, Amy, I shall think well of it, if it is 
 your work." 
 
 "I thought, Fanny, that you wrote me
 
 90 SKETCHES OF 
 
 word that your husband approved of my 
 school." 
 
 " I did so," replied Fanny, " and he cer 
 tainly said that he did ; but we must not ex 
 pect men who are so entirely occupied with 
 rail-roads, and silk-worms, coal-mines, and 
 sugar-beets, Swedish turnips and steam-boats, 
 to think of such common things as dirty 
 crying children. You know that he is now 
 engaged in public improvements, which, if 
 you have observed, have no reference to the 
 individual good of human beings. On they 
 go, these public improvers like their own 
 steam-engines, running over blind men and 
 pigs, deaf old women and cows, children and 
 geese ; and the best you can hope for is, that, 
 out of common mercy, they will invent a 
 contrivance by which they can catch up 
 whoever is in their way, and carry him off, 
 nolens volens, nobody knows where. If your 
 school could be benefited by a rail-road to 
 Chargoggagoggmanchoggagogg Pond. I advise 
 you, my dear, to come to Mr. Roberts for 
 assistance." 
 
 Fanny paused here, because she was out of 
 breath ; she observed that her husband did 
 not much relish what she intended for sport, 
 but she enjoyed it herself too well to stop
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 91 
 
 even for his sake. She continued, " I heard, 
 the other day, of one poor fellow who ven 
 tured on the top of a rail-road car which went 
 at such a rate that when he stopped, and 
 happened to look in the glass, he discovered 
 that he had lost his wig, nose, and teeth on 
 the road." 
 
 " What nonsense, Fanny ! come be serious, 
 I want to tell Mr. Roberts how well my 
 school succeeds. It is your fault, I doubt not, 
 that he knows nothing of it." 
 
 " When did you ever speak of it ? " asked 
 her husband. 
 
 " The day," replied Fanny, " when you 
 and Mr. Elton walked out to Brookline and 
 returned so late to dinner." 
 
 " I remember it all now ; " said Mr. Rob 
 erts, " I believe, however. I was in season 
 for dinner." A slight shade came over his 
 face as he spoke. 
 
 " I do n't think I looked at the paper at 
 all, or knew what Fanny subscribed. I felt 
 sure that if it was a plan of yours, Amy, I 
 should like it, and that whatever money 
 Fanny gave for that objact would be well 
 spent." 
 
 There was an emphasis upon the last part 
 of this remark ; for Mr. Roberts had lately
 
 92 SKETCHES OF 
 
 thought his wife foolishly and wastefully 
 extravagant in her expenses, and he had 
 once intended to say so ; but his remem 
 brance of the pain he felt, at the little mis 
 understanding we have before mentioned, 
 made him unwilling to speak, lest Fanny 
 should be displeased. Unconsciously, the 
 smothered disapprobation he had felt towards 
 his wife had affected the whole tone of his 
 remarks, and gave them the appearance of a 
 decided censure. Fanny felt it deeply, and 
 was much irritated. 
 
 " I well know," she said, " that Amy is a 
 far better judge of every thing than I am. 
 Suppose, my dear, we let her plan all our 
 proceedings ; and suppose that, in order that 
 all your money should be well spent, you 
 keep the purse altogether to yourself ; and I 
 will come to you, when I want a paper of 
 pins, and say, Please, Mr. Roberts, give me a 
 quarter of a dollar, to buy me some pins." 
 
 All this was said with a forced laugh ; but 
 any one, who understood Fanny's face, might 
 see that it was only a strong effort of pride, 
 that kept her from bursting into tears. Mr. 
 Roberts felt he had been unjust and unkind 
 to his wife ; he saw how deeply he had hurt 
 her ; he knew, that if he thought her extrav-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 93 
 
 agant in her expenses, he ought to have told 
 her of it at another time, and in another way. 
 He was angry with himself; he wanted to 
 say this to her, but how could he before 
 another person ? 
 
 Poor Amy knew not what to say. She 
 felt that she was in the way ; but what could 
 she do ? Presently she said, " Fanny, dear, 
 you promised to visit my school. If Mr. 
 Roberts be at leisure, I shall expect you both 
 to-morrow." 
 
 By this time, they had recovered their 
 self-possession, and Mr. Roberts said he 
 would gladly come. 
 
 The remainder of the evening passed off 
 heavily, in spite of some unsuccessful efforts 
 which Mr. Roberts made to entertain Amy. 
 There was wanting that most essential charm 
 in an intercourse between friends frank- 
 hearted truth, and a fearless expression of it. 
 
 As soon as they were alone, Mr. Roberts 
 said to Fanny, " My dear wife, how could I 
 give you so much pain ? I know not what 
 possessed me. I did not think of the con 
 struction that might be put upon what I said." 
 
 Fanny could only answer by her tears. 
 At last, when she was able to speak, she 
 said, " What could induce you, William, to
 
 94 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 speak as you did ? If you have thought me 
 extravagant about money, why not tell me 
 so?" 
 
 Mr. Roberts had not the courage to be true 
 to himself and to his wife, and tell her all he 
 had thought and felt. He answered in a 
 hurried and evasive manner. 
 
 " I do n't know what made me so irritable, 
 my dear Fanny. Spend money as you please, 
 only forgive and love me. I cannot forgive 
 myself for having caused you so much pain, 
 you must think me so very unkind." 
 
 " Let it all be forgotten," said Fanny. " I 
 knew that you could not be really unkind. 
 I was wrong for feeling so much about it." 
 
 They both agreed that they would avoid 
 such painful subjects for the future. 
 
 Amy was rejoiced, when her friends came 
 to fulfil their engagement the next morning, 
 to see that harmony was restored between 
 them. They seemed, she thought, even 
 more than usually attentive and affectionate 
 in their manner towards each other. When 
 Amy was exhibiting her school to Mr. Rob 
 erts, she called his attention to her nice wash 
 room for the children. There were tubs, 
 and basins, and all proper washing apparatus, 
 nicely arranged ; and the appearance of the
 
 . 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 95 
 
 *4 
 
 children testified to their proper application. 
 Mr. Roberts expressed his particular approba 
 tion of this part of the establishment. 
 
 " Come here, Fanny," he said to his wife 
 " come and praise Amy for her faithful atten 
 tion to this most essential means of elevating 
 and improving the poor. See what a com 
 plete washing apparatus she has for them." 
 
 " This is your wife's doings," said Amy. 
 "She stipulated that the money she gave 
 should be used for this purpose. It is her 
 good judgment you must praise." 
 
 Roberts looked pleased, and Fanny was 
 touched by Amy's thoughtful kindness. 
 They saw the children go through all their 
 various exercises ; then the babies put to 
 bed, to take their morning nap, and the 
 larger children let out into the play-ground, 
 and heard their merry voices at play. 
 
 " Every morning," said Amy, " the teacher 
 gives them a short lesson in religion and 
 morals, by means of familiar anecdotes and 
 simple stories. Our great object is to teach 
 the children to speak their own thoughts, 
 and lay open their own minds, in order that, 
 knowing their peculiarities and wants, the 
 right instruction may be given them. We 
 never allow any spectators at that time ; for
 
 96 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 we consider their religious sentiments and 
 their childish confidence as sacred, and that 
 it would be a breach of faith to exhibit them ; 
 to say nothing of the danger of making them 
 hypocrites or egotists." 
 
 " The only objection I have to make to 
 your school, Amy," said Fanny, as they 
 were walking home, " is, that the schoolmis 
 tress has in her hand no birch rod, held up 
 perpendicularly before her face, as a whole 
 some terror to the little evil-doers. How 
 came you not to bring them up in the good 
 old way in which the wisest and best were 
 educated? Besides, you have not taught 
 them to make their manners to you every 
 time you speak to them, as aunt Hetty used 
 to tell me I ought to. You are a radical, 
 after all."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " And forward though I canna see, 
 
 I guess an fear." BURNS. 
 
 THUS did Amy pass the first year of her 
 lover's absence, exacting from the hours, as 
 they passed, a tribute of happy recollections. 
 She performed all her duties to her father 
 with such cheerful exactness, that he could 
 find no fault with her. She did not neglect 
 any of the just claims of society. She read, 
 she studied, she thought, more than she ever 
 had before. All her faculties seemed to be 
 ripening under the influence of the pure and 
 elevated love which had awakened her soul 
 to its highest freedom. In her visits to the 
 poor, while entering into their trials and feel 
 ings, she acquired a deeper and juster knowl 
 edge of human nature, and therefore a truer 
 reverence for it. To Fanny, she was as she 
 ever had been a faithful friend always 
 speaking the truth in love to her ever 
 guarding her against those faults which she 
 7
 
 98 SKETCHES OF 
 
 feared, if indulged in, would eventually prove 
 fatal to her peace. 
 
 There was another source of anxiety in 
 Amy's heart, with regard to Fanny and her 
 husband. She feared they wanted the habit, 
 founded on principle, of an entire and unre 
 served expression of all their feelings, what 
 ever they might be, to each other ; they had 
 not a determined purpose, that their thoughts, 
 their every action and desire, their most 
 trifling joys and sorrows their whole souls r 
 should stand all undisguised before the other r 
 in the simplicity of truth. Amy also appre 
 hended that they neither of them possessed 
 that faith in the reality of their spiritual na 
 ture, which can alone secure the happiness 
 of married life from that slow and gradual 
 but certain decay, brought on by the little 
 collisions, the every day trials of temper, 
 the personal dislikes, which sometimes spring 
 up when the charm which belongs to a less 
 intimate and more imaginative connexion is 
 dissolved. Without an implicit reliance on 
 that spiritual foundation of all true love, how 
 could they possess an abiding faith in the 
 immortality of their union, dependent only 
 on their remaining worthy of each other's 
 affection by a continual growth in excellence ?
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 99 
 
 When Fanny became a mother, Amy said 
 to her one day, as she was caressing her 
 infant, " What a new and precious hond of 
 union this dear baby must be, Fanny, be 
 tween you and your husband! Here your 
 hearts will always meet, I am sure ; and it 
 will make you both love Him who gave it, 
 better and more truly than ever." 
 
 " I pray that you may not be disappointed 
 in your faith in us, Amy," replied Fanny ; 
 and the tears flowed fast down her cheeks, 
 as she spoke. 
 
 Amy's heart was troubled. 
 
 After rather a long and oppressive silence, 
 Fanny resumed the conversation. 
 
 " Do you know, Amy, that we shall soon 
 leave Boston ? " and her tears began again to 
 flow. 
 
 " Dear Fanny, no ! I thought you loved 
 Boston too well to think it possible that you 
 should live elsewhere." 
 
 "And so I do, Amy," answered Fanny, 
 with vehemence. " I love the very clumsy 
 old broken paving-stones of Boston better 
 than all the splendors of any other city in 
 the world. I love its crooked lanes its 
 ugly churches its narrow sidewalks. I 
 love all the stiff, prudish people of Boston
 
 
 100 SKETCHES OF 
 
 their odd, narrow, aristocratic notions their 
 solemn self-conceit. All its follies are dear 
 to me." 
 
 " You have given a queer set of reasons 
 for loving Boston, Fanny." 
 
 " This is the best proof that I am a true 
 lover. Any person of common sense and 
 good taste must love Boston for what all 
 acknowledge to be excellent in it. But as 
 for its intellectual and moral tastes, and all 
 its nameless attractions there is no merit in 
 loving these. But I love it for its very 
 faults, especially now that I am going to 
 leave it. This puts me in mind of poor aunt 
 Hetty, who was very tiresome to me while 
 she was alive, trotting about, finding fault 
 with every thing and every body, especially 
 with me, whom she probably thought the 
 chief of sinners. Then I saw all her defects, 
 personal and mental ; but when the dear old 
 soul came to die, when she so meekly 
 resigned herself to the will of God, and so 
 humbly confessed all her sins (which, after 
 all, were so few) when she even put her 
 hand on my head, and prayed so fervently 
 for a blessing upon me, which, I am sure, I 
 did not deserve, and when I heard her 
 calm and Christian farewell, and knew that
 
 + J& 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 101 
 
 it was her last O, then how my heart pray 
 ed that she might live, and that I might be 
 blessed, for many years, with her faithful 
 love her kind, because just reproofs ! Even 
 her homely face became beautiful to me ; the 
 great wart on the tip of her nose lost its de 
 formity ; and I have, ever since, felt rather a 
 peculiar regard for such excrescences upon 
 that respectable, yet so often comical and 
 much-abused, feature of the human face." 
 
 Fanny burst into a sort of hysterical laugh, 
 at her own strange fancies. 
 
 " Why," said Amy, who could not resist 
 joining in Fanny's tearful laugh, " Why do 
 you leave Boston, if you feel so badly about 
 it ? and where are you going ? " 
 
 " My husband's father," replied Fanny, 
 " has lately had a stroke of the palsy. He 
 is very infirm, and has sent on an urgent 
 request to his son, that he would come and 
 live with him for the remainder of his days. 
 He is rich, lives in a house sufficiently 
 large to accommodate us all, and there we 
 are going as soon as we can make the neces 
 sary arrangements. Now tell me if you 
 don't pity me, Amy." 
 
 " I cannot think any one is a fit subject 
 for compassion," said Amy, " who can call
 
 102 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 such a sweet baby as you have in your lap 
 her own; to say nothing of all your other 
 blessings, Fanny." 
 
 " Yes, I know all that can be said of that 
 sort of thing, Amy. Mrs. Lovell has been 
 here, talking good to me, and giving me a 
 vast deal of information with regard to the 
 extraordinary character of my husband, and 
 telling me that I was the most favored 
 woman in the world that it was my own 
 fault, if I was not perfectly happy ; in short, 
 she made out a list of my blessings, suffi 
 ciently accurate for an auctioneer, if, alas ! 
 happiness could be purchased. You see, 
 Amy, I know all about my blessings before 
 hand." 
 
 "My dear Fanny, I must, nevertheless," 
 replied Amy, " ask you to look in that sweet 
 baby's face, that is now actually smiling 
 upon you, and see if you do not find the 
 spirit of complaint die away, and a brighter, 
 happier feeling take its place. A heart so 
 loving as yours must make its own home. 
 What matter is it where you are, if those 
 you love are with you ? " 
 
 " But, Amy, I must part from you. How 
 can I live without you ? " 
 
 " You are less dependent upon me, Fanny,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 103 
 
 than you suppose. Besides, I do not intend 
 that you shall live without me. We will be 
 good and faithful correspondents, and our 
 love shall still be a mutual blessing to us. 
 Come, Fanny, cheer up ; by to-morrow you 
 will begin to see the bright side of the pic 
 ture. I shall, after all, be the greatest loser. 
 You have a husband and child ; but whom 
 have I here to take your place ? " 
 
 For the short time that they remained in 
 Boston, Fanny persisted in speaking of their 
 removal to New York as if it were a banish 
 ment from all that was desirable in life. 
 The evening before their departure they 
 passed with Amy. 
 
 " Remember us in your prayers, Amy," 
 said Fanny, as she bade her farewell. " We 
 not only (at least, I may speak for myself) 
 partake largely of the weakness and sins of 
 our first parents, but we are also receiving a 
 similar punishment. I, the Eve of the play, 
 am, of course, the greatest sinner. Come, 
 spouse adored," she said to her husband, "I 
 suppose that you, like father Adam, are pun 
 ished more for the sins of your wife than for 
 your own." 
 
 Amy, who had been intimate with Fanny 
 from a child, knew that this levity was as-
 
 104 SKETCHES OF 
 
 sumed, in order to hide feelings which she 
 did not dare to indulge ; but she saw that 
 Mr. Roberts was deeply pained by it ; and in 
 the shade of sadness on his brow, which was 
 not for a moment chased away, by Fanny's 
 forced merriment, she discerned a dark fore 
 boding of future sorrow and trial to them 
 both. 
 
 About a week after Fanny's arrival, Amy 
 received the following letter from her : 
 
 JNew York, . 
 
 Dear Amy, 
 
 Can it be only a week since I left Boston 
 the blessed place where I first drew the 
 breath of life, where I first became con 
 scious of this craving thirst for happiness, 
 still unsatisfied, the place where you and I 
 have been playmates and friends as long as I 
 can remember anything, the place where I 
 first learned to love all that I have loved, all 
 that I do love ? Do you wonder, when all 
 these recollections of Boston cluster around 
 my heart, that I should feel so sad at leaving 
 it? "No," you will say; "but it is your 
 duty to try to like New York ; that is that 
 must be your home." What a task you 
 have set me ! I cannot like anything be-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 105 
 
 cause it is my duty to like it. But I will 
 give you some of my first impressions, and 
 then you will see that I have duty enough 
 on hand. I pass over the impression made 
 on my mind, at our arrival in the city, hy 
 the forests of masts the multitudinous 
 houses the unceasing movement of human 
 beings, rushing, in perpetual streams, through 
 the streets and lanes of the city, like the 
 blood through the veins and arteries of the 
 human body. My husband asked me, as the 
 steamboat stopped at the wharf, if it was not 
 a grand sight. " Yes," I said ; " but it 
 makes me feel very lonely, to see so many 
 strangers." "It shall," he replied, "be the 
 purpose of my life, dear Fanny, to make you 
 happy. I hope you will become reconciled 
 to New York." " O, yes," I answered, " I 
 shall be happy ; " and I really felt, at that 
 moment, Amy, as if I could have lived with 
 him in the black hole of Calcutta. 
 
 But you want to know about my home, 
 and about my husband's father, whom I 
 never saw before. He is a kind, simple- 
 hearted, quiet old man. As he folded his 
 arms around his son, he said, " Thank 
 \ Heaven, who has given me back my son ! 
 You will be here, William, to close your old
 
 106 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 father's eyes." He received me very affec 
 tionately, and said, " You must remember, 
 my dear, that you are in your father's house." 
 I felt quite happy, considering I was not in 
 Boston. The tears came into the old man's 
 eyes, when my husband presented him our 
 baby. "God bless the boy," he said, "and 
 make him as great a comfort to his parents 
 as my son has been to me ! " Presently he 
 rang the bell. When the servant came, he 
 desired him to go and tell Mrs. Hawkins that 
 Mr. and Mrs. Roberts had arrived. " Your 
 housekeeper, father, is it not ? " said my hus 
 band. " Yes," he replied ; " and a very use 
 ful and faithful person she is. I could not 
 live without her." 
 
 In a few minutes, this important personage 
 entered. She is a short, spare figure, with a 
 head long and large enough for a tall woman. 
 She has a long, hooked nose, and scarcely 
 any chin, with a large mouth ; but her lips 
 . are so thin, and they are so firmly compress 
 ed, that, when she is silent, you would 
 hardly know she had any. Her piercing, 
 black eyes are perfectly round. Her com 
 plexion is very yellow, and she dresses in 
 green; so that the idea of a bilious parrot 
 was immediately brought to my mind by her 
 appearance ; and I should riot have been
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 107 
 
 much surprised, if I had said " poor Poll " to 
 her. Then she takes very short steps, and 
 moves very fast ; so of course she must trot : 
 and as her petticoats are short, and her feet 
 unusually long, when your attention is not 
 arrested by her nose, you see nothing but her 
 feet. 
 
 Imagine, dear Amy, what I must have 
 endured, at being introduced to such a figure, 
 with the knowledge, too, that I was to live 
 with her, nobody knows how long. But I 
 will go on with scene first in our new life. 
 When she heard our names, she darted a 
 glance at us, and, quick as thought, she ran 
 up to my husband first, and gave his hand a 
 sort of swing, and afterwards performed the 
 same operation upon me, but with less cor 
 diality. I see you shake your head, Amy, 
 and say, " Fanny, this is naughty in you ; it 
 is contemptible, to laugh at personal defects 
 or peculiarities," and so on ; and I acknowl 
 edge it all. But, remember, I have promised 
 to write every thing to you just as it is to 
 say every thing just as it comes into my 
 mind ; and you could not judge of me rightly 
 without knowing every thing relating to me, 
 more especially anything so important, and 
 so calculated to affect one's destiny, as being
 
 108 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 doomed to live with such an oddity as I have 
 described. 
 
 Well, to continue. She took the baby 
 with a sort of jerk from the nurse's arms, and 
 held it up to the light, which of course set it 
 screeching. As she jerked it back again, she 
 said, " It looks most like its Ma." 
 
 After we had been seated a little while, 
 she asked me if I should like to go to my 
 room to refresh myself. I gladly said yes. 
 She treads very heavy, and wears double 
 soled shoes ; so you may imagine what a 
 clatter she makes going up stairs. 
 
 It is a large old-fashioned house, and our 
 apartments are delightful. My nursery is 
 next to my own chamber, and all is thought 
 fully arranged for our comfort. Mrs. Haw 
 kins said, " she hoped things would suit ; she 
 had done the best she could for us." And 
 she retired. When the dinner hour had 
 nearly arrived, I went down stairs into the 
 drawing-room, where I found my husband 
 and his father still chatting as I left them. 
 Presently the old gentleman said, " I have 
 always been in the habit of having my house 
 keeper at my table. If it be not disagreeable 
 I shall still invite her to our meals." 
 
 " Certainly," replied my husband. " You 
 have no objection, I am sure, Fanny ? "
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 109 
 
 What could I do but tell a fib, and say I 
 had none ? So you perceive I am doomed 
 to take my meals with this strange biped, 
 How I shall bear it I cannot say. No one in 
 this world I am sure would stand surety for 
 my good behavior. Three times a day, for an 
 hour at a time I must see her. I know 
 nothing of her character, for she merely 
 throws out her words^ as the automaton chess 
 player says "echec." If she would only 
 turn out a piece of machinery now, how re 
 lieved I should be ; but I fear she has some 
 kind of a soul, though I have not found out 
 yet what is its character. 
 
 And now I dare say you would ask ; " Are 
 you happy Fanny ? and do you behave your 
 self well ? " All the world would suppose 
 that there was but one answer to both ques 
 tions. Yes, to the first, and no, to the last. 
 But it often happens that the world answers 
 questions for us that we should find it hard 
 to answer for ourselves. Am I happy ? I 
 ought to be ; I do thirst for happiness ; what 
 human being does not ? I cannot tell why I 
 am not. No woman was ever blessed with a 
 better husband ; my precious baby looks like 
 an emanation of joy. All the world without, 
 smiles upon me. Where are the clouds,
 
 110 SKETCHES OF 
 
 whence are they, that hang round my heart 
 sometimes ? I know not. When my hus 
 band sees them he does every thing that 
 patient kindness can do to chase them away ; 
 but then I try his temper sadly ; I know I 
 do, though he never finds fault with me now. 
 He is even more silent than he used to be, or 
 he takes a book, or he goes to walk. If he 
 would only speak ; if he would only scold at 
 me, as you do ; if he would but just get into a 
 passion, ever so little of a passion, I should 
 feel better than to see him so quiet when I 
 know I have done wrong, and that he is not 
 pleased. You see that I am a little hipped, 
 dear Amy, or I should not run on so, as if 
 there was anything real in it. Burn this. It 
 is all nonsense. It is the strange housekeeper 
 that makes me so vaporish, I doubt not. My 
 husband always sends his love to you ; and 
 as for my baby if it does not love you I will 
 disown it. Ever yours, 
 
 FANNY ROBERTS. 
 
 Amy sighed heavily as she finished read 
 ing Fanny's letter. " Alas, poor Fanny !" 
 said she to herself, " there is a canker at the 
 root of all her joys.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. Ill 
 
 ' And forward though I cannot look, 
 I guess and fear.' 
 
 I must be faithful to her now. I must tell 
 her all I think. I must warn her against the 
 dangers that beset her." 
 
 With Amy, to resolve and to act, were the 
 same thing. She immediately wrote the 
 following letter to her friend. 
 
 Dearest Fanny, 
 
 You are a really good correspondent ; you 
 tell everything just as it occurs, as you 
 promised. I could not but laugh heartily at 
 your description of Mrs. Hawkins ; and yet 
 Fanny, I cannot think such things quite 
 right. You have injured that woman, I doubt 
 not. I cannot believe that she is such a 
 strange mortal as you have described her. 
 But, dear Fanny, though I began your letter 
 with laughing, I ended with the heart-ache, 
 for I saw in it that you were not happy ; and, 
 at the risk of giving you pain, I must speak 
 frankly and fearlessly to you, all that is in my 
 heart. I must tell you all the apprehensions 
 which your letter has called up in my mind 
 with regard to the happiness of your future 
 life. 
 
 You are unhappy. You must not attempt
 
 112 SKETCHES OF 
 
 to hide it from me ; you cannot ; you are 
 unhappy. Now, what is the cause of it ? 
 You have not taken that fatal step, you have 
 not brought upon yourself that life-long 
 blight, of marrying a man that you do not 
 love ; you have not so desecrated your own 
 soul. No, dear Fanny, you love Mr. Roberts 
 better than aught else in this wide world, 
 and yet you are not happy as his wife. 
 What is the reason ? You must put this 
 question to your own heart with the most 
 solemn earnestness. Have you not supposed 
 that a union with him you loved was to 
 make you happy in itself, and by itself ; and 
 that it involved no appropriate duties, and 
 called for no unusual virtue ? There are no 
 external causes of your unhappiness. You 
 have all that the most craving heart can 
 reasonably ask of outward good. The chil 
 dren of poverty, and sickness, and oppression, 
 might well cry out against you, that with so 
 many of God's richest blessings on your head, 
 your every breath is not a song of praise and 
 thankfulness. Whence, then, as you yourself 
 ask, are these clouds that hang over your 
 heart ? 
 
 Is it not, Fanny, that, instead of going with 
 your craving thirst for happiness, to the Eter-
 
 jS 
 MARRIED LIFE. 113 
 
 nal Fountain, you are still standing unsatis 
 fied by the broken cisterns that hold no 
 water ? You allow your thoughts and affec 
 tions to dwell on the outward ; you do not 
 cultivate the principle of faith. 
 
 " Very like," you will say ; " I know this 
 well, but how am I to do this ? Show me the 
 way." They who strive after the highest 
 must begin with the nearest. Go to your 
 husband, and ask his help, and seek to aid 
 him in the same great purpose of a perfect 
 understanding between you. You must tell 
 him all that is in your heart ; you must turn 
 it inside out to him. You must be perfectly 
 true yourself, and you must insist upon truth 
 from him in return. You must confess to 
 your husband every weakness and sin of your 
 own, as well as tell him every fault you find 
 in him, and every pain that he gives you. 
 You must pour out into his bosom every hope, 
 every fear, every trembling doubt, every 
 mysterious longing that you can find words, 
 or sighs, or tears to communicate ; just as 
 you would to God himself. Do not answer, 
 "My husband is so reserved that I cannot 
 speak to him on these subjects ; he never 
 speaks to me upon them." Speak to him 
 8
 
 114 SKETCHES OF 
 
 then of the pain that he gives to you by his 
 reserve. 
 
 What is it you love in him? It is his 
 soul ; O, can you bear to be a stranger to 
 that ? and can you be happy when he is a 
 stranger to yours ? No ! your heart answers, 
 No ! This is the secret of your discontent, 
 dear Fanny. Do not heed the little cares, 
 the little vexations, the little faults, that every 
 day brings with it. The little and the great 
 troubles of life are excellent exercises of our 
 faith and patience, if we will only so view 
 them ; and the mutual errors and failings of 
 friends, if instead of trying to hide, there 
 is a determined purpose to cure them, will 
 bind them more closely together. If our 
 hearts are perfectly united in one holy desire 
 beyond and above all those paltry trials and 
 vexations, then the real and the unreal things 
 of life become distinctly understood, and take 
 their right ; place in our affections, and have 
 only their just influence upon our happiness. 
 But if, on the contrary, the thoughts and 
 affections dwell in the transient circumstances 
 of life, then all the imperfections, within and 
 without, acquire a power if it were only from 
 their number, that becomes at last irresistible, 
 and when the soul awakes it finds itself a
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 115 
 
 prisoner. I have for some time, dear Fanny, 
 feared that these enemies to your peace were 
 gaining a dangerous power over your happi 
 ness, and that thus, instead of finding in your 
 husband as you might, a helper to your virtue, 
 a true friend of your soul, you will make him 
 another cause of evil, and eventually of al 
 most hopeless misery to you. 
 
 Dearest Fanny, I well know I give you 
 pain. I know that to a common and unin 
 terested observer all that I have said would 
 seem superfluous and not warranted by the 
 occasion ; but I think I can read your soul 
 better than any one else, and I know that it 
 is only faithful love that bids me speak as I 
 do. For some time past I have perceived, as 
 I thought, that your happiness wanted the 
 foundation which only perfect truth and re 
 ligious trust can give. Love between married 
 people must be like St. Paul's description of 
 charity, bearing, believing, hoping, and en 
 during all things, it must never fail ; like 
 charity too, it must be built on faith and 
 hope, and thus become the greatest of the 
 three, because it is the full expression and 
 perfect manifestation of all. 
 
 I fear you will say, " Oh what a sermon ;
 
 116 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 she promised me a letter ! " But I know you 
 will forgive me, even if you think I am tire 
 some and disagreeable, and that you will 
 continue to love me ; so I will set you a good 
 example, and be not faithless but believing. 
 Ever your faithful and loving friend, 
 
 AMY.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " I have touched the highest point of all my greatness." 
 
 HENRY EIGHTH. 
 
 A FEW days after Amy had written to 
 Fanny, she noticed that when her father 
 returned from the counting-house, he looked 
 much agitated, and immediately retired, say 
 ing he should not take any dinner. 
 
 " Are you not well, father ? " asked Amy, 
 anxiously, as she followed him to his room. 
 " Does your head ache ? " 
 
 " Something worse than the head-ache is 
 the matter." 
 
 " What is it, father ? " said Amy, tenderly. 
 " Have you any other pain ? " 
 
 " Yes, child, I have ; and, what is worse, 
 it is a pain that will go to the grave with 
 me, and help to carry me there." 
 
 " Father ! dear father ! what is it ? I did 
 not know of anything to make you unhappy. 
 Why did not you tell me of it before ? What 
 can it be ? "
 
 
 118 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " A hopeless disease an incurable sorrow, 
 when it seizes on an old man." 
 
 Mr. Weston's voice became tremulous ; he 
 even wept. Amy was alarmed ; she had 
 never seen her father so moved. 
 
 " Tell me, father, what is the matter ? 
 What calamity has befallen you ? " 
 
 " The worst calamity that can befal a man ; 
 that from which I have so fervently prayed 
 to be spared ; that from which I have labor 
 ed and toiled to escape ; that from which I 
 thought I was secure; that misery which 
 comprehends all others." 
 
 "What what is it? O, dear father, 
 speak ! tell me ! " cried Amy, almost breath 
 less with fear ; " tell me, I beseech you ! " 
 
 " Poverty in my old age ! " groaned out 
 the old man. 
 
 "And is that all, father?" exclaimed Amy. 
 " Thank God, if that is all ! I feared some 
 thing much worse." 
 
 " And what worse than that could happen 
 to your father, Amy ? Is there any greater 
 misery than poverty, which could befal a 
 man of my standing in society ? " 
 
 " Yes, father ; disgrace is worse. I did 
 fear, from what you said, that some evil sus 
 picion of wrong doing had fallen on your old 
 age."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 119 
 
 " And is not poverty a disgrace to a man 
 who has always held such a place as I have 
 in the world ? Will it not be a shame to 
 me, to be standing in the street, with you, 
 my only daughter, on my arm, covered with 
 the dust, from the carriages of the mushroom 
 gentry, who were once so glad to take their 
 hats off, as we passed in ours ? will not you 
 feel mortified and degraded ? " 
 
 " No, father ; I can never feel that either 
 you or I are disgraced by poverty, or be 
 ashamed of the dust that falls upon me from 
 any one's carriage. If we have our lives 
 and health, father, and our honest name, we 
 surely will not despair. Father, I feel so 
 relieved at finding that this is all, that it 
 almost seems to me now as if no real misfor 
 tune had befallen us. If I could only make 
 you feel so too ! " 
 
 " You never can, Amy. I see nothing but 
 starvation and misery before us." 
 
 " No, no, father ; we will be very happy. 
 The small property I inherited from my 
 mother will keep us from starving ; and you 
 do n't know what a good economist I can be. 
 Only do n't despair, father, and we will yet 
 be as happy as we have ever been." 
 
 " Never ! never ! " said her father. " I
 
 120 SKETCHES OF 
 
 am one of the many victims of this miserable 
 republicanism. Where the swinish multi 
 tude can make laws and repeal them at their 
 pleasure, there is no security for property. 
 One. man after another has failed, who owed 
 me money, in consequence of the absurd 
 policy of our government. I am worth al 
 most nothing. What is left will not much 
 more than pay my debts. I must sell my 
 houses, and horses, and carriages, and live in 
 the most economical way possible ; and, but 
 for your mother's property, I do n't know but 
 you would have to dress in factory cotton. " 
 
 " If I can only see you happy, father, I 
 shall not think of what material my dress is 
 made." 
 
 " You will never see me happy again. I 
 have spent my whole life in securing, as I 
 supposed, a property which would put you 
 and myself entirely above want indeed, I 
 hoped, in affluence, and establish you in so 
 ciety as the daughter of a man of my stand 
 ing ought to be established ; and here all my 
 hopes are swept away in a moment, and I 
 am left for the world to pity, and pass by, 
 and soon forget." 
 
 Amy found it was vain to reason with her 
 father. He considered her ideas of happiness
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 121 
 
 romantic and childish. She could not appeal 
 to his religious feelings, for she knew that 
 his gratitude to God, of which he often spoke 
 in the days of his prosperity, was founded 
 upon the idea, that he himself was peculiarly 
 favored. He had hitherto viewed the Creator 
 as a partial, not as a just Being. He did not 
 love him because he was the Father and 
 Benefactor of all, but because he thought he 
 had a particular love for himself, and had 
 given to him more than to his other children. 
 Now, when he was stripped of the many- 
 colored coat with which his self-love fancied 
 he had been clothed, he thought the love 
 which gave it was gone too, and his faith 
 and gratitude were gone with it. He no 
 longer talked of the designs of Providence ; 
 he began to doubt if there was one. Amy 
 listened patiently to his complaints, and tried, 
 by the most watchful tenderness, to soothe 
 his sufferings ; but she soon saw that he 
 would not be comforted. The habits of ac 
 tivity, and industry, and economy, which 
 she had cultivated for the last year, in order 
 to enable her to do good to the poor, consist 
 ently with all her other duties, were now of 
 the greatest service to her, in enabling her to 
 assist her father in the change in their mode
 
 122 SKETCHES OF 
 
 of life, which their altered circumstances 
 made necessary. 
 
 They took a small house, and adopted an 
 entirely different style of living. Amy re 
 tained Ruth for their only domestic. In all 
 their arrangements, she took care that her 
 father's comfort should be most especially 
 consulted. All the sacrifices she managed 
 should, as far as possible, fall upon herself; 
 all the indulgences that she thought they 
 could allow themselves were for his comfort. 
 Her father had gradually acquired the habit, 
 from seeing Amy so efficient, of consulting 
 her about every thing. All his affairs were 
 now known to her. The amount of his in 
 come, (when all his debts were paid,) with 
 what her own little property supplied, amount 
 ed to a sufficient sum to enable them to live 
 in comfort, and allowed them some few of 
 the luxuries of life. 
 
 " I think, Amy," said Mr. Weston, " that 
 you might keep two domestics, a man and a 
 woman ; and that you might afford a fire in 
 your bed-room ; and that you might also 
 have retained your copy of Audubon's birds." 
 
 " We could not have every thing, father ; 
 and there is one luxury of more importance to 
 me than either of those, and which would
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 123 
 
 - 
 
 give me far more pleasure to retain ; and that, 
 with your consent, I should like to be in 
 dulged in." 
 
 " And what is that, Amy ? " 
 
 " Provided you will ride him, so as to keep 
 him in health, I should rather not part with 
 Robinette." 
 
 Mr. Weston's health was very dependent 
 upon exercise in the open air. He knew 
 that it was Amy's knowledge of this, more 
 than her attachment to her favorite horse, 
 that induced her choice ; he felt the delicacy 
 of her making it appear a favor to herself. 
 Poverty had already opened to him some 
 hitherto unknown springs of happiness. He 
 sighed, but there was a better feeling than 
 usual that moved him. 
 
 " Do as you please, dear," he said ; and he 
 turned away to hide a tear, as he consented. 
 
 Ruth was a very efficient help to Amy, in 
 her new mode of life. Although her labors 
 were doubled, she never complained, and 
 never seemed oppressed by them. Hers 
 was always a service of love ; the wages she 
 received, she considered a simple equivalent 
 for her labor. Before she engaged herself to 
 Miss Weston, she had inquired her character 
 with the greatest particularity, expecting her
 
 124 SKETCHES OF 
 
 to do the same with regard to herself; for 
 she said, " It must fce a poor rule that did 
 not work both ways." Amy was her idol 
 her beau ideal of excellence. She could not 
 bear to see her work so hard as she now did. 
 It was a real source of vexation to her. Nei 
 ther could she be reconciled to seeing her 
 deny herself so many of the luxuries to 
 which she had hitherto been accustomed. 
 
 " I do n't wish any fire in my room," said 
 Amy to her, one morning, when she was 
 stealing in very softly, to make it before she 
 was up ; " and if I did, I should not allow 
 you, Ruth, to make it ; you have too much 
 work to do already." 
 
 " Now, ma'am, it 's really ridiculous for 
 you not to have a fire. It 's no trouble to 
 make it." 
 
 " But we cannot afford it, Ruth." 
 
 " Why, ma'am, you ought to have a fire. 
 It do n't cost but a trifle ; and I 'm sure, it 's 
 bad enough to be poor, without going with 
 out every thing you want into the bargain." 
 
 Amy smiled at Ruth's logic. 
 
 " I find it very easy, Ruth, to do without 
 a fire ; and if I cannot afford it, I must do 
 without it, or do wrong ; and that you would 
 not have me do, I am sure."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 125 
 
 Ruth flounced out of the room with a look 
 of the most decided dissatisfaction. 
 
 Before Amy came down to breakfast, Ruth 
 bounced up stairs again, and burst into her 
 room. Her abrupt manner and her glowing 
 face startled Amy. 
 
 " What 's the matter, Ruth ? " 
 
 " I guess I got something now for you, 
 Miss Amy, that you won't make such a fuss 
 about as you did about the fire ; " and she 
 handed her a letter from Edward. 
 
 Ruth's natural delicacy forbade her even 
 casting one look at Amy, before she left her 
 to herself. 
 
 Who can dare to describe the state of feel 
 ing of a true and tender-hearted being like 
 Amy, while reading a letter from her lover, 
 from whom she had heard no tidings for a 
 year ? There are pictures called " The read 
 ing the Love-Letter. " The trembling anxi 
 ety, the untold joy, the quiet peace, which 
 follow in bright and quick succession, each 
 telling their story on the face as they pass, 
 who can paint ? who can describe ? And if 
 we may not successfully paint, and cannot do 
 justice to that which is seen, can we hope to 
 unveil that which is not seen ? Love-letters, 
 if they are real love-letters, ought not to be
 
 126 SKETCHES OF 
 
 shown to any stranger ; so our readers must 
 not hope to see Amy's. It was only to be 
 read, by those who saw her that day, in her 
 light, elastic step, her glowing cheek, her 
 cheerful voice, and, most of all, in the " har 
 vest of her quiet eye," that seemed to shed 
 love and joy upon every one on whom it 
 rested. 
 
 " I have a letter from Edward," she said, 
 when she met her father at breakfast. " He 
 is very well, and very successful, and hopes 
 to return in a year from next April. This is 
 a little sooner than he at first feared he should 
 be able to. He desires his respects to you, 
 father, and his love to you, Ruth." 
 
 Ruth was standing still, with the cofTee-pot 
 in her hand, to listen to what Amy said. 
 
 " Thank him a thousand times, ma'am. 
 They say 'love is a present for a mighty 
 king ; ' and I 'm sure, I set enough by Mr. 
 Edward's, though I 'm neither king nor 
 queen, nor never want to be." Saying this, 
 Ruth left the room. 
 
 " I am very glad," said Mr. Weston, " that 
 Edward is doing so well. In some respects, 
 Amy, I have always liked this connexion 
 with him. Next to belonging to one of our 
 first families, I think having no family at all
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 127 
 
 is to be desired. Don't you think so, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 " What, sir ? " said Amy. Her thoughts 
 had wandered far over the Pacific ocean. 
 
 Her father repeated his remark. " I fear, 
 father, that I am such a sturdy republican, 
 that I should care more for what the family 
 were than who they were." 
 
 " All wrong, my dear ; when Mr. Selmar 
 finds that I am a poor man and have no 
 money to give you when your are married, 
 he will be very " 
 
 " Glad of it," interrupted Amy, playfully. 
 " He will like us both much better, father ; 
 depend upon it." 
 
 " Romance ! foolish romance, my dear ; 
 however, as Ruth would say, Beggars must 
 not be choosers, I have nothing to say against 
 the match now. I dare say by and bye gentle 
 men in the first classes will be glad to marry 
 their daughters to grocers, arid tinkers, #nd 
 coblers ; I am sick of this new order of 
 things." 
 
 " If, my dear father, coblers and tinkers 
 should be well-educated men, surely we ought 
 to rejoice ; and if they are not, why should 
 you suppose that well-educated women will 
 fancy them for husbands ? "
 
 128 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 " Yes they will, just to show their inde 
 pendence ; young ladies now will fancy any 
 thing out of the common way. The good 
 old times are gone forever. If a young man 
 were to make his proposals now, first to the 
 father, the young lady forsooth would reject 
 him on that very account, though all the 
 wisest and best men I have ever known con 
 sider this only a proper respect for age and 
 authority: the young people marry now-a- 
 days only to please themselves." 
 
 Amy hoped that her father's charge against 
 the young was deserved, but she forbore to 
 say so. 
 
 " 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 con 
 versation ended.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Her aged parent's warning words 
 She does not heed, she may not mind; 
 
 Her lover sick, all other fears 
 Are nought, are given to the wind." 
 
 NANCY'S BROOK. 
 
 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 com 
 munion of thought between them, Oh how 
 happy I should be ! It was not many days 
 before she received the following answer : 
 
 Dear Amy, 
 
 I should have replied to your letter before, 
 but have been prevented by company at 
 home, and engagements abroad. Such visit 
 ing, such running and driving, such hurrying 
 to and fro as we have in New York. There 
 9
 
 130 SKETCHES OF 
 
 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, 
 And here we go down down downy ; 
 Here we go backwards and forwards, 
 And here we go round round roundy. 
 
 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 prospec 
 tive 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 do n'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 al 
 ways have some pleasant gossip together. I 
 vent all my naughtiness upon the oddities I 
 see in company, and my husband fares all 
 the better for it.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 131 
 
 What strange creatures we are, that we 
 should go to people we care nothing about, 
 to learn to enjoy the society of those we love 
 more than all the world besides. Go abroad 
 in order to enjoy home. It seems a strange 
 doctrine j 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, must 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 ali 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. Apropos 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 conversa 
 tion this good lady expressed a deal of righte-
 
 
 132 SKETCHES OF 
 
 cms 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 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 laugh 
 ing which more than half affronted my hus 
 band ; and after the good lady left us we 
 might have had one of those pleasant matri 
 monial 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 cham 
 paign. 
 
 But I have not yet noticed the subject of 
 your letter. Never suppose it possible, dear 
 Amy, that I can 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
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 133 
 
 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 never touch, and he calls it happiness. 
 It is the rainbow that our childish imagina 
 tions saw in the sky, for which our child 
 ish hearts still yearn, and which our child 
 ish hands still reach after, and strive to grasp, 
 in vain ! Alas in vain ! it melts away as we 
 seem to approach it, and leaves nothing over 
 our heads but a dull and darkened sky, and 
 the sad chilly feeling of disappointment. 
 
 I have almost done with this childish 
 sport, I do not intend to chase rainbows any 
 longer ; but gather the flowers in the garden 
 of pleasure that lies at my feet ; and my hus 
 band seems to be of the same mind. Your 
 letter made me cry, and that's not good for 
 my eyes. I did not show it to him, for I 
 knew that it would give him pain, and he 
 would think immediately that I had made 
 too serious a matter of some trifles, and given 
 you a false impression with regard to the state
 
 134 SKETCHES OF 
 
 of my mind. Still I loved you, dear Amy, for 
 writing it. It added another to the countless 
 proofs you have given me of your faithful 
 friendship, of your unwearied care and ten 
 derness for one who has never deserved so 
 rich a blessing. Farewell. 
 
 FANNY ROBERTS. 
 
 Amy was deeply disappointed at the entire 
 failure of her letter. She had hoped to in 
 duce Fanny to think of the subject of it. 
 She had hitherto been able to induce her to 
 think of serious things, if it were only for a 
 time. She saw that there was a change in 
 her for the worse. What should she do? 
 Her heart ached as she came to the conclu 
 sion that she could do nothing ; as she re 
 membered that important truth that no one 
 can make another good, another religious. 
 She was grieved and disappointed, but she 
 did not despair. She kept up faithfully, her 
 part of the correspondence. She always spoke 
 the truth, painful as it might be to Fanny to 
 hear it, and to her to say it, but with an un 
 failing love. She watched with faith and 
 hope for the moment when she might by her 
 sympathy or her advice speed her return to 
 the true sources of happiness. 
 
 And thus did months roll on, leaving
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 135 
 
 Fanny as they passed, eagerly gathering as 
 she had resolved, all the flowers of earthly 
 pleasure that clustered around her path, some 
 times sighing at their frailty, sometimes 
 starting at the thorns that pierced her, yet 
 still pressing them to her unsatisfied heart. 
 
 With Amy how different was the scene. 
 Separated from her lover ; anxious for his 
 health and life ; devoting herself to a father, 
 between whom and herself there was no 
 bond of union, except that which always 
 must exist between the parent and the child ; 
 marking each hour of every day with the 
 cheerful performance of its appropriate duty, 
 and reaping a perpetual reward of unruffled 
 peace. As the time approached for Edward's 
 return, " Her spirit brightened like an inward 
 sun," she cherished in her heart a hope, a 
 joy, with which a stranger meddleth not. 
 
 Amy had ceased to count the months, even 
 the weeks ; she counted the days, aye even 
 the hours when the news must come of the 
 arrival of the vessel in which her lover was to 
 return. It was expected every hour. The 
 hour came. A friend sent word that the sig 
 nal was up for the Speedwell, the vessel in 
 which Selmar was expected to return. Who 
 of us has not witnessed in himself, or others,
 
 136 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 that it is more easy to bear suffering than 
 great happiness with composure. Is it that 
 in this life the heart is more acquainted with 
 grief than with joy? Amy hastily quitted 
 the room, trembling at the excess of her own 
 emotions, and shrinking from the oppressive 
 weight of a human eye. 
 
 When she returned, there was that holy 
 calmness in her face which indicates that the 
 peace within has come from a communion 
 with Him who is the strength of our hearts. 
 
 "I suppose, my dear," said her father, 
 "that we shall soon see Edward." 
 
 He calls him Edward, thought Amy ; and a 
 flush of mingled joy passed like a sudden 
 gleam of sunlight over her quiet face. An 
 hour passed ; each minute lengthened as it 
 came and went, without bringing him. 
 Presently Ruth who had heard that the 
 Spee'd^rell had arrived, came in to ascertain 
 what ne^ws there was of Mr. Edward. " We 
 have not heard from him yet," said Amy to 
 her e^ger questions. As she said this she 
 kept Her eyes fixed upon the door. She began 
 to wonder why he did not come. She sat 
 watching and listening with intense anxiety 
 for the first sound of her lover's step. Ruth, 
 who had found various excuses for remaining
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 137 
 
 in the room, observed this, and could not be 
 silent ; and, forgetting even Mr. Weston's 
 presence, attempted such consolation as she 
 could call up at the moment. 
 
 " A watched pot never boils, Miss Amy, 
 He 's there, and will soon come, you may be 
 sure ; ill news travels fast ; you 'd have 
 heard long enough ago if all was not well 
 with Mr. Edward." 
 
 As she said this, the door-bell rang. Ruth 
 went and quickly returned with a letter for 
 Amy. It was not Edward's hand-writing. 
 She broke the seal and read it. 
 
 " Her hands did quake 
 And tremble like a leaf of aspin green; 
 And troubled blood through her whole face was seen 
 To come and go with tidings from the heart, 
 As it a running messenger had been." 
 
 " What is it, my child ? " said her father ,* 
 " What is the matter, dear Miss Amy ! " cried 
 the tender-hearted Ruth. 
 
 She put the letter into her father's hands. 
 It was from the Captain of the vessel. He 
 read it aloud. It stated that a few days be 
 fore the arrival of the vessel, Mr. Selmar had 
 been taken ill of a disease that at first resem 
 bled the Asiatic cholera ; that he was better.
 
 138 SKETCHES OF 
 
 but still quite ill, and that he had therefore 
 been obliged to send him ashore at Hospital 
 Island, where he knew he would be taken 
 excellent care of; that as he knew of no re 
 lation of Mr. Selmar's, he thought it right to 
 inform Miss Weston of his illness, as he was 
 apprised of her connexion with him. The 
 captain added that the boat would return to 
 the island with Dr. , the attendant phy 
 sician, at one o'clock, P. M., and would take 
 any friend or letter to Mr. Selmar. 
 
 There was a fixed marble paleness in 
 Amy's face, as she said in a calm determined 
 manner to her father, " I shall go to him im 
 mediately." 
 
 "You! go yourself! Amy, are you in 
 sane ? " exclaimed her father. 
 
 " Let me go ! pray let me go ! " said Ruth, 
 at the same moment. 
 
 " No," answered Amy, " I must and shall 
 go myself ; can you think I would stay away 
 from him, or let any one take my place by 
 his sick bed ? " 
 
 " But, Amy, think of what you are going 
 to do ; it is an unheard of thing for a young 
 lady ; and besides you may take the cholera 
 if he has it, you may take " 
 
 " Father," said Amy, very affectionately,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 139 
 
 but without wavering in her determination, 
 " I must go ; fear not for me, dear father ! 
 trust me all will be well. I must go to him." 
 
 " What will the world say, Amy ? " 
 
 "I care not what it says ! " and her ashy 
 paleness gave place to a flush of indignation at 
 the thought of such a reason for remaining 
 away from her lover. 
 
 " Ruth would take as good care of him 
 and better than you could," said her father, 
 "for she is more used to nursing." 
 
 "There are." said Amy, "nurses enough 
 and good ones, I doubt not, at the hospital ; 
 but no one can be to him what I should be. 
 Would I let another take care of you, father, 
 if you were sick ? " 
 
 " But, Amy, think of it, for you to go 
 alone ; you a young lady to go to Hospital 
 Island, among entire strangers, surrounded by 
 diseases of all sorts, to nurse a young man 
 who is your lover ! how strange ! " 
 
 " Strange, father ! strange that I should go 
 to him ! and yet you say he is my lover ! 
 Strange indeed it would be if I did not go. 
 Have I not openly acknowledged that I love 
 him better than all the world besides ? and 
 shall I, when he returns to his country dan 
 gerously ill, without a relation in the world,
 
 140 SKETCHES OF 
 
 shall I stay away from him, because a certain 
 ceremony and form of law has not been per 
 formed that in the world's opinion gives me 
 the privilege of taking care of him ? Would 
 you have me so heartless, father ? " 
 
 " My dear Amy, the customs of society 
 require the strictest precision in a young 
 lady's conduct before marriage." 
 
 " Odious customs of society ! " exclaimed 
 Amy, " teaching prudery and hypocrisy the 
 true elements and foundation principle of all 
 vice, profaning holy nature, and by always 
 supposing, taking the readiest way, to awaken 
 the impure thoughts which they imagine to 
 exist. A young lady may go to parties with 
 her neck and shoulders all bare, and dance 
 with young and old men of almost any 
 character, and the customs of society are not 
 outraged ; but if she goes, in the sanctity of 
 innocence and love, to watch over her lover 
 on his sick bed, its nice sense of propriety is 
 wounded. Thank God, I care not for it now, 
 father. What is the opinion of the world to 
 me now ? what will it be to me if he should 
 oh my father ! remember when you were 
 a young man, and loved her who is in hea 
 ven." 
 
 Amy's over-excited feelings were relieved
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 141 
 
 by a passionate flood of tears, as the thought 
 of her mother came to her mind, and she 
 endeavored to recover her composure. 
 
 " I wish my child," said her father, much 
 softened, " that your mother were indeed here 
 to go with you, if you do still insist upon 
 going, which I cannot approve of." 
 
 " Her spirit will be with me, father ; trust 
 me to its guidance and protection. Fear 
 nothing for me ! " 
 
 Mr. Weston made no further resistance to 
 Amy's determination. He had learned that 
 it was in vain to oppose his authority or that 
 of public opinion, to her convictions of duty. 
 He told her that if she was determined upon 
 such a strange step, he should, as her father, 
 do all he could to save her from the severe 
 remarks which the world would make upon 
 her conduct. He went himself and obtained 
 permission of the proper authorities for her to 
 go to the island, and called upon Dr. S. the 
 hospital physician, and ascertained that he 
 was a married man, and that his wife would 
 be a friend to Amy ; that there was a respec 
 table matron who superintended the hospital, 
 and with whom she could board during the 
 time it might be necessary for her to remain 
 at the island. The boat was to return at one
 
 142 SKETCHES OF 
 
 o'clock, and Amy made what arrangements 
 were necessary to go at that time. She gave 
 all her directions to Ruth about the manage 
 ment of the family, and care of her father 
 during her absence, with such precision, such 
 calmness, that a common observer would not 
 have perceived the deep under current of in 
 tense feeling on which her soul was borne 
 away from all present things ; and which 
 gave her a sort of strange unconsciousness 
 while she was attending to the performance 
 of these duties. 
 
 "Here ma'am," said Ruth, "I have 
 brought you something to eat before you go, 
 for it will really be ridiculous for you to go 
 among all them sick folks with nothing but 
 trouble to stay your stomach." As she said 
 this, Ruth placed a waiter covered with the 
 most tempting luncheon which her art and 
 knowledge of Amy's tastes enabled her to 
 provide. 
 
 " Thank you, Ruth, but I fear I have not 
 time to take anything." 
 
 " Prayers and provender never hindered a 
 journey, Miss Amy ; I warrant you '11 not feel 
 like eating dinner at the hospital ; and how 
 are you going to do anything when you get 
 there, if you do n't eat something to strength 
 en you before you go ? "
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 143 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," said Amy, and 
 she sat down mechanically and ate some 
 thing. There was a childlike submission to 
 Ruth's judgment in her manner of taking the 
 food which she offered, which was very 
 gratifying to the vanity as well as affection 
 of this most excellent personage, and encour 
 aged her to indulge her talking propensity. 
 
 " I am proper glad, Miss Amy, that you 
 have determined to go down to the hospital 
 and see to Mr. Edward yourself, without 
 minding what folks say. And what if they 
 should say hard things against you ? scandal 
 is like dirt ; it will rub out when it dries. I 
 was in the room, ma'am, when you said all 
 that to Mr. Weston about not caring so much 
 for the world as you did for Mr. Edward ; 
 and it put me in mind of what Aunt Polly 
 said once when folks talked to her about 
 what the world would say to her for tending 
 her sweetheart in a fever. She said, ' I have 
 long ago done caring for the asses, and care 
 only for Saul ; ' she was a master hand for 
 quoting scripture. Oh how she did take on 
 when he died ! I was dreadful sorry for her ; 
 but it was a great comfort for her to know 
 that she had done every thing for him that 
 mortal could do ; but man provides, and God
 
 144 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 decides ! But there 's the bell, I must go to 
 it." 
 
 She returned to say that the Dr. was at 
 the door, and ready to attend Miss Weston to 
 the boat. 
 
 As she put her keys into Ruth's hand, Amy 
 said to her, " I know Ruth that you will take 
 the best care of my father. Be sure to re 
 mind him daily of his ride. Have no fear 
 for me." 
 
 She could not speak to her father; she 
 kissed him and hurried off.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 " The billows they tumble with might, with might, 
 She flings out her voice to the darksome night; 
 Her bosom is heaving with sorrow." 
 
 WALLENSTEIS. 
 
 AMY was soon seated in the boat, by the 
 side of the doctor, on her way to the island. 
 After having ascertained from him every 
 thing she could, with regard to Edward's 
 case, she sunk into a profound silence. 
 
 The air was balmy soft. Here and there 
 a light, fleecy cloud floated in the blue depths 
 of the quiet heavens. The boat, as it danced 
 along, looked like a plaything upon the rest 
 less, trembling waves of the glad ocean. All 
 around looked bright and glorious, but all 
 was unheeded by Amy. She saw not the 
 glittering spires, nor the bristling masts at 
 the noble wharves of the city. The neigh 
 boring heights, the green islands, the white 
 sails, were to her as if they were not. She 
 heard not the occasional remarks of the doc 
 tor, kindly intended to interest her, and help 
 10
 
 146 SKETCHES OF 
 
 * " 'fc 
 
 her bear her anxious'thoughts. There was an 
 unutterable, an overwhelming feeling in her 
 heart, that made her unconscious of every 
 thing around Jier. Deep called unto deep in 
 her soul. She sat in silence, looking fixedly 
 at the island which they were fast approach 
 ing, as though in that little spot was concen 
 trated atf that life could give her of joy or 
 sorrow. ' 
 
 They arrived. The doctor introduced her 
 to the Jrind matron of the hospital, and left 
 her while he went to visit his patient, saying 
 that he would soon be with her again. He 
 returned with a smile on his face, that was 
 like life to Amy's heart. 
 
 "I find Mr. Selmar better," he said; "at 
 least, as far as I can judge for the present ; 
 for he is asleep, which is a good symptom. 
 If you can walk like a spirit, so as to be sure 
 not to awake him, you can go and look at 
 him ; but if he should awake, you must be 
 sure that you leave him without his recog 
 nizing you, as he has no idea of seeing you, 
 and it would be a dangerous excitement to 
 him." 
 
 Amy promised to obey his directions, and 
 followed the doctor to her lover's apartment. 
 The door was open. She entered the dark-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 147 
 
 ened room on tiptoe, scarcely breathing, lest 
 she should awake him. She came to the 
 bed-side. It was so dark she could not dis 
 tinguish anything ; she must wait till her 
 eye adapts its vision to the dim light. O, 
 how her soul was agonized, lest he should 
 awake before she had seen and been satisfied 
 that it was indeed the face of her dearest 
 earthly friend that she was gazing at ! Pres 
 ently, a shadowy outline seemed to emerge 
 from the darkness. Still she could not rec 
 ognize a single feature of the face. It grew 
 a little more distinct. She stooped over him, 
 straining every faculty to see. He moved 
 his arm round, and his hand grasped a fold 
 of her dress. She stood still as death, lest 
 he should awake. He was quiet again, and 
 his fingers relaxed their hold. Again she 
 stooped over him, and her whole figure 
 seemed instinct with the desire to see that 
 beloved face. At last, deathly pale, and 
 wasted, his eyes sunken in their sockets, she 
 saw ^him distinctly the same, only so 
 changed by disease ! 
 
 For many minutes, Amy stood breathless 
 and motionless, gazing, with her whole soul, 
 upon her sleeping lover, when he suddenly 
 started, and awoke. She left the room
 
 148 SKETCHES OF 
 
 before he perceived her. She met the phy 
 sician at the door, who entered without 
 speaking. With the most intense anxiety, 
 Amy stood waiting in the passage-way for 
 the return of the doctor. She saw, at the 
 first glance that she caught of his face, as he 
 came from the apartment, that his decision 
 was unfavorable to her hopes. She felt her 
 lips and tongue grow rigid, as she attempted 
 to speak and ask what her heart so trembled 
 to know. 
 
 " Cannot I go in ? Is he not better ? " 
 
 " I am disappointed," said the doctor, " at 
 the state in which I find him. , I thought he 
 would awake better ; it is not so. I think it 
 would not be well for him to see you now ; 
 any great excitement might injure him. I 
 dare not venture it. He is more ill than he 
 has been. There must be some change 
 soon. We must hope for the best. To 
 night will be the critical time." 
 
 "Oh! let me watch by him to-night," 
 said Amy. * 
 
 " I fear that he would recognize you ; for 
 he has his senses perfectly. He has a most 
 excellent nurse ; and I will be with him 
 myself as much as possible, and you shall be 
 kept informed of his state. Let me conduct
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 149 
 
 you to the apartment which Mrs. has 
 
 appropriated to you." 
 
 Amy unconsciously suffered herself to be 
 led to her room. As soon as she was alone, 
 it seemed as if her overwrought spirit sud 
 denly lost all possession of itself. Grief, fear, 
 and despair, took alternate possession of her 
 soul. 
 
 " Why," cried she, " did I submit so tamely 
 to be taken away from him ? Why did I not 
 remain, in spite of the doctor's prohibition ? 
 I shall never hear him speak my name again. 
 If I could only hear him breathe ! if I could 
 but see him move, and know that he is yet 
 alive ! O, God ! how can I bear this terrible 
 suspense? If he should die, O, Father of 
 mercies, let me die with him ! Why is it 
 that thou dost implant these deathless affec 
 tions in our hearts, and then snatch away 
 from us the beings whom thou thyself hast 
 bidden us to love ? Oh ! this sorrow is greater 
 than I can bear ! " 
 
 Tears blessed tears at last came to her 
 relief, and Amy's soul grew more calm. All 
 was still in the house, save the occasional, 
 careful step of some one of the nurses, upon 
 some errand for her patient. Now, for the 
 first time, Amy heard, near by, the slow,
 
 150 SKETCHES OF 
 
 solemn roar of the eternal waves of ocean. 
 As she listened, the sound seemed to come 
 nearer and nearer ; and the tumult in her 
 heart grew calmer and calmer, as the thought 
 of that great Being, whose voice can still the 
 restless tide of human passions, resumed its 
 place in her mind. She approached the 
 window. The distant spires of the city 
 the green islands, looking like emeralds deck 
 ing the bosom of the deep the countless 
 white sails the blue, trembling waves of 
 the glad ocean the piles of fleecy clouds 
 all were bathed in a rich flood of golden light 
 from the setting sun. There was a fulness 
 of life a magnificence of beauty, and gran 
 deur, and loveliness, spread before her, that 
 seemed to Amy's soul like a new-revelation 
 of the love of God. 
 
 " Surely," said Amy, " he does not will 
 ingly afflict us. As a father pitieth his chil 
 dren, so pitieth he us. Shall I fear Him who 
 is all love ? Did not he, who walked upon 
 the tossing billows of the sea, pass erect, also, 
 over the troubled waves of sorrow and suffer 
 ing in this mortal life ? Did he not say, ' Be 
 not afraid ? ' Are not our affections more 
 enduring, more deep and boundless, than this 
 wide, unfathomed sea, or these illimitable
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 151 
 
 skies ? Is not the true heart every moment 
 declaring its own immortality ? Can the cir 
 cumstance of what we call death destroy it ? 
 Did we not know, when we first loved, that 
 the sword of separation must enter every 
 heart? but we thought not so soon. Yet, 
 what is soon or late, when eternity is the 
 question ? Still, it is bitter to part now. 
 May I not pray as Jesus prayed, { If it be 
 possible, let this cup pass from me ? ' " 
 
 As Amy was thus communing with God 
 and her own soul, her eyes fixed upon the 
 glorious scene which first attracted her at 
 tention, the sunlight gradually died away, 
 and then came on the soft, gray twilight, till 
 the stars, one after another, seemed to open 
 their bright eyes upon the quiet waters, and 
 
 " The moon at length, apparent queen, 
 Unveiled her peerless light, and o'er the dark 
 Her silver mantle threw." 
 
 All rebellious feelings were rebuked in Amy's 
 heart, and a holy trust and a quiet submission 
 had taken their place, when she was startled 
 by hearing a knock at her door. It was the 
 matron of the hospital, who had come to 
 invite her to join her at her evening meal. 
 She added, that the doctor was to take tea
 
 152 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 with her, and then would tell her what he 
 thought of Mr. Selmar's present state. They 
 had been trying some other remedies, from 
 which he hoped some good effects. 
 
 " Whoever comes to a hospital, miss," said 
 the matron, " must keep up a good heart, and 
 take care of herself, or she will soon be one 
 of the patients. Many get well who are as 
 sick as Mr. Selmar. He is young, and the 
 chances are in his favor." 
 
 Amy saw that it was, in fact, pity for her, 
 that induced the good matron to assume a 
 sort of roughness of manner, which she 
 thought would help her guest to endure the 
 trial that awaited her. She also read, in the 
 tender respect of the doctor's manner, and 
 compassionate tone of his voice, an indication 
 of his fears lest the sorrow she dreaded would 
 fall upon her. 
 
 " If," said the doctor, " the remedies we 
 apply to-night should be successful, and if 
 his constitution is strong enough to carry him 
 through a few more hours of suffering, I shall 
 feel sanguine of his recovery." 
 
 He urged Miss Weston to try to take some 
 rest, and promised to send her word by the 
 nurse, during the night, how his patient was. 
 With this promise, Amy returned td her room.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 153 
 
 Much did she suffer during those dark hours ; 
 but, as she sat all night long, looking up at 
 the glowing heavens, and listening to the 
 perpetual hymn of the waves, hope and peace 
 settled more deeply and permanently in the 
 recesses of her soul. The spirit of resigna 
 tion seemed to descend upon her from the 
 silent skies. It was past midnight, when 
 she heard a footstep approaching her room. 
 She quickly opened the door. It was the 
 matron. 
 
 " I thought," said the good lady, " that, as 
 you were so anxious, I would come and tell 
 you about the gentleman myself, as I was 
 up, and had been in to see him. He is rather 
 better, and the doctor says every thing seems 
 more favorable, though he cannot say he is 
 out of danger yet. Now, dear, do go to bed. 
 He '11 get well, I dare say." 
 
 The next news was at daylight, and was 
 still more encouraging ; and in the morning, 
 at breakfast, the doctor pronounced him de 
 cidedly better. 
 
 " I think," said the doctor, " that I might 
 venture, in the course of this morning, to let 
 Mr. Selmar know you are here, and even to 
 let you see him, if you could be very calm 
 and judicious."
 
 154 SKETCHES OF 
 
 "lam sure I could," said Amy. "Have 
 no fear for my good behavior." 
 
 The doctor said that he had left him 
 asleep, and that he would let him know she 
 was there when he awoke, if he should be 
 really better. 
 
 " You are better," said the doctor to Mr. 
 Selmar, when he awoke. 
 
 " O, yes," he replied ; " I am myself 
 again." 
 
 " Not quite," said the doctor. " It will be 
 a long while before you are well. The cap 
 tain of your vessel has informed your friends 
 in Boston that you were detained here by 
 illness." 
 
 A faint color overspread Edward's face, 
 and passed instantly away, as the doctor said 
 this. 
 
 " Have you any friends that you should 
 .like to see here particularly?" asked the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Yes one ; but I suppose it would be in 
 vain for me to desire it." 
 
 " Why so, my friend ? " 
 
 " It is a lady to whom I am engaged. Her 
 father would never consent to her coming." 
 As Edward said this, his face grew deadly 
 pale again.
 
 ' ; 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 155 
 
 " Do you think," said the doctor, " that 
 you could bear the excitement of seeing her, 
 if she were to come ? " 
 
 " O, yes ! yes ! it would restore me to life. 
 When I am asleep, I dream she is by my 
 bed-side. I dreamed yesterday that she had 
 come to me ; but it would be too great hap 
 piness to be real." 
 
 " I think not. I think you may see her," 
 said the doctor. 
 
 " How could I ? Would she come ? Is it 
 possible ? " 
 
 " Yes. She is now on the island ; and if 
 you could promise to behave like a rational 
 being, and keep yourself calm, you may see 
 her. I think it would not hurt you." 
 
 " Thank God ! thank God ! This is more 
 than I hoped ; " and as he clasped his hands, 
 and looked up to heaven, he wept like a 
 child. " I feel that I am very weak," he 
 said, after a few minutes ; " but it will do 
 me good to see her, and I will be quite calm." 
 
 " Refrain even from speaking," said the 
 doctor. " Remember your life is at stake. 
 I will bring your friend to you." 
 
 " Fear not," said Amy, as the doctor was 
 urging her to be very calm. " I will be as 
 quiet and discreet as you can desire."
 
 156 SKETCHES OF 
 
 Softly and quietly she approached Edward's 
 bed-side. As she stooped to kiss his feverish 
 lips, she whispered, " Remember, dear Ed 
 ward, you must be very still and calm, or I 
 cannot be with you. Say nothing now." 
 
 Edward did not attempt to utter a word ; 
 he could not. He took her hand covered 
 it with kisses ; he put it on his dry, aching 
 forehead, and he felt as if it had a healing 
 power in it. As Amy stooped over her 
 lover's pillow, looking intently at him, her 
 whole soul in her face, it seemed as if a light 
 went forth from it, that might have revived 
 the dying. 
 
 " O, Amy," he said, " that look alone 
 would restore me." 
 
 "Hush! hush!" she said, "or I must 
 leave you." 
 
 The doctor was right in his opinion that 
 Edward's disease had .begun to yield ; but 
 his residence in the hot climate of Canton 
 had so deranged his system, that he required 
 the strictest attention and the most watchful 
 care, to prevent a relapse, which would, in 
 all probability, have been fatal. How often 
 did Amy rejoice that she was present, to 
 administer all those little, nameless comforts 
 which contribute so much to the relief of the 

 
 MARRIED LIFE. 157 
 
 patient, during the long hours of feverish 
 restlessness, which belong to a lingering re 
 covery from severe illness! She read to 
 him ; she sang to him ; she sat silent with 
 him, at her sewing-work, for hours together. 
 As he became able to engage in conversation, 
 she told him of her father's loss of property, 
 at which Edward could not help rejoicing. 
 She also acquainted him with her anxiety 
 about Fanny and her husband. 
 
 One or two letters passed between Amy 
 and Fanny during her stay at the island, one 
 of which, from Fanny, we transcribe. 
 
 Dear Amy, 
 
 I am rejoiced to hear that Edward is 
 really getting well. How the good folks, 
 who take such excellent care of their neigh 
 bors, will stare, and wonder, and moralize at 
 your conduct, in going to Hospital Island, to 
 take care of your sick lover ! Mrs. Lovell, 
 in especial ; with her sentimentality on the 
 one hand, and her worldly-mi ndedness on 
 the other, how can she find safety in any 
 opinion upon the subject ? She will have to 
 maintain a sort of armed neutrality, ready to 
 side with whichever shall prove not the 
 weaker, but the stronger party.
 
 158 SKETCHES OF 
 
 How is it, Amy, that I am not jealous of 
 you? When I told Mr. Roberts of your 
 going to the island, to take care of your 
 lover, in spite of contagion and scandal, he 
 answered, "If it were any other woman I 
 know, I should be surprised ; but Amy always 
 acts with sense and feeling, and without 
 asking what people will say." It is very 
 true, you are the only woman he knows, 
 who he thinks always acts right. Why did 
 he not try to marry you ? Edward and I 
 might have consoled ourselves, perhaps, by 
 making the best or the worst of each other. 
 He is rather of the touch-me-not order ; and 
 we should have quarrelled merrily from 
 morning till night, one day, and been de 
 lightful with all our might to each other all 
 the next, to make up for it. What a pleasing 
 variety our lives would have presented ! We 
 should not have had any long accounts on 
 hand, but have paid off every charge as we 
 went along. Now, my husband has terrible 
 arrears against me ; and, ah ! if he ever calls 
 upon me for a just settlement, what a poor 
 bankrupt I shall be ! Bankrupt, alas ! in that 
 only wealth that can never be recovered 
 when once lost happiness ! Happiness ! that 
 word invented by some star-gazing poet ; all
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 159 
 
 the better for his purpose, because it is so 
 purely ideal. But, I am turning away from 
 my subject, which was, the moral uses of 
 quarrels among friends. I have changed my 
 opinion upon this subject. I used to think 
 that it was best to pass over slight offences ; 
 but I tell you, Amy, a little, short, well-bred, 
 matrimonial quarrel, though somewhat disa 
 greeable at first, is useful in the end. It is 
 like a dose of cremor tartar ; it sweetens the 
 blood. Or, if you will have a more poetical 
 comparison, it is like a slight thunder-storm ; 
 and the clearing up is so beautiful ! and then 
 comes the rainbow of reconciliation ; and the 
 air is so much purer and fresher afterwards ! 
 I am enamored of the very thought of a 
 quarrel with my husband. But he never 
 gives me an opportunity. He never speaks ; 
 and he is so civil, and so serious. If he 
 would only box my ears, or whip me with a 
 stick as big, or bigger, than the law allows, I 
 should "be very angry," you will say. 
 True ; but this icy coldness would vanish ; 
 this death-like stillness, this portentous si 
 lence, would be broken, that seems .to me to 
 increase hourly, and as if it would finally 
 turn me into stone. . 
 
 Do you know I begin to think that the 

 
 160 SKETCHES OF 
 
 housekeeper must have some strange influ 
 ence ? I never felt so till I came here ; and 
 she looks unlike any human thing I ever 
 knew. The house is so still, that you hear 
 her terrible tread, in the remotest part of it. 
 My husband is with his father (whose health 
 fails daily) nearly all the time ; and I am 
 obliged to keep Willy in his nursery, lest he 
 should make a noise. When I can bear it 
 no longer, I go out, or I should go mad ; 
 every thing is so dull, so solemn, so strange. 
 My husband insists upon accepting every 
 invitation ; but when it is time to go, he 
 says, "Fanny, I hope you -will go. I must 
 stay with my father." If I object to leaving 
 him, he urges me to go, and says, " There is 
 no reason why you should stay at home. I 
 wish you to have all the pleasure you can. 
 I know it is very dull here. You will oblige 
 me by going ; " and so I go ; but I have no 
 heart in it. Indeed, I have no heart in any 
 thing. My beautiful, my precious boy, even 
 he makes me cry. I cannot tell why, but so 
 it is. He now runs alone, and begins to talk. 
 The other day, when he was sitting in my 
 lap, the tears were running fast (I cannot 
 tell why) down my cheeks. He took up 
 his little frock, and wiped them, and said,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 161 
 
 " Mamma hurt ? Do n't cry, mamrua ; I call 
 papa to kiss the place, and make it well." 
 O, Amy, it seemed, when he said this, as if 
 my silly heart would break. Just then, my 
 husband came in, and the child ran and 
 pulled him towards me. I know not what 
 evil spirit possessed me ; but when he asked 
 me what was the matter, I answered him in 
 a reproachful tone, " O, nothing ; only I am 
 homesick and heart-sick," and hurried out of 
 the room to hide my tears. I was ashamed 
 and grieved at my urikindness to him, and 
 came back, a minute afterwards, to tell him 
 so ; but he had gone into his father's room, 
 and I did not see him again till dinner-time. 
 When he met me then, it was with that 
 frigid, silent politeness, which is worse to me 
 than the rudest censure. If that bird of evil 
 omen had not been present, perhaps I might 
 have conquered my pride, and tried to melt 
 the icy coldness that was so repulsive to me ; 
 but he kept her in conversation on purpose, I 
 believe, after dinner, in order to avoid a tete- 
 a-tete with me. In the evening, I went to 
 
 the opera with Mrs. , (who is always 
 
 delightful,) and forgot for a while, in the 
 delicious music I heard there, the pain and 
 folly of the morning. Now, if he had only 
 11
 
 162 SKETCHES OF 
 
 put me in the closet, as we do a naughty 
 child, saying, too, with the true nursery tone, 
 " Now you have something to cry for," and 
 kept me there till I had promised to be good, 
 how much easier it would have been to bear 
 it ! I always hated politeness, and now more 
 than ever. 
 
 I tell you, Amy, that what is called good 
 breeding and civility is the bane of all real 
 happiness at home. If Roberts and I had 
 both been brought up to the tailor's trade, we 
 should enjoy ourselves as married people 
 ought to. If I did wrong, my husband would 
 shake the yard-measure at me, and I should 
 take the press-board to defend myself, and 
 then we should laugh at our own nonsense, 
 and kiss and be friends. Whatever else you 
 and Edward may do, after you are married, 
 avoid politeness more than you would a 
 pestilence. 
 
 I ought, dear Amy, to close my letter after 
 giving you such a piece of sage advice. You 
 must not suppose I am insensible to, or have 
 forgotten all that you have suffered during 
 Edward's illness, or all you now enjoy. I 
 have still a sort of traditionary recollection of 
 something called happiness, by which I can
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 163 
 
 measure your present emotions ; and my love 
 
 for you is true and unchanged. Farewell. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 FANNY ROBERTS. 
 
 As soon as the physician pronounced Ed 
 ward to be so far well as that his recovery 
 did not depend upon careful nursing, Amy 
 thought it right to return home. A week 
 after he was able to follow her. Even Mr. 
 Weston received him with a cordial welcome, 
 that seemed to have no reference to the 
 opinion of the world, and that forgot to ask 
 the sanction of the wisest and best. 
 
 Ruth was beside herself with joy, at seeing 
 him again. " Really, Miss Amy," she said, 
 " I was so glad to see him that I should have 
 given him a good hug, if I had not thought 
 it would look ridiculous."
 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " The best friends are those who stimulate 
 each other to good." 
 
 ARABIAN PROVERB. 
 
 THE property which Edward had acquired 
 during his absence barely satisfied Mr. Wes- 
 ton's ambition. When he and Amy asked 
 his consent to their marriage, he answered 
 that " He thought in some respects it would 
 be as well that the ceremony should be per 
 formed soon ; for, as his daughter had shown 
 to the whole world, in such an unprecedented 
 way, that he was her decided choice, it was 
 not probable now that she would alter her 
 mind ; and that as Mr. Selmar, though not 
 rich, had now a respectable property, he had 
 no further objection to make to their mar 
 riage." He even went so far as to give 
 Edward his hand in what he intended for a 
 paternal manner, and to express an unquali 
 fied wish for their future happiness. They
 
 * 
 
 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 165 
 
 resolved to dispense with all unmeaning 
 parade, all senseless forms at their marriage. 
 
 "As I understand this ceremony," said 
 Edward, : it is publicly and solemnly conse 
 crating ourselves to each other, and asking 
 the blessing and the assistance of God in the 
 performance of the new duties upon which 
 we enter, the new happiness which we antici 
 pate. Shall we not be married in church ? " 
 
 Amy said this had always been her favorite 
 wish; and, although it was not customary 
 in their church, the clergyman readily ac 
 quiesced. 
 
 As soon as the day was fixed, Amy wrote 
 to invite her friend Fanny and her husband 
 to be present at their wedding, and join them 
 upon an excursion of a few days in the coun 
 try, which Mr. Weston who w*as in an un 
 usually genial state of mind, had himself 
 proposed. Fanny replied, 
 
 Dear Amy, 
 
 Nothing would give me greater pleasure 
 than to be with you at this time ; but my 
 husband cannot leave his father, who is very 
 infirm, and I cannot well come without him. 
 I console myself for this privation by thinking 
 how many tears I am saved from shedding by
 
 166 SKETCHES OF 
 
 remaining at home. No one has time to 
 shed tears in New York, although I occasion 
 ally indulge myself in this luxury when no 
 one sees me. I have always thought a wed 
 ding a most melancholy occasion. At births, 
 and at deaths, there is every thing to hope 
 for the individual ; they are both beginnings 
 of new life ; but at weddings it -is not so. All 
 that is unlimited, all that is romantic, all that 
 is poetical and hopeful in the connexion be 
 tween lovers, is in the first mutual confession, 
 the first sweet promise of devoted love. That 
 is the true bridal of hearts, that is their real 
 festal day ; but the stiff, formal, precise, parad 
 ing wedding day ; how it comes with its cold 
 prosaic solemnity, and dissolves all the deli 
 cious enchantments in which the heart has 
 revelled with* an overflowing fulness. Ah ! 
 if we could but stop these beautiful hours, 
 and live them over and over again in one 
 eternal round ! but, alas ! how swiftly did 
 mine fly away. 
 
 Like to the summer's rain, 
 Or as the pearls of morning dew 
 Ne'er to be found again. 
 
 Do n't blame me, Amy ; it is not I that am 
 to blame ; it is the nature of things. Who
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 167 
 
 finds fault with the rose, or the rainbow, or 
 the butterfly, or the dew-drop, that they are 
 as transient as they are beautiful ! The 
 world loves to appear happy ; but there is a 
 great deal of pretence, and pride, and self- 
 glorification in all this. Every one around 
 me supposes that I am very happy, and that 
 is one reason that my society is so much 
 courted ; they hope to catch a little of the 
 joy which they think is in my heart. Like 
 me, they have it not within, and hope to find 
 it somewhere out of themselves. Each one 
 keeps his own secret. They know not, these 
 craving souls, to what bankrupt hearts they 
 go asking for help, nor upon what fictitious 
 foundations the drafts are made that they re 
 ceive so eagerly, and that pass so readily 
 with a world in which almost every indi 
 vidual has agreed to cheat and to be cheated. 
 It does seem unkind, I know, to croak like 
 a bird of evil omen at the idea of your wed 
 ding day, my dear Amy ; but you have al 
 ways begged me to speak the truth, to say 
 all that is in my heart to you. You have 
 always said that you preferred to know the 
 worst ; and I find when I am speaking or 
 writing to you, that all the reserves, all the 
 disguises, which come upon me at other
 
 168 SKETCHES OF 
 
 times, and in the presence of others, fall off, 
 and I breathe out every feeling, and open 
 every thought, as if to a disembodied spirit 
 that I know is all tenderness and forgiveness. 
 If there lives a being on this earth whose 
 happiness is founded upon realities, whose 
 heart is so fixed upon heavenly things, that 
 nothing can shake it, it is yours ; but the test, 
 the touch-stone will soon be applied, and it 
 will do you no harm to be warned before 
 hand. 
 
 You may suppose from this that I have a 
 fit of the blues, or that my husband is not 
 kind to me, or that I find I was mistaken in 
 his character. No such thing. I am often 
 very gay, I am more in society than ever. 
 When my husband and I are together, we 
 are very polite to each other ; he never finds 
 fault with me now, and he is just what he 
 always was you know him, dear Amy ; but 
 there is no reasoning about these things. 
 We cannot be reasoned into happiness or any 
 other feeling. It is one of the falsehoods of 
 the good, as they are called, that they pretend 
 that we are accountable for our feelings. 
 They say we ought to be happy. What an 
 absurdity ! How hopeful a subject for such 
 preachers was the man who said he had been 
 trying all his life to be spontaneous.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 169 
 
 
 The idea of trying to be spontaneous, 
 
 brings to my mind our friend Mrs. Loveall. 
 She and Mr. Loveall have been here with two 
 of the Miss Lovealls. How she did my-dear- 
 me, when I called upon her ! and how she 
 did show off the young ladies to Mr. Somers 
 who was there ! Three hundred thousand 
 dollars, writes poetry, and belongs to one of 
 our first families, she told me after he left us. 
 duery. What were they, these first families 
 originally ? Cobblers or tinkers ? She. how 
 ever, dwelt only upon his poetical talents and 
 intellectual charms. By the bye, dear, there 's 
 a pattern couple for you ! They are as civil 
 as two pickpockets to each other. It is al 
 ways " Just as you please my dear ; ladies 
 should govern in all things," and on her part,, 
 " I am ready, Mr. Lovell, to do as you shall 
 decide is best," and to the young ladies it is, 
 " Do n't forget the injunctions of your Papa ; 
 his will should be consulted in every thing } 
 my dear." I heard her once deliver a homily 
 upon the duties of wives. I had some sus 
 picion it was meant for me ; so I remarked 
 that I thought the idea of a woman obeying 
 her husband was now among the acknowl 
 edged barbarisms of older times; it was 
 altogether obsolete among well-bred folks.
 
 170 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " I," she replied " am old-fashioned enough 
 to think that the poet had the true notion of 
 the dignity of woman when he said, she 
 
 " Charms by accepting, by submitting sways." 
 
 " Does not that intimate," I replied, " that 
 to govern is the great object with women ? 
 only that as the power cannot be obtained by 
 open and fair means, it must be gained by 
 contrivance." I asked this with a due rever 
 ence in my manner. 
 
 She answered with a patronizing senti 
 mental smile. " The truth is, my dear, men 
 enjoy the chains that are hidden by the 
 flowers that love twines around them." 
 
 " You think, then," I said, " that when 
 men call themselves the slaves of the fair sex, 
 it is no figure of speech, but sober reality." 
 
 " Men," she said, "have a right to govern 
 by the law of the land ; and in all externals 
 are, and should be masters ; they are the 
 visible, the acknowledged head." 
 
 "Woman, then," I said, "if she is only 
 cunning, is the real, man the apparent, head 
 of the family." 
 
 ' : Xo, no," said Mrs. Lovell. " I am 
 afraid, my dear, you are a little heretical
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 171 
 
 upon this subject. But Mr. Lovell and I 
 early came to an understanding with regard 
 to these matters ; and I think that I owe the 
 unparalleled felicity of my married life to 
 adhering strictly to these principles." 
 
 I asked a lady the other day, who knew 
 them intimately, whether they seemed happy 
 together. " O, yes," she answered ; " you 
 never hear a debate, not even a discussion, 
 between them. He is almost always in his 
 study, and she always in the drawing-room. 
 They treat each other with the most pro 
 found respect, and each goes on in his own 
 course, as freely as if the other was not in 
 being." 
 
 It is a shame, at this moment, dear Amy, 
 when your mind is occupied so entirely with 
 other things, to send you a letter filled with 
 such nonsense. I wish you could see my 
 beautiful little Willy. I have no right to 
 anything so angelic. O, why was I ever 
 obliged to leave you ? Bless you ! Heaven 
 bless you! Still remember and love your 
 old playmate. Come what will, let me still 
 be your dear FANNY. 
 
 A few weeks after her return, Amy wrote 
 to her cousin :
 
 172 SKETCHES OF 
 
 Dear Fanny, 
 
 O, if I could only talk with you, instead 
 of writing, I have so much that I want to 
 say to you ! and when one's heart is so full, 
 words are so inadequate ! " Begin," you will 
 say, " and tell on, just as the children do ; " 
 and so I will. 
 
 I told you, in my last, that we were to be 
 married at church ; and so we were. My 
 friend, Miss Treville, who was present, says 
 there were not many people there. I thought, 
 beforehand, that it would be very disagreea 
 ble to me, to have any but my most intimate 
 friends present ; but I had no idea of the 
 absorbing nature of the emotions I should 
 experience. I was perfectly unconscious of 
 the presence of any human being except my 
 husband. The church might have been full, 
 and I should not have known it. A deep, 
 unutterable, religious calmness took possession 
 of my soul. It was the most holy, the most 
 perfectly blissful moment of my whole life. 
 I saw nothing. I heard the prayer as not 
 hearing it. There was a more perfect prayer 
 rising silently and unbidden from my own 
 heart. A strange, unearthly influence seemed 
 to be upon me, when I felt the pressure of 
 Edward's hand, and realized that we were
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 173 
 
 one for time and for eternity. The first 
 thing that brought me to this world again 
 was the audible sobs of friend Ruth, who 
 was guite near me, and the consciousness 
 that Edward was leading me out of the 
 church to the carriage. Before I stepped in, 
 I gave the dear soul my hand, which she 
 squeezed in such a way as to put it beyond 
 all doubt, that I was yet in the body, and 
 still subject to its infirmities. I could hardly 
 help wringing my hand with pain, as soon as 
 I was in the carriage. 
 
 If you had been with me, you would have 
 highly enjoyed a scene that took place be 
 tween Ruth and Jerry, the day before we 
 were married. I was in the kitchen, trying 
 to persuade Ruth that a colored crape gown, 
 which Edward had brought for her from 
 Canton, would do for her to wear at my 
 wedding. 
 
 " They say, ma'am, that it is a bad sign, 
 to go to a wedding in anything but white ; 
 and though this gown I 'm fixing up is rather 
 short, yet at meeting nobody will see my 
 feet ; and I shall feel better in it, I know." 
 
 " But, Ruth," I said, " I did not think you 
 were so superstitious." 
 
 " And I am sure, Miss Amy, I am not su-
 
 174 SKETCHES OF 
 
 perstitious ; but there are some signs that 
 always do come true. Now, when scissors 
 stick into the floor when they fall, I always 
 expect a stranger ; and I never saw any good 
 come of singing before breakfast, or going to 
 a wedding in a dark gown ; and as for a bride 
 to dress in colors, I think it would be nothing 
 more nor less than a tempting of Providence." 
 
 Just then, Jerry entered. 
 
 " Did not I tell you ? " said Ruth. " Look 
 there at my scissors sticking up in the floor, 
 and there is Jerry." 
 
 Jerry came up to me in his peculiar, fidget- 
 ty way, expressing his great joy at seeing 
 me, and at Mr. Selmar's return, and presently 
 said, " Well, I suppose your head is in such 
 a whirl, Ruth, that you do n't want to answer 
 a question I came to ask you. Perhaps I 
 had better not stay now." 
 
 " He that is dizzy thinks the world turns 
 round," replied Ruth. "I don't care much, 
 Jerry, for your staying at any time ; but I 'm 
 not so busy but I have time enough to an 
 swer any of your questions. It does not take 
 much wit to answer them, you know." 
 
 "I wanted to know what time I might 
 come to-morrow," said Jerry. 
 
 " Better come to breakfast, Jerry," I an-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 175 
 
 swered. " Mr. Selmar has a present for you, 
 that he brought from China, and will be glad 
 to see you, I know." 
 
 The poor fellow was so delighted, that, in 
 going out, he stumbled headlong over a chair, 
 and actually fell sprawling on the floor. Ruth 
 burst into a hearty laugh, and cried out after 
 him, as he was trying hard to escape her, 
 " Better slip with the foot than the tongue, 
 Jerry." 
 
 Miss Treville tells me that Ruth's appear 
 ance was very droll at the wedding. She 
 put on the white gown over a dark skirt, 
 and, in the strength of her faith that her feet 
 would not show, wore dark stockings. I 
 did not see her, or I should have taken care 
 that she was properly dressed. She stood, 
 she says, with her hands clasped, and her 
 head run out, (you know how tall she is,) 
 looking intently in my face during the whole 
 ceremony, the big tears running fast down 
 her cheeks all the time, and she apparently 
 unconscious of it, till at last she began to sob 
 aloud, when, as I mentioned to you, I heard 
 her. Dear soul ! If souls shaped bodies, 
 with all her oddities, what a beautiful form 
 would be hers ! 
 
 I enjoyed the journey, but I was very glad
 
 176 SKETCHES OF 
 
 to return home to the actual duties of life. 
 The true value of the ideal is to prepare for 
 the real. If we ascend the mount, in search 
 of inspiration, it must be for the sake of 
 bringing it down with us, to guide and gov 
 ern us as we pass through the wilderness to 
 the holy land. My father has consented to 
 live with us. He seems very happy, and I 
 hope we shall make his old age comfortable. 
 We have been at home about three weeks. 
 The mornings my husband gives to business, 
 the afternoons and evenings to reading and 
 social enjoyment. 
 
 Now, dear Fanny, I have a confession to 
 make. I showed your last letter to Edward. 
 We have set out upon the principle to hide 
 nothing, positively nothing, from each other ; 
 to have no separate interests, no separate 
 pleasures, no separate duties, any farther than 
 is absolutely necessary. I know that I can 
 not help him transact his business at the 
 counting-room, neither can he assist me in 
 my household affairs ; but whenever, and in 
 whatever way, we can be mutually interested 
 and occupied, we shall act together. Now, 
 it is but fair that you should know this, dear 
 Fanny, as it may influence you in your cor 
 respondence with me ; but I trust and hope
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 177 
 
 it will not prevent your writing to me with 
 the same confidence as ever. We do not 
 agree with you, that the first assurance of 
 mutual love is the happiest moment, or that 
 all that is poetical and unlimited in love is 
 before marriage. We have, to be sure, been 
 married only six weeks ; but we prefer the 
 constant intimacy, the hourly devotion, the 
 entire freedom, the perfect confidence, the 
 serene assurance of reality, which belong to 
 married life, to the feverish delight, the anx 
 ious fears, the thrilling pleasures, the fluctu 
 ating hopes, the romantic dreams of the most 
 happy courtship. If marriage is what it 
 ought to be, it is the exchange of ideal for 
 real bliss ; of uncertain hopes for the most 
 joyful possession ; of earthly tumult for 
 heavenly peace. This is our present belief. 
 We do not expect unmingled happiness. 
 We know that we are both very imperfect 
 beings ; but we are sure, that if we are only 
 true to each other and to ourselves, we can 
 still love one another, in spite of our defects. 
 This perfect oneness of mind does not imply 
 the loss of individuality. The most perfect 
 harmony is the result not of the repetition of 
 the same notes, but only requires that the 
 different parts should perfectly accord. I 
 12
 
 
 178 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 have, my dear Fanny, much more to say 
 upon this subject, but I fear that my letter is 
 already of an unreasonable length. If my 
 views change, I promise to tell you so. 
 
 Ever yours, AMY SELMAR.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " Can fancy paint more finished happiness 1 
 All who knew envied, but in envy loved." 
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 
 
 THE most strenuous advocate for the ex 
 clusive importance of a woman's being an 
 adept at all those employments which belong 
 particularly to her department in the conduct 
 of a family, would have been satisfied with 
 Amy's skill in housekeeping. Every one, 
 who entered her father's house, could not but 
 notice the beautiful order that prevailed. 
 There was nothing of what is so emphatical 
 ly and well called fussing, upon extraordinary 
 occasions. While her father was rich, and 
 the same when he was comparatively poor, 
 she adhered to a mode of living which she 
 thought was properly conformed to his means. 
 Upon the subject of entertaining company, it 
 was her principle, to provide more amply, not 
 differently, for guests. While they were 
 rich, this required no sacrifice, and was com-
 
 180 SKETCHES OF 
 
 paratively an easy thing, and gave her the 
 full enjoyment of society ; but when their 
 means became limited, it required some effort 
 of principle, to resist the temptation of adopt 
 ing a style, when company came, which they 
 could not usually afford. Her father was 
 always urging her to this sort of display; 
 but Amy was faithful to her principle, of 
 making no false pretences. 
 
 " I wish," she would say to her father, 
 " to be truly hospitable, and yet to enjoy our 
 visiters. Now, if we expend money in enter 
 taining them, which we cannot afford, I can 
 not take pleasure in seeing them ; for I should 
 feel as if we were doing wrong. Let us 
 appear to the world as we really are ; our 
 welcome to our friends will be as sincere as 
 ever." 
 
 " The world will soon forget us, if we do 
 not conform to its customs," said her father. 
 
 " But there is a dignity and truth in living 
 according to our means, that even the world 
 will acknowledge and respect, father; and 
 
 our real friends will surely not forsake us." 
 
 i 
 
 They thus had an opportunity of finding 
 out who visited them for the sake of the style 
 in which they lived, and who out of real 
 regard. Mr. Weston was surprised to see
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 181 
 
 that some of those, whom he considered his 
 fastest friends, fell away with his fine houses 
 and elegant carriage and horses ; and he was 
 still more astonished to see that some, whom 
 he had looked down upon or forgotten, stood 
 by him and his daughter in what he consid 
 ered their day of adversity. 
 
 In her treatment of the domestics, Amy 
 never forgot that we are all equally the chil 
 dren of God. She ever recognized the truth, 
 that the difference between the employer and 
 those whom he employs is adventitious and 
 accidental imposing mutual duties, but leav 
 ing the natural rights of each the same. She 
 felt that the heaviest and most sacred obliga 
 tion rested upon the most favored party. She 
 thought that he, who pays money for faithful 
 services, always gains what is, in itself, more 
 valuable than what he gives ; and that if, in 
 addition, he receives confidence and affection, 
 he has given the perishable for the imperish 
 able treasure, and that the bargain is unfair, 
 unless he returns love for love. Some will 
 say, " All this is very excellent ; these are 
 grand principles, and show that Amy had a 
 just notion of Christianity ; but it does not 
 prove her a perfect housekeeper. Could she 
 make puddings and pies, and did she under-
 
 182 SKETCHES OF 
 
 stand the whole arcana of the pantry and 
 larder ? " Yes ; she could make puddings, 
 and pies, and soups, and sauces, and jams, 
 and jellies, and cakes, and custards, according 
 to the most approved receipts. " Was she 
 punctual at meals ? " asks some dyspeptical 
 gentleman. " Were you certain that the 
 dinner would not grow cold, and her hus 
 band's temper grew hot, while she finished 
 dressing ? " Yes ; she was sure as the clock, 
 and ever at her post, ready for its summons. 
 " And was she patient with those who were 
 not punctual, that harder duty ? " asks the 
 nice moralist. In this, too, Amy did not fail. 
 Her cousin Fanny said of her, that " she was 
 the only punctual and careful person she had 
 ever known, that she could tolerate. Unlike 
 these pattern folks," she said, "when another 
 was too late, when another was so unfortunate 
 as to lose anything, Amy never remarked that 
 she never lost anything she never kept 
 people waiting." She thought it was well 
 to be faithful in her attention to these mi 
 nor duties, but believed that any degree of 
 boasting would diminish, if not efface their 
 merit. 
 
 There is one question that perhaps no one 
 will be impertinent enough to ask, which we
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 183 
 
 must therefore put ourselves. Was Amy 
 careful, and neat, and attentive, in her per 
 sonal appearance ? Self-respect, regard for 
 others, even her religious sensibilities, all 
 combined to urge upon her mind the im 
 portance of this duty. She wished that her 
 dress might please others, for she wished to 
 give pleasure in every thing. The human 
 body, this exquisite instrument of knowl 
 edge and happiness, so cunningly, so won 
 derfully made should it not be the object 
 of as much care as we bestow upon some of 
 God's lesser gifts? Does it not contain a 
 celestial spirit ? Some may call it a fanciful 
 enthusiasm ; but Amy felt that since Jesus 
 had consecrated the human form, it should 
 be kept as a holy temple, in which divine 
 excellence had once been enshrined. 
 
 We ask pardon of the reader, for giving 
 such a list of Amy's excellences as a wiie 
 and a housekeeper ; but she was too modest 
 to speak of them herself, and they could be 
 known fully only to intimate frielWs and 
 daily visitors. 
 
 Edward had much improved during his 
 absence. His character was more firm, more 
 decided. There was an open-hearted pleas 
 antry, a Christian cheerfulness, in his manners,
 
 184 SKETCHES OP 
 
 that gave them an inexpressible charm. He 
 was so trustful, so frank, so spiritual, so purely 
 happy, that he seemed to animate every one, 
 even the dullest,, that he approached. All 
 seemed sunshine, where he was. His busi 
 ness was prosperous ; he made some very 
 successful speculations, and again called him 
 self a rich man. Amy was rejoiced at again 
 having money at her command. She fully 
 appreciated the pleasure which all the refined 
 luxuries of life afford ; more especially that 
 purest of all luxuries, of always having her 
 purse well supplied for the needy. Mr. 
 Weston, too, had never been so truly happy. 
 The coldest and the most worldly heart can 
 not but yield, at last, to the gentle but all- 
 subduing influences of a constant stream of 
 Christian love. His opinions were not 
 changed ; his views of happiness could not 
 become elevated ; his intellectual and moral 
 eye was too dim to see the true glory, the 
 true beauty of existence ; but his heart was 
 softened and improved by the healthful moral 
 atmosphere which pervaded Amy's and Ed 
 ward's household. 
 
 " I observe, my dear," he said to Amy, 
 " that some of our old friends, among the first 
 class, who forgot us during our fallen fortunes,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 185 
 
 have again found us out, since Edward has 
 grown rich. It is well enough to have a 
 visiting acquaintance with people of their 
 standing in society ; but I can never take as 
 much pleasure in them as I did formerly." 
 
 Had Edward and Amy no faults ? Were 
 all their days a bright succession of halcyon 
 hours all success, all goodness, all love ? 
 No ; there is no truth in such pictures. Of 
 fences must and do come ; temptations are 
 around and within us. There is no point in 
 the scale of Christian perfection, however 
 high, which does not present new and real, 
 though different and more refined, trials. 
 Married life, as an offset to its higher and 
 more exquisite pleasures, does not lessen, but 
 increase these dangers. The mistakes and 
 misunderstandings of every day call forth vir 
 tues, and tempt to faults, the importance of 
 which should not be judged of in comparison 
 with grosser neglects of duty, but according 
 to the higher moral attainments of those who 
 commit them. Nothing has been said of 
 Amy's faults ; the following incident shows 
 of what nature they were. 
 
 'Amy," said her husband, one day, 
 " where did you pmt my journal of my 
 voyage to Canton ? "
 
 186 SKETCHES OF 
 
 - - . 
 
 " I returned it to you." 
 
 " No ; I think not ; you said you wished 
 to look at it again." 
 
 " Oh, but I am sure that I returned it to 
 you, Edward." 
 
 " I believe that you kept it, Amy." 
 
 " I am so habitually careful about such 
 things that I know I should not have kept it, 
 and then have forgotten it." 
 
 " I still think, my dear, that it is in your 
 possession." 
 
 "I should think, Edward, that when I 
 assert a thing so positively, you would be 
 satisfied that I am right. You know that 
 you often forget such sort of things ; but I 
 never do." 
 
 " Valuable papers, Amy, I am never care 
 less of." 
 
 " Yes you are, Edward, for here is an in 
 stance of it." 
 
 "I am not convinced," said her husband. ' 
 
 " I should think you would sooner trust me 
 than yourself in this case ; I never make a 
 mistake of this kind." 
 
 " If I did not recollect distinctly your keep 
 ing the journal I probably should." 
 
 " It really is wrong in you to doubt me 
 now. I am perfectly certain that I did not
 
 ' 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 187 
 
 keep it. I am sure of myself upon such sub 
 jects." 
 
 Amy's color rose with her positiveness. 
 Her husband's gentleness did not fail, how 
 ever. He asked her to go and look in the 
 place where she kept her own papers. 
 
 " I will go," she said, " to satisfy you, but 
 solely on that account. I am perfectly cer 
 tain I am right." 
 
 She ran up to her room with a quick elated 
 step. She opened the drawer in which her 
 own papers were, and there the first thing 
 was her husband's journal. Sudden shame 
 seemed to spread all over her like a hot gar 
 ment. " How absurd I must seem to my 
 husband ! how can I carry it down to him 
 after my foolish assertions ? But he will not 
 triumph over me, he will only be sorry for 
 my fault, he will even be generous enough to 
 be sorry for my mortification, he is so kind ; 
 and I do deserve a punishment for my posi 
 tiveness." 
 
 Amy took the manuscript to her husband, 
 and with a quiet manner said, as she gave it 
 to him, " I have been all wrong, and you have 
 been all right, Edward. If I had not found 
 the journal I should have still been as wrong ; 
 for I was so foolishly positive. This is
 
 188 SKETCHES OF 
 
 a great fault of mine, I am truly ashamed 
 of it." 
 
 Edward silently pressed her hand and the 
 incident was never spoken of again. 
 
 " You must not, dear Amy," said Edward, 
 " rest your hopes of happiness with me, upon 
 the faith that I have not many faults." 
 
 " Surely not," said Amy ; " and rely upon 
 it I shall be complaisant enough to keep you 
 fully in countenance. You have already 
 seen that I am often too positive ; and per 
 haps you have to learn another great fault of 
 mine." 
 
 " What is it, Amy ? " 
 
 " I am very sensitive to blame." 
 
 " I should not have thought so ; did you 
 not voluntarily incur the censure of many 
 worldly-minded people by coming to see me 
 on Hospital Island ? " 
 
 " Yes, and for such censure I care nothing ; 
 but I find it very hard to keep my temper 
 when those I love blame me." 
 
 " It is right that we should value the 
 opinion of those we love, Amy." 
 
 " Oh ! but I am too apt to think that those 
 I love ought not to blame me, ought not to 
 doubt me in any thing. I am silly enough 
 to suppose that they cannot think I am 
 wrong."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 189 
 
 " I shall often try you, then ; I am so 
 hasty and sensitive to any appearance of 
 wrong in any one I love. I am often unrea 
 sonable." 
 
 " But our happiness," said Amy, " cannot 
 be in danger if we are only fearless and open 
 in confessing our own, and reproving each 
 other's faults." 
 
 " We not only," said Edward, "must have 
 no disguises about things of acknowledged 
 importance, but we must consider nothing as 
 trifling in which the happiness of either of 
 us is in question ; we must be perfectly 
 open." 
 
 All who saw Edward and Amy together 
 perceived that the evil spirit of fear which so 
 often mars the happiness of married life, had 
 no place between them, but that the " spirit 
 of love and a sound mind " presided over and 
 blessed them. 
 
 " There is one fault," said Edward, " which 
 very intimate friends are apt to fall into, 
 which I hope we shall avoid." 
 
 " What is that ? " replied Amy. 
 
 "It is bad manners towards each other.'* 
 
 " But how is that possible, Edward ? you 
 surely would not like such company polite 
 ness as Mrs. Lovell has towards her hus 
 band ? "
 
 190 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " No, it is not the form, but the spirit and 
 soul of good manners, that I hope we shall 
 never neglect." 
 
 " But, loving each other as we do, how is 
 it possible we should be wanting in good 
 manners ? " 
 
 " It would seem so, Amy ; and yet I have 
 often seen people who really loved each 
 other neglectful of the delicate attentions and 
 courtesies of life, on the plea that their inti 
 mate friends were sure of their affection, and 
 it was not necessary to be so scrupulous about 
 such little things with friends." 
 
 "I think it very vulgar," replied Amy. 
 " How can they be willing to check the spring 
 of little affections which sweeten the cup of 
 life as we drink it." 
 
 " It is nevertheless true, Amy ; and I have 
 seen your intimate friends commit this fault 
 towards you ; I have seen them lavish their at 
 tentions and agreeableness upon strangers, and 
 neglect you, because they thought that they 
 were sure of your love." 
 
 " I have never noticed it," said Amy. 
 
 " I have," replied Edward ; " and I have 
 seen the same thing between married people, 
 and I am certain it is a deep injury to any 
 friendship. All our virtues, all our purest
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 191 
 
 affections require watchfulness ; they must 
 be cultivated, and cherished." 
 
 Thus in the simplicity, and truth, and joy 
 of Christian love, did Edward and Amy walk 
 hand in hand, and heart in heart, along the 
 happy way before them. Wealth was a real 
 blessing to them, for they understood its true 
 uses : life was a real blessing to them, for they 
 kept in view its infinite purposes ; love was 
 a real blessing to them, for they were ac 
 quainted with its infinite joys.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 His purpose is not to appear just, but to be." 
 
 AESCHYLUS. 
 
 MANY months had passed away, each one 
 leaving Edward and Amy happier than it 
 found them. It was a winter evening ; Mr. 
 Weston had retired for the night, visiters 
 were gone, and Edward had been sitting for 
 some time, perfectly silent, looking into the 
 fire. 
 
 " What makes you so unusually silent, 
 Edward ? " said his wife. 
 
 " I can hardly tell : have I been very 
 silent ? " 
 
 " Why you have not spoken for an hour." 
 
 " It is a very bad night for the poor," said 
 Edward ; " the cold is extreme." 
 
 " Yes," said Amy, " are you not glad that 
 we sent poor Mrs. Brown some wood this 
 morning ? " 
 
 Edward made no answer. " Shall I read
 
 "4 
 
 v*t f ' -JM 
 
 - SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 193 
 
 you a letter I received this morning from 
 Fanny Roberts ; she and her husband are, I 
 fear, very unhappy." 
 
 Edward's attention seemed awakened, and 
 Amy read him Fanny's letter. 
 
 Dear Amy, 
 
 This is my little Willy's birth-day. The 
 day of her son's birth ought to be a mother's 
 
 fc 
 
 holiday. Alas ! there is no holiday in our 
 house, none in my heart. Three years ago 
 when the first sound of my child's voi^e fell 
 on my ear, it seemed to me like a voice from 
 Heaven, pronouncing a blessing upon me. 
 Now I look upon the little fellow with pity. 
 I pity him, for, like his mother, he thirsts for 
 happiness, and I fear he will not find it. I 
 pity him, for he craves affection and he shall 
 never be satisfied. I pity him, for he loves 
 his mother, and she does not deserve his love ; 
 he leans upon her, and she is a broken reed. 
 His father came and took him in his arms 
 this morning, and pressed him to his heart 
 with such an indescribable tenderness ; and I 
 saw him look up, and I saw tears, yes, tears 
 in his eyes, but not one word did he speak. 
 It seemed to me as if he purposely looked 
 away from me, as if he wished to forget that 
 13
 
 194 SKETCHES OF 
 
 there was such a being in the world. For 
 one moment I was tempted to throw myself 
 on my knees and implore him to cast away 
 his chilling, his cruel reserve, but the nurse 
 maid was in the room, and I did not wish to 
 proclaim to the world that my husband did 
 not love me. Yes, this is the hateful truth, 
 Amy ; my husband does not love me, and 
 yet I am his wife. Good God, I am his law 
 ful wedded wife, and he does not love me 
 better than all the world beside ; and I have 
 written it calmly as you see', and I am alive, 
 and I have not dashed my head against the 
 wall ; but I am bearing this quietly, bravely, 
 pretending not to see it, not to know it, turn 
 ing myself into stone ; putting on the mask 
 of hypocrisy, making believe happy, playing 
 as I did when I was a little girl that I am a 
 rich, fine, gay lady, ha ! ha ! how nicely I 
 cheat them all. I tell you, Amy, because if 
 my heart that sometimes comes near bursting 
 should actually break, (such things have 
 been,) you may bear witness that I had one. 
 Sweet Willy ! he has just come softly up 
 to me and kissed my hand, and says, " Your 
 hand is cold, mother, leave off and dance and 
 sing with me." What shall I sing ? " There 
 was a maid in Bedlam ? " That is a sad
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 195 
 
 song ; oh, no, it is not so very sad, for " she 
 knew that her love loved her." Do n't think 
 I am crazy, Amy, I am as rational as ever I 
 was. I try to amuse myself, and get rid of 
 my uncomfortable feelings. For a while I 
 enjoyed dancing, and went to every dance to 
 which I was invited ; but, as my husband 
 gave up going, I did not like it. I shrink 
 from attentions from gentlemen when he is 
 not present. 
 
 But I have lately found an amusement that 
 takes up my thoughts safely. It is the game 
 of whist. I have become quite an adept at 
 it. I belong to a party which we joined 
 some time ago. There is a fusty old bachelor 
 who is my regular opponent, and I have 
 never played with him without beating him. 
 I laugh at him unmercifully about it ; I tease 
 him in every way I can devise, just for the 
 sport of seeing the contest between his polite 
 ness and his rage. I always have the cards 
 against him ; so sure as he comes out with an 
 ace and king, I trump him ; and if he has four 
 trumps, I have five. The other night, when 
 he thought he was sure of one trick, and I 
 trumped it, rage conquered, and he exclaimed, 
 " The deuse must help Mrs. Roberts ; but I 
 ask pardon it is your play, ma'am."
 
 196 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " Of whom did you ask pardon, Mr. Bruin, 
 of me or of that respectable person whose 
 name ought not to he so hastily spoken ? " 
 Upon this he threw down his cards, and said 
 either of us were welcome to his cards. I 
 laughed heartily at him, and proposed giving 
 him five the next game, which he took up 
 with ; and it did seem as if there was some 
 witchery in the business, for we beat him in 
 one hand. " Thanks to the five we gave 
 you, Mr. Bruin," I said, " or you would have 
 been beaten a love game." " Thank my 
 stars," he said, " I am free of all love games ; 
 one is sure to lose in them." 
 
 " Where one is so sure of being beaten, it 
 is most prudent, Mr. Bruin, not to play. I 
 advise you to bring your knitting-work the 
 next time you come, and perhaps you will 
 be kind enough to sit behind me, and advise 
 me how to play my cards." Some one told 
 me that after I left the room, he put his 
 arms a-kimbo, and said, as he looked after 
 me, " Well, I had rather bean old bachelor 
 to the end of time, than have to tame such a 
 shrew as that." 
 
 But, ah ! the loneliness, the unspeakable 
 loneliness I feel, after I return from an evening 
 passed in this way, to my own home. My
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 197 
 
 child is asleep, my husband has retired for the 
 night ; no one is up but the housekeeper, 
 who tries to tread softly for fear of disturbing 
 old Mr. Roberts, whose days draw very fast 
 to a close. Parrot-like in every thing, she al 
 ways asks me exactly the same question which 
 is, " Do you wish for anything ? " and when I 
 answer, "No," retires. Once, however, she 
 proved her humanity by saying something else. 
 To her question instead of saying, "No," I an 
 swered " Yes." " What ma'am ? " she replied. 
 < ; To die," I answered, and with a tone that 
 was frightful even to my own ears. Instead 
 of leaving me she looked at me kindly ; yes, 
 Amy, kindly, if you will believe it, and said 
 to me, " Life is the gift of a good God, and 
 not to be despised, or wickedly thrown away ; 
 but perhaps, dear, you are ill ; let me take 
 care of you." Had the marble image of 
 Minerva that stood by her in the entry, spoken 
 words of wisdom to me, and extended arms 
 of love and pity towards me, I should not 
 have been more surprised, more moved. I 
 burst into tears. " Oh no ! no ! " I said, " I 
 am only heart sick ; " and hurried to my 
 chamber ; but I will never laugh at her 
 again. There is some terrible thing on my 
 husband's mind ; and I, who should be his
 
 198 SKETCHES OF 
 
 bosom friend, know nothing of it ; and oh ! I 
 dare not ask him, he is so cold, so silent, so 
 reserved. Amy! dear Amy! I am so lost, 
 so bewildered, so unhappy ! Oh, if I could 
 but see you ! my head is so confused, and 
 my heart is so very heavy. Write to me ! 
 Oh, if you could but come to me ! You 
 know how I love you. 
 
 FANNY ROBERTS. 
 
 Edward and Amy were both deeply moved 
 at reading Fanny's letter. " We are their 
 nearest and dearest friends," said Amy ; " I 
 wish we could go to them; we might do 
 them good. Poor Fanny ! how my heart 
 aches for her." 
 
 " So does mine, Amy ; but you know that 
 it is out of the question for you to go at 
 present. You must write to Fanny, and tell 
 her that the self-sacrificing life of a mother 
 has already commenced with you, and that if 
 all is well, we will certainly come to New 
 York in the spring." Edward again relapsed 
 into an unusual silence. 
 
 " Dear Edward ! " said his wife, " you have 
 something on your mind ; your brow looks 
 troubled ; what is it. 
 
 " Only anxiety about business, Amy. How
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 199 
 
 often I have wished that I had not "been bred 
 a merchant ! But my mother said that it 
 was a favorite wish of my father, that I 
 should be an accomplished merchant." 
 
 " I have sometimes wished so too," an 
 swered his wife ; " and then, again, I remem 
 ber, that the very evils that belong to your 
 profession may be turned into good. He 
 that has it in his power to do wrong with 
 impunity though he gains by it, yet chooses 
 the right by which he loses, is the most 
 eloquent preacher of righteousness." 
 
 " Very true, Amy ; but sometimes this is 
 indeed cutting off the right hand, and pluck 
 ing out the right eye ; and then thinking 
 always about money arid bargains has such a 
 contracting influence upon one's mind! " 
 
 " But, how often, Edward, have I heard 
 you say that no man has such wide and vari 
 ous connexions with the human race, as a 
 well-educated, upright, and active merchant ! 
 Every part of the world sends him its tribute 
 of knowledge, as well as of riches. He sees 
 men under all aspects ; and while he may, 
 with a certain degree of security, indulge in 
 dishonesty, and be the enemy of his fellow- 
 men, perhaps no man can be so true, and 
 self-sacrificing, and efficient a philanthropist, 
 as a Christian merchant."
 
 200 SKETCHES OF 
 
 
 
 " It is not always so easy as you may 
 imagine, for a merchant to act as remember 
 ing that he is under his great Task-master's 
 eye." 
 
 " Not for all, or some men ; but for you, 
 Edward, the difficulty would be to act other 
 wise. When I think of your profession, 
 Edward, it gives me pleasure to notice that 
 merchants in general, as they acquire property 
 more easily, are more disposed to spend it 
 liberally." 
 
 " Yes," said Edward, as his eye kindled at 
 the thought ; " the greater proportion of our 
 public benefactors have been merchants. 
 Their money has given eyes to the blind, 
 and ears to the deaf, health to the sick, and 
 peace and comfort to the forsaken ; it feeds 
 and instructs the ignorant poor ; it sends the 
 glad tidings of salvation to the unbeliever 
 and the penitent ; it takes little children in 
 its arms, and blesses them. But all this glo 
 rious power supposes wealth, Amy." 
 
 " And you, dear Edward, are rich enough 
 to enjoy this highest of all privileges to be 
 the dispenser of good to others. You have 
 cause only for thankfulness. But the poor, 
 the unsuccessful merchant, who has not 
 the means of educating his children, whose
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 201 
 
 spirits are broken down by failures, and 
 whose temper is soured by what he con 
 siders the injustice or dishonesty of others, 
 perhaps even of his own friends he is the 
 man who, perhaps, may be excused for find 
 ing fault with his profession. My heart 
 aches for him." 
 
 Edward started up, and walked hastily 
 backward and forwards through the room, as 
 if he had been seized with some sudden and 
 intolerable pain. 
 
 " What is the matter, Edward ? " said his 
 wife. " Are you ill ? " 
 
 " O, nothing ; nothing of consequence," 
 said Edward. "I happened to think of 
 something rather unpleasant then. It is late 
 now, I believe, and my head aches." 
 
 They retired for the night. The next 
 day, Edward looked depressed and thought 
 ful, and as if he had passed a sleepless night. 
 Amy was troubled by his silence. This was 
 the first cloud that had rested on her hus 
 band's brow since they were married. 
 
 "He has," she said to herself, "he has 
 always confided every thing to me. He will 
 tell me what it is that hangs so heavily upon 
 his spirits. He will never shut me out from 
 his sorrows, any more than his joys."
 
 202 SKETCHES OF 
 
 She thought, when he returned from the 
 counting-house for the day, that he looked 
 more free and happy, though he was still 
 silent and thoughtful. 
 
 " Come and sit by me, Amy," said Edward 
 to her, when they were alone in the evening. 
 
 Amy sat down by her husband. 
 
 " Do you not, Amy, enjoy our handsome 
 house, and pictures, and carriage, &c. ? " 
 
 " Surely, Edward ; I take great pleasure 
 in these things. Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " And you love to have money enough to 
 give to those who want it ? " 
 
 " Why, what a question, Edward ! You 
 know I value this power more than I can 
 tell." 
 
 " And can you voluntarily resign all these 
 luxuries, Amy ? " 
 
 " Why should I voluntarily resign them, 
 Edward ? What makes you so enigmatical ? 
 Tell me what you mean." 
 
 " Suppose that all the money, which ena 
 bles us to indulge ourselves in these luxuries, 
 is not truly our own ; what would you have 
 me do, Amy ? " 
 
 " Is it you, Edward, that asks me whether 
 I would keep that which belongs to another ? 
 Is it you that asks me whether I would be 
 dishonest ? "
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 203 
 
 " But suppose, according to the law of the 
 land, and the customs of society, and the 
 tacit consent of those most interested, this 
 property was secured to you ? " 
 
 " When I am satisfied," said Amy, " that I 
 can plead the law of the land, the customs of 
 society, and the opinions of the world, before 
 the judgment-seat of God, as an excuse for 
 violating that higher law, which he has writ 
 ten on my heart when I have placed the 
 opinion of the world in the scales against my 
 own self-respect, and found it the weightiest, 
 then, Edward, I might hesitate. But why 
 ask me such questions? Why do you not 
 speak plainly ? " 
 
 " I will, Amy," answered her husband. 
 " When I failed in business, before our mar 
 riage, I made a settlement with my creditors, 
 by which I paid them seventy-five cents on 
 a dollar. They knew that I paid them all I 
 had, and signed a full release from all further 
 claims. Of late, my mind has been troubled 
 about those debts ; for such I consider them. 
 A few days since, one of my creditors brought 
 his son to me, (a fine fellow,) and asked me 
 to take him into my store. He mentioned, 
 in the course of conversation, that he had 
 intended to send his son to college, for the
 
 204 SKETCHES OF 
 
 boy had a thirst for learning ; that he was, in 
 fact, fitted to enter ; but that he found he 
 was too poor. ' If,' said the father, ' by deny 
 ing myself every thing but the necessaries 
 of life, I could feed my boy's mind, I would 
 thankfully do it ; but I cannot honestly in 
 dulge myself even in this luxury.' I felt 
 smitten to the heart. When I failed, I owed 
 that man twelve thousand dollars. I paid 
 him but nine. I now, of course, owe him 
 three, and the interest upon it. That sum 
 would enable him to give his son the advan 
 tage which he so much desires. I have been 
 thinking over the whole subject, and studying 
 it fairly. Dymond's Essay would satisfy 
 me, if I were not convinced before, of what 
 is right." 
 
 " And you will of course do it, Edward ; 
 there can be no doubt." 
 
 " I knew that you would say so, Amy ; 
 but you must think it over calmly. You 
 know, upon the subject of property, as well 
 as other things, we have no mine and thine ; 
 as we have one interest and duty, so we have 
 equal rights. I cannot take this step without 
 your full approbation and consent." 
 
 " Is that all that has troubled you for these 
 few days past ? " said Amy, as she looked
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 205 
 
 into her husband's face, with an expression 
 of joyful relief. 
 
 "All," said Edward. 
 
 " And why not speak to me at first about 
 it ? Why not let me share every trouble as 
 it rises ? " 
 
 " O, Amy, I felt it only on your account. 
 I hated to deprive you of all these luxuries. 
 You know with what delight I see you doing 
 good, real good, with money." 
 
 " Never again, Edward, do me the injustice 
 to suppose that I prefer the lower virtue of 
 charity to the higher one of justice. Let me 
 not be acknowledged as your equal only in 
 the cheap and easy duties and pleasures of 
 life, but trust in me, as your worthy helpmate, 
 in the higher and more arduous exercises of 
 virtue. I love all the refined pleasures which 
 wealth can give ; I enjoy, highly enjoy, all 
 these luxuries, with which we are surround 
 ed ; but, Edward, what are they, compared 
 with the unspeakable thrill of joy, with 
 which the noble soul can cast them all aside, 
 as the slight, the paltry purchase money of 
 an infinite satisfaction of this never-silent 
 monitor within ? You did not doubt me, 
 surely, Edward?" 
 
 "No, dear Amy," said Edward, " I did not ;
 
 206 SKETCHES OF 
 
 I never could doubt you. I ought to have 
 spoken to you every thought as it arose in 
 my mind. As soon as my moral sense was 
 awakened to my duty, I ought to have 
 opened my heart to you. But it is so pain 
 ful to me, not to be able to give you every 
 thing that you can desire, and you seemed so 
 perfectly happy ! " 
 
 " It is simply a choice between pleasures, 
 Edward ; and, as we cannot have all, we will 
 choose the highest and most enduring. Think 
 of the happiness that you can give to others, 
 by this simple act of justice ! " 
 
 "There is your father, too, Amy. The 
 thought of him has been, perhaps, the great 
 est pain to me ; for I knew you would feel 
 justly ; but his free consent to our marriage 
 was founded upon the belief that I was rich ; 
 and when he hears of our determination, it 
 will seem to him like mere folly and child 
 ishness. It will give him unmingled pain. 
 I am grieved for him." 
 
 " So am I," said Amy. " He can enjoy 
 none of the pleasure of this sacrifice. He 
 will even think we do wrong. It is the only 
 real evil belonging to the case. I am sorry, 
 very sorry, for him. But we must bear that 
 too ; and we will bear it all bravely, Edward.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 207 
 
 What is it, after all, but relinquishing what 
 we have no right to what, in fact, we 
 have enjoyed at the expense of the rights 
 and happiness of others? And the sooner 
 we make restitution, the happier we shall be 
 ourselves."
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " The noble heart that harbors virtuous thoughts 
 And labors with a glorious, great intent 
 Can never rest until it forth have brought 
 The eternal brood of glory excellent." 
 
 FAIRY QUEEN. 
 
 THE next day Edward devoted himself to 
 the examination of the papers relative to his 
 failure ; to ascertaining the number of his 
 creditors, and the amount which, according to 
 his views of duty, he justly owed them. Prin 
 cipal and interest to the last farthing he de 
 termined to pay, he said to Amy as he left 
 her in the morning for his counting-room. 
 " As I cannot help you there," said his wife, 
 " I will do my part at home, which is to tell 
 my father of your resolution." 
 
 " Poor Amy, you have far the worst task of 
 the two ; my heart is lighter and happier 
 than it has been since I first viewed this sub 
 ject rightly ; but yours aches, I know, at 
 giving pain to your father."
 
 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 209 
 
 " It is but right," said Amy, " that I should 
 have my share of the suffering that belongs 
 to' this duty." 
 
 She immediately went to her father's 
 apartment. It had been a great pleasure to 
 her and her husband to devote their most 
 beautiful room to her father's particular use, 
 and it gave her a pang as she entered it, to 
 think that they probably would have to 
 change their place of abode, and that he 
 would then be deprived of this, one of his 
 very few sources of gratification. 
 
 Amy sat awhile in her father's room talking 
 with him upon indifferent subjects, before 
 she could gather sufficient courage to speak 
 of the one on her mind, when Mr. Weston 
 introduced a subject which naturally led to 
 it. "I have done with this book, Amy ; I 
 took it up from the breakfast table a day or 
 two since, but I see from what little I have 
 read of it that I should not relish it." 
 
 " What do you object to in it, father ? " 
 
 " What he says upon the subject of a bank 
 rupt's paying his debts after he has settled 
 with his creditors, is in some respects arrant 
 nonsense," 
 
 " That happens to be the very subject, 
 father, I came to talk about with you." 
 14
 
 210 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " My mind has been always made up upon 
 this subject. A man ought to pay all he has, 
 and then if his creditors consent, he is free 
 entirely afterwards." 
 
 " If, father, he grows rich again, and is 
 able to pay, it seems to me he ought to pay 
 them." 
 
 " Many men of the first standing in society 
 think very differently, and act otherwise, not 
 only in their own case, but in relation to 
 others." 
 
 " Edward and I cannot agree with them ; 
 and he thinks now that he is able to pay his 
 creditors all that he owes them, that he ought 
 to do it." 
 
 " I trust that he will not be so absurd, so 
 unjust to his own family ; he has no right to 
 treat you so." 
 
 I have urged him to this step, father ; and 
 he really means to take it." 
 
 " What ! " said her father, stamping on the 
 floor, " he will not dare to reduce himself and 
 his wife, and all of us, to comparative poverty, 
 for the sake of gratifying a romantic whim of 
 his and yours." 
 
 " The truth is, father, he does not dare to 
 do otherwise ; the property is not ours, it 
 belongs to others." 
 
 " I did hope," said Mr. Weston, " now that
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 211 
 
 I am an old man, I might be allowed to pass 
 the remainder of my days in peace. I sup 
 pose you call this goodness, this sickly sensi 
 bility, this childish romance ; you have no 
 regard for me or my opinions ; I am weary of 
 life. I wish, that respect for your old father 
 was among your virtues, but that is an old- 
 fashioned duty." 
 
 " We are very sorry, father, if you disap 
 prove of our conduct ; but we cannot keep 
 this money and be contented. We shall have 
 enough left to make us very comfortable, and 
 it will be our first object to make you happy 
 in every way we can. You need make no 
 change in your mode of life, except perhaps 
 going with us to a smaller house." 
 
 " I had better go to a boarding-house, or a 
 mad-house, or the grave-yard. I did hope 
 now that Edward was prosperous, and the 
 world smiled upon us, I had done with 
 changes." 
 
 " I am very sorry, father, that you should 
 suffer." 
 
 " Have not," continued Mr. Weston, " have 
 not the wisest and best in the land been 
 placed exactly in Edward's situation ; and 
 have not they considered it perfectly right, 
 to abide by the decision of their creditors
 
 212 SKETCHES OF 
 
 releasing them from all further obligation to 
 pay? " 
 
 " There is no decision, father, that can 
 supersede that of one's own conscience ; the 
 consciences of the wisest and best men in the 
 world cannot protect ours from pain. We 
 must do what we think right ourselves." 
 
 " The opinion which I hold has been an 
 acknowledged principle from time immemo 
 rial. There can be no such thing as trade 
 without it ; these new-fangled notions are 
 spoiling everything. Does Edward suppose 
 that he is so much wiser, or that he need be 
 so much better than all the rest of the 
 world ? " 
 
 " He does not wish to judge others ; but 
 when he saw a poor man the other day suf 
 fering for the want of money which he re 
 membered he owed him, his conscience told 
 him he ought to pay it ; and if he ought to 
 pay one creditor, he ought to pay all." 
 
 Amy then told her father of the boy who 
 was obliged to give up going to college. 
 
 " One of the good effects of the system," 
 said Mr. Weston, "it would prevent many 
 boobies going to college if there were fewer 
 men able to send their sons. When property 
 is accumulated in the hands of a few well-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 213 
 
 * 
 
 educated upright men, it is far better for the 
 country. It increases their influence and 
 enables them to do good. They can always 
 assist and patronize real merit ; these things 
 settle themselves." 
 
 " But is it not better for a man, as well as 
 more agreeable, to receive justice than charity, 
 father ? We consider this simple justice." 
 
 " All of these notions," said Mr. Weston, 
 " come of the romantic ideas of perfectibil 
 ity, which you so early acquired, Amy, and 
 which have at last been our ruin ; for among 
 other innovations of modern times, women 
 govern their husbands instead of submitting 
 to them according to the directions of St. 
 Paul ; and I believe that this is your notion, 
 and your doings. A man would have had 
 more common sense." 
 
 Amy denied this charge, and told her father 
 the truth, that it was Edward's own proposal. 
 
 " Then, Amy, it was your duty as a wife to 
 have urged your husband to abide by the 
 opinion of the world." 
 
 Amy forbore to remind her father of the 
 objections he had just made to women influ 
 encing their husbands ; but simply remarked 
 that she had always thought that no law and 
 no opinion could absolve a man to his own
 
 JL! 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 
 conscience from paying a just debt, if he had 
 the means; and that, though this was her 
 husband's own proposition altogether, yet 
 she had said every thing to encourage him 
 in it : he had actually commenced making a 
 restitution to his creditors ; and that she 
 agreed with him, that this was a sacred obli 
 gation of duty. 
 
 "And I consider it," said Mr. Weston, 
 " romantic nonsense absurd sentimentality. 
 But my opinion, my wishes, my rights, my 
 feelings, are set aside, as well as those of all 
 the rest of the world. Mr. Selmar had no 
 right to sacrifice my comfort, and that of his 
 wife and child, perhaps even to starve them, 
 to gratify his quixotic notions of duty. It is 
 a pity he ever undertook to be a merchant. 
 He is only fit to sit by some muddy stream 
 in the country, and make verses to the moon. 
 Such men should never marry. I am sick 
 at my soul of such childish stuff! " 
 
 Amy had never seen her father more vexed 
 more inaccessible to reason. She said all 
 she could to comfort him ; but her words 
 were like water spilled on the ground. He 
 concluded the conversation by saying, " I 
 do n't wish to hear another word upon the 
 subject. I consider this act as silly as it is
 
 IP Y 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 215 
 
 atrocious. But my opinion, and the opinion 
 of every body of common sense, is of no 
 avail. I suppose we are behind the age. 
 That 's the cant expression, I believe. The 
 wise and the experienced people of the world 
 must sit still and listen, while boys teach 
 them morals, and women instruct them in 
 political economy. Children, now-a-days, 
 teach their parents, and turn their grandfa 
 thers out of doors. Every man over sixty 
 must wish himself in his quiet grave, unless 
 he turns fool with the rest of the world." 
 . Mr. Weston drew his chair towards the 
 fire, put up his feet on the fender, adjusted 
 his spectacles, and took up his book ; and 
 Amy was obliged, with a heavy heart, to 
 leave him with the flush of anger still glow 
 ing on his hollow cheek. 
 
 Edward and Amy bent their whole atten 
 tion to the performance of the duties which 
 their determination imposed upon them. 
 Cheerfully and promptly they made arrange 
 ments for the change in their style of living, 
 which their lessened income would render 
 necessary. 
 
 " I have paid the last farthing, principal 
 and interest ! " exclaimed Edward, as he re 
 turned from his counting-room, his face
 
 216 SKETCHES OF 
 
 glowing with delight. " I stand now free 
 of all bonds, like a man escaped from slavery 
 disenthralled truly free, with a joyful 
 sense of power, such as I never before expe 
 rienced. O, I did not think that money, 
 simply, too, the restitution of money that 
 was not my own, could have given me such 
 pleasure. One pleasure I enjoyed quite acci 
 dentally. The father of the boy that wished 
 so much to go to college, asked me to call in 
 some evening, and see his wife, with whom 
 I was formerly acquainted. I called in as I 
 came home this evening. I had been there 
 only a minute, when a beautiful, noble-look 
 ing boy burst into the room, and ran up to 
 his mother, and, putting his arms around her 
 neck, whispered, loud enough for all in the 
 room to hear, ' Mother, father has just told 
 me that I can go to college, and I shall not 
 have to part with my books, and I shall not 
 have to make bargains, and be a merchant. 
 Good Mr. Selmar has paid father some mon 
 ey.' As soon as his mother could make him 
 listen, she mentioned my name to him. His 
 face was all radiant with bashful surprise and 
 pleasure. He came up to me, and gave me 
 both his hands, and looked up at me as if I 
 had bestowed a great gift upon him, instead 
 of merely paying a just debt."
 
 MAKRIED LIFE. 217 
 
 " I have heard of another case, dear Ed 
 ward. You know Sophia Reed ; her parents 
 had just consented to her going to Ohio as a 
 governess, because they could not afford to 
 support all their children at home. Ruth 
 (whose sister lives there) has been giving me 
 an account of the joy of the family, since 
 you paid them what you owed them. She 
 says it was as if she had been dead, and had 
 been brought to life again." 
 
 The charms of generosity, the attractive 
 loveliness of compassion, the healing and 
 quickening influences of charity, have often 
 and justly been set forth. They have been 
 recommended by all the graces and winning 
 arts of human eloquence. But, should simple 
 and even-handed justice but govern our land 
 for one day, not bestowing aught as a favor, 
 but restoring to each human being that which 
 is rightfully and truly his own, what pen 
 could record all the touching tales of relief 
 from misery what ear, but that of the all- 
 merciful God, could bear the full swell of 
 blissful gratitude, which would rise from the 
 millions of human hearts, suffering and dying 
 from defrauded rights, and reckless, ruthless 
 injustice ? So thought Edward and Amy ; 
 and never had they enjoyed so pure a pleas-
 
 218 SKETCHES OF 
 
 lire from the possession of money, as the per 
 formance of this simple, equitable act had 
 given them. There were many who laughed 
 at them ; others who blamed them ; others 
 who pitied them ; and others, again, who 
 highly praised them. Mrs. Lovell, who never 
 failed to visit her acquaintances upon great 
 occasions, called, soon after, to condole or 
 congratulate them, as she found most appro 
 priate. 
 
 " I cannot but lament, my dear," said she 
 to Amy, " the necessity of your leaving this 
 elegant house, and giving up your carriage." 
 
 " But for my father, I should not regret 
 it," said Amy. " As soon as we were con 
 vinced that we had no right to the house and 
 carriage, we could not enjoy them. Honest 
 poverty is, in our opinion, a happier as well 
 as more dignified state than even questionable 
 riches. So do n't lament on our account." 
 
 " But it is so noble in you both ! The 
 opinion of the world would entirely bear you 
 out, in keeping this property that Mr. Selmar 
 and you have relinquished." 
 
 " The opinion of the world," replied Amy, 
 " could not also make us happy in doing it. 
 Mr. Selmar and I both regret that we did not 
 sooner see our duty. It is now nearly a year
 
 MAKRIED LIFE. 219 
 
 since he has had it in his power to pay these 
 just debts ; and we feel rather humble, on 
 that account." 
 
 " But Mr. Selmar must suffer much from 
 depriving you of all these luxuries." 
 
 " He will never, I trust, be so unkind as 
 to separate me, in his thoughts, from himself, 
 or to doubt whether I can bear as cheerfully 
 as he whatever sacrifice duty requires." 
 
 Just then, a domestic entered, and gave 
 Amy a note. 
 
 " Excuse me, if you please," she said to 
 Mrs. L., " while I open this letter to my hus 
 band, and see if it should be sent to him." 
 
 When Amy had enclosed the letter to her 
 husband, and sent it to him, Mrs. Lovell said, 
 with great surprise in her looks, " What ! do 
 you venture to open your husband's letters ? " 
 
 " Surely," said Amy. " Why not ? " 
 
 " But, suppose that the letter should con 
 tain something that Mr. Selmar would not 
 wish you to know ? " 
 
 " That could not be," replied Amy. " We 
 have one heart, one interest, and, as far as 
 possible, one mind, in every thing. There 
 is no mine and thine between us. Then 
 why not open each other's letters ? We al 
 ways do so, when there is any reason for it."
 
 220 SKETCHES or 
 
 " I have, my dear, always been scrupu 
 lously careful upon this point. I rarely open 
 even a note of invitation ; and to this delicate 
 and watchful respect I owe, I think, much of 
 the unparalleled happiness of my wedded 
 life. Let me warn you, my dear, of the 
 danger of this habit. Few characters can 
 venture to be so transparent. 1 am better 
 acquainted with men than you are." 
 
 Amy made no answer, but simply changed 
 the conversation. 
 
 " Shall you part, my dear, with any of 
 your domestics ? " asked Mrs. Lovell. 
 
 " Yes ; two a man and a woman." 
 
 " Are they trustworthy, and can you rec 
 ommend them ? " 
 
 " Yes, I can," replied Amy. 
 
 " But, do they know their places, and will 
 they be willing to conform to my rules ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell that," said Amy, "as I do 
 not know what your rules are ; but they can 
 best decide for themselves. Would you like 
 to speak to them ? " 
 
 " Not to-day ; I must think of it first. 
 What wages have you paid them, my dear ? 
 I always give low wages from principle. 
 High wages spoil servants. If they deserve 
 it, I make it up to them in presents ; and it 

 
 MARRIED LIFE. 221 
 
 
 
 keeps them more under, and has a good effect 
 upon them, to know that they must win your 
 favor by good conduct, or they will lose by 
 it. I think it is setting a bad example, to 
 give women, especially, high wages." 
 
 " My views are different," replied Amy. 
 " I think the wages of women too low ; and 
 I always pay them the highest, as a matter 
 of right, if they understand their work, and 
 do it well. I had rather economize some 
 other way." 
 
 The other part of Mrs. Lovell's remarks 
 she was too much displeased with to reply 
 to ; but she added, " You know, my husband 
 and I are true republicans, even radicals, as I 
 suppose you would call us, and desire the 
 abolition of all disgraceful servitude, and 
 therefore encourage the spirit of independence 
 in our domestics." 
 
 " O, my dear," said Mrs. Lovell, " this lib 
 erty and independence are excellent in the 
 abstract, and highly desirable for those who 
 are sufficiently enlightened to make a right 
 use of them ; but they will never do in prac 
 tice, particularly with the mass. It is liberty 
 that spoils our servants. It will ruin the 
 country, Mr. L. says." 
 
 " We hope better things," said Amy. " We 
 
 .
 
 222 SKETCHES OF 
 
 think that we have not liberty enough yet, 
 and that, when we are consistent republicans, 
 and truly faithful to our institutions, we shall 
 be a truly happy people." 
 
 " Mr. Lovell thinks otherwise. He says 
 that the prospects of the country are very 
 gloomy," said Mrs. Lovell, as she took her 
 leave. 
 
 When Ruth heard from Amy that Mr. 
 Selmar was going to pay his creditors the 
 remainder of what he owed them, and that, 
 in order to do this, they must move into a 
 smaller house, and reduce their expenses very 
 considerably, her first expression was, " Well, 
 now, if that is n't ridiculous ! Just as we 
 have got fixed, to have to move again ! Well, 
 they say a rolling stone gathers no moss." 
 
 " We shall give up our carriage, and part 
 with Nancy and John, Ruth ; but we think 
 we ought to pay this money, though the law 
 does not bind us to it." 
 
 " And I 'in sure, ma'am, I respect you for 
 it ; and you know that no one goes in his 
 own carriage to the grave. It will be all the 
 same thing a hundred years hence, whether 
 one has been rich or poor ; but not, I reckon, 
 whether we have done justice to all men, or 
 not; and nobody knows how you and Mr.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 223 
 
 Selmar would have borne your prosperity. 
 It 's hard to carry a full cup even ; and they 
 say that vinegar is the son of wine. Not 
 that there is much wine-drinking in this 
 house either ; but then you might drink it, if 
 you pleased ; and I dare say it will all be for 
 the best, in the end, that you can't burn the 
 candle at both ends, even if you had money 
 enough to afford to be so wasteful, which, I 
 am sure, would be ridiculous."
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " If you regard me with this look of ice 
 My heart shuts up with inward shuddering ; 
 The stream of tears i:> checked, cold horror fetters 
 The words of fond entreaty in my bosom ; 
 Unchain my heart, that I may move your own." 
 
 MARY STCART. 
 
 AMY devoted her first leisure moments, after 
 the performance of the duties which their 
 altered mode of life made necessary, to an 
 swering Fanny's letter. She conjured her to 
 open her heart to her husband ; she entreated 
 her to tell him of all she suffered from his 
 reserve. She used every argument she could 
 think of, to prove to her that the happiness of 
 her whole life depended upon her conduct 
 now, and that she must, at any cost, insist 
 upon her husband's confidence. She refer 
 red Fanny to her former letters, in which 
 she warned her against the danger that 
 was sure to arise from any want of truth and 
 trustful open-hearted dealings between her 
 and her husband, and entreated her now
 
 y 
 
 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 225 
 
 while it was yet possible to recover her hus 
 band's confidence, to be simple, and upright 
 with him. She warned her against the 
 hardening influence of the endeavor to make 
 what is called pleasure, take the place of a 
 true and virtuous happiness. She expressed 
 her firm conviction that her husband still 
 loved her, but probably doubted whether she 
 loved him. 
 
 She promised Fanny to visit her in the 
 spring, if she should be carried safely through 
 her approaching confinement. She expressed 
 to her the deep unutterable joy which she 
 felt at the hope of being a mother. " Surely," 
 she said, li God himself strengthens and 
 cheers the heart of the hopeful mother, who 
 peacefully and courageously waits her ap 
 pointed time." 
 
 She mentioned the fact that Edward had 
 paid what remained due of his debts, and that 
 they in consequence were obliged to move 
 to another house and lessen their expenditure. 
 She simply expressed her regret that they 
 had not before remembered that this was a 
 duty ; and her great pleasure that they had 
 it in their power to make just restitution 
 of what did not in fact belong to them, and 
 15
 
 226 SKETCHES OF 
 
 from the loss of which the rightful owners 
 had so long unjustly suffered. 
 
 Fanny's letters to Arny had given a faith 
 ful picture of her own state of mind, and as 
 far as could be judged of by appearances, that 
 of her husband's ; but in order that the reader 
 may be able to understand this perfectly, 
 some circumstances and facts must be related. 
 Mr. Roberts' father had become more and 
 more infirm and childish ; he was unwilling 
 to have his son out of his sight, his life seem 
 ed to depend upon his presence ; no one, not 
 even his favorite housekeeper could take his 
 place, he thought, for a moment. The silence 
 which Fanny complained of, increased upon 
 him ; he was gentle and kind in his manner 
 towards his wife, but it seemed to be the kind 
 ness of pity, not of love. In this state of feeling, 
 an occurrence apparently trifling took place, 
 the effects of which on his mind threatened 
 to fix his and Fanny's destiny for misery in 
 their present connexion. In Fanny's letter to 
 Amy it may be remembered she had men 
 tioned the whist party she had joined, which 
 she preferred to all other amusements, be 
 cause she was unwilling to go among stran 
 gers unattended by her husband. The es 
 tablished rule in this little circle was, that 

 
 MARRIED LIFE. 227 
 
 they should meet alternately at each other's 
 houses ; but hitherto when it came to Fanny's 
 turn, the next person on the list had proposed 
 that she should be excused on account of the 
 illness of old Mr. Roberts. As, however, 
 there was no important change in his state of 
 health, and no immediate cause of alarm, it 
 seemed to be now expected that Fanny and 
 her husband should have the party at their 
 house. Fanny looked embarrassed when the 
 question arose where they should next meet. 
 One of the company remarked that it was 
 Mrs. Roberts' turn ; " and then," said another 
 " we shall perhaps have the pleasure of seeing 
 Mr. Roberts." "Perhaps," said a third 
 " Mr. Roberts is too wise and good to spend 
 his time in such a useless manner." The 
 lady who had kindly taken the party before, 
 when it was Fanny's turn, added, " Mrs. 
 Roberts shall not be forced to give her rea 
 sons for not having us at her house ; my 
 doors shall gladly be opened." Fanny was 
 vexed, and hardly knowing what she said, 
 invited the party to meet at her house the 
 next week ; and then turning to Mr. Bruin, 
 who was not a regular member of the club, 
 but who had been usually invited from par 
 ticular courtesy, she said, " I hope we shall
 
 228 SKETCHES OF 
 
 have the pleasure of seeing you, Mr. Bruin, 
 unless you are afraid of being beaten unmerci 
 fully." The good man considered this a 
 proposal of peace, and offered to wait upon 
 Fanny home, which she refused. When 
 seated alone in her carriage, Fanny's feelings 
 were not to be envied. " What have I done ? " 
 said she to herself ; " invited the whist party 
 to our house when my husband's father is so 
 ill that he will not leave his bed-side even 
 to spend an evening with his wife ! Can it be 
 right, then, that I should leave home to join 
 the party elsewhere ? Was it right in him 
 to urge me to go, and almost insist upon 
 it ? I will tell him that if it be only for the 
 sake of appearances, and to silence the evil 
 sayings of the world, I will go out no longer 
 without him." 
 
 Mr. Roberts watched with his father that 
 night. When Fanny met him in the morn 
 ing her first impulse after inquiring about his 
 father's state, was to tell him how painful it 
 was to her to go to these whist parties with 
 out him, and to explain the feelings which 
 had induced her to invite the whole com 
 pany to their house, and then to propose an 
 entire withdrawal from the circle, on the 
 ground of his father's illness, and the impos-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 229 
 
 sibility of his going with her. But there 
 was something in the solemn rigid coldness 
 of his manner, that seemed to freeze up all 
 Fanny's good purposes, and awake the slum 
 bering evil spirit in her heart. 
 
 " It seems to me, Mr. Roberts," she said in 
 an affected tone of pleasantry, " that, as Mr. 
 Weston says, the opinion of the world will 
 hardly bear us out in these fashionable 
 manners." 
 
 " What do you mean, Fanny ? " he replied, 
 in a solemn tone. 
 
 " Why," said she, " the wisest and best, I 
 think, would not approve of my going to card 
 parties and leaving you at home to nurse your 
 father, and take care of the house and the 
 baby. It looks a little as if my home was not 
 happy ; it looks as if I was not a good wife, it 
 looks as if you did not hold your proper place 
 in the house. It seems, you know, as if the 
 order of things was inverted, for a woman to 
 go out after pleasure, because home has no 
 attractions : if a man does such a thing, it is 
 all natural enough ; but for a woman, forsooth, 
 to commit such an enormity, it will never do, 
 the world will shake their wise heads, and 
 conclude we are not happy." 
 
 " Very possible," replied Mr. Roberts, whose 
 gloom was increased by her levity.
 
 
 
 230 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " Is it right," said Fanny who could no 
 longer maintain her jesting tone, " for you to 
 insist upon my going to these whist parties 
 without you ? " 
 
 " I thought it would give you pleasure." 
 
 " We have never had the party here," said 
 Fanny, " and it must appear while I go to 
 them, as if you did not approve of it, for you 
 have never gone since the first two or three 
 meetings, and I am exposed to very unpleasant 
 remarks. It is our turn to receive the party 
 next week, and " Fanny hesitated ; her heart 
 told her all was wrong within : while she was 
 thinking how to proceed, her husband said, 
 " Invite them here next Monday, Fanny ; I 
 see that your not meeting here does expose 
 you to unpleasant remarks. Have them here, 
 I beg of you ; indeed I insist upon it ; my 
 father may be better, and I will try to be 
 with you ; I am sorry I have not thought of 
 this myself." 
 
 There was a momentary strife between 
 right and wrong in Fanny's heart : she felt 
 she ought to tell her husband that she had 
 already asked them, and explain why ; but 
 how could she disturb that moment of some 
 thing like confidence and kindness between 
 them ? She had only to be silent and all seem-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 231 
 
 ed nicely arranged, and her difficulties all 
 done away. The temptation was too great 
 for her, she had not the courage to tell him 
 that she had invited the party without con 
 sulting him. She continued silent. 
 
 " I am glad," said Mr. Roberts, " that you 
 spoke to me freely of this affair, Fanny, and 
 told me all your wishes. Heaven knows I 
 would make you happy, if I could. I am 
 going now to get a breath of fresh air, and 
 then to my father's room again ; in the mean 
 while you had better send your invitations to 
 our friends." There was an unusual tender 
 ness in his manner, and Fanny tried to feel 
 happy. 
 
 In the course of his walk he met Mr. 
 Bruin ; he stopped to shake hands with him. 
 Just as they were parting, Mr. Bruin said to 
 him, " Mrs. Roberts was kind enough to in 
 vite me to join the whist party next Monday 
 evening at your house, and I intend to do 
 myself the honor to come." 
 
 Poor Roberts could make no reply ; he was 
 stupified with misery; all that Fanny had 
 said to him seemed like a premeditated con 
 trivance and falsehood. " She has," he said 
 to himself, "no confidence in me, no love for 
 me ; she was unfeeling enough to invite com-
 
 232 
 
 pany to the house when my father is on his 
 death-bed ; and she was then mean enough 
 to hide it from me in this manner, and to 
 contrive that it should seem my wish that 
 they should come. She coquetted with me 
 before marriage ; how can I expect love and 
 truth from her now she is my wife. She 
 married me, perhaps, for an establishment ; I 
 am only a necessary appendage. She was 
 alone in the world ; she had no natural 
 protector ; it was important to her to fasten 
 herself to some one, and I was the most con 
 venient tool she met with ; and now her 
 strongest bond to me is that she has no home 
 to go to." This sorrowful thought, " no 
 home to go to," softened his rising indig 
 nation. " Poor young thing ! " he continu 
 ed, as he moved along mechanically through 
 an obscure street that he had entered to 
 avoid observation, " Unhappy Fanny ! She 
 was lonely and dependent, and I was rich 
 and devoted to her ; I was too importunate in 
 the expression of my love for her ; she, per 
 haps, thought she loved me ; she meant to 
 love me, but love cannot be forced, even our 
 own will cannot bid us love another. I have 
 made her more lonely than she was before, by 
 making her my wife ; I am to her only a
 
 .- 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 233 
 
 gaoler, for her heart does not welcome the 
 bonds that hold us together. She is not 
 happy ; and yet she was once so gay and 
 happy, and she is so young, so beautiful. 
 Oh that I could make her free even at the 
 sacrifice of my life, if by so doing I might 
 restore her to a life of truth and peace. I 
 will not reproach her with her falsehood ; I 
 will add nothing to her misery ; let her have 
 what pleasure she can from a successful 
 contrivance. Why should she also be un 
 happy ? not for worlds would I have her 
 heart ache with the agony that mine endures." 
 Mr. Roberts returned to his house with the 
 determination to say nothing to his wife of 
 his discovery of her want of truth and confi 
 dence in him. Fanny was so accustomed to 
 her husband's cold and reserved manners, that 
 she did not notice the deeper gloom that had 
 settled on his brow from this time. The 
 Monday came, and Fanny's friends assembled 
 in her drawing-room, according to her invita 
 tion. Mr. Roberts, faithful to his promise, was 
 present to welcome them. As soon as they 
 were seated at the card tables, he went up to 
 his father's room. The evening was nearly 
 past, when, as he was gazing into the fire, lost 
 in a melancholy reverie, he was startled by
 
 234 SKETCHES OF 
 
 Mrs. Hawkins suddenly addressing him with 
 these words, " Mr. Roberts, do n't you think 
 Mrs. Roberts expects you down stairs ? " He 
 made no answer : she continued, " I thought 
 she looked rather down-hearted about their 
 coming ; had n't you better go down ? she '11 
 feel better if you do." 
 
 " Perhaps I had," he said, and he went 
 down to the drawing-room. The room was 
 brilliantly lighted; every countenance, to the 
 melancholy man seemed to beam with a joy 
 in which he had no share, and which he feared 
 his entrance would disturb : more than all, 
 Fanny, his young and lovely wife, who 
 usually when he saw her looked sad and dull, 
 now appeared to him radiant with enjoyment, 
 as well as beauty. As he was gazing at her, 
 she raised her eyes, which before had been 
 fixed on her cards, and as they met his sorrow 
 ful look, her face grew crimson red, and in her 
 embarrassment she trumped her partner's trick. 
 
 " Is this the way," said her partner laugh 
 ing, " you treat your best friends ? Mr. 
 Roberts you have a strange wife ; I hope she 
 does not treat you as she does me. I advise 
 you to look after her ; she is not to be trusted." 
 
 Mr. Roberts sighed unconsciously : Fanny 
 heard it ; that low sigh was louder to her
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 235 
 
 conscience-stricken ear than all the confused 
 din of gay sounds with which, to another, the 
 room would have seemed full. Fanny tried 
 to rally her spirits, but in vain ; she played 
 worse and worse, and lost the game. It 
 seemed as if the whole company experienced 
 a sudden and unaccountable fall of spirits 
 after Mr. Roberts' entrance : they separated 
 sooner than usual, on the plea that they must 
 keep good hours, as Mr. Roberts' father retired 
 early to rest.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "Poor Ophelia! 
 Divided against herself and her fair judgment." 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 POOR Fanny, who seemed born for gaiety 
 and joy, as truly as the rose is created for 
 beauty and fragrance, was fast withering in 
 the chilling and ungenial atmosphere in 
 which she was placed. As her misery in 
 creased, she grew more and more pettish and 
 unreasonable, and, when it was too late, 
 repented of some unjust or passionate expres 
 sion, which she was guilty of towards her 
 husband, and which he passed over unno 
 ticed, or with a sorrowful rather than up 
 braiding look. He appeared like a person 
 whose bosom labored with some painful se 
 cret, which he could not communicate, and 
 the evil effects of which he would fain suffer 
 alone. 
 
 In answer to Amy's letter, Fanny repeated 
 her conviction that her husband did not love 
 her, and her unutterable misery at this belief.
 
 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 237 
 
 She declared that it was impossible for her 
 to speak freely to him. She related to Amy 
 the whole story of the whist party, in noth 
 ing extenuating herself, but, on the contrary, 
 calling herself a monster, and, by that means, 
 trying to relieve her conscience, which blamed 
 her for not acknowledging her small but real 
 fault at first, and her subsequent untruth to 
 her husband. 
 
 Upon the subject of the reduced circum 
 stances of her friends, Fanny said, " O that 
 we, too, were poor ! that I had to work for 
 my daily bread, to labor for my sweet Willy ! 
 That might please his father, perhaps. If I 
 were to minister to my husband with my 
 own hands, perhaps he would notice me as 
 much as he does his shoe-black. At any 
 rate, bodily labor might divert this terrible 
 pain in my heart. I want to be in motion 
 all the time. I try to run away from myself. 
 I tell the coachman, when I take a drive, 
 to go as fast as he will. c Where, ma'am ? ' 
 he asks. ' I do n't care,' I answer. He re 
 turns in season for dinner, for his own sake. 
 I meet my husband at table. He asks me 
 where I have been. I answer, I do not 
 know ; that the coachman can tell him, but 
 that I don't know the names of roads and
 
 238 SKETCHES OF 
 
 places where I go. Perhaps he does not 
 speak again during dinner, unless Mrs. 
 Hawkins makes an effort at conversation ; 
 and then I say something either to make 
 my husband angry, or to make him laugh ; 
 but all in vain. He does not love me 
 enough to be angry with me, and is too un 
 happy to laugh. I laugh, and make strangers 
 laugh. My head is full of all sorts of vaga 
 ries. Every thing takes the horrid form of a 
 savage jest in my mind. Most of all, peace 
 of mind, love, and joy, are jests to me. Peo 
 ple call me witty ; but it is all reckless mis 
 ery. The one thought, that my husband 
 does not love me, presses so on my poor 
 heart ! and O, dear Amy, my head is so dizzy ! 
 Do n't you be angry too, Amy ; if you are, 
 tell me so ; anything I can bear but this ter 
 rible silence. If my husband were to speak 
 in a voice of thunder, I should prefer it to 
 this awful silence. Pity me, I am so un 
 happy. Yours, FANNY." 
 
 Soon after Fanny had despatched her letter 
 to Amy, her husband entered the room. She 
 felt strangely shocked at the solemn sadness 
 of his manner, far greater, even, than was 
 usual to him. He sat down on the sofa,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 239 
 
 by her side, and, after a momentary silence, 
 in which he seemed to be making an effort 
 at self-command, he said, " Fanny, my father 
 is dead. He died about an hour since, very 
 suddenly, without any pain, just after Mrs. 
 Hawkins and I had arranged his pillow for 
 him, and thought he was only falling asleep." 
 
 " Dear, happy old man ! He is free from 
 all pain," replied Fanny. 
 
 "The funeral," continued Mr. Roberts, 
 " will be the day after to-morrow ; and then, 
 Fanny, as soon as I have settled the estate, I 
 am going to Europe." 
 
 " Going to Europe ! " exclaimed his wife, 
 with affected calmness ; " and alone ? " 
 
 " Yes, alone," he replied, with a sad em 
 phasis on the word. 
 
 " And what are you going to do with me 
 and Willy ? " asked Fanny. 
 
 " I wish you to say, Fanny, where you 
 would prefer to be." 
 
 " And why is it that you forsake your wife 
 and child ? " 
 
 " I leave you, Fanny, because I have long 
 been satisfied that we should be happier 
 separated." 
 
 " Happy ! did you speak of being happy ? " 
 screamed Fanny, looking wildly in his face.
 
 240 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " I am sure we are very happy, remarkably 
 happy, especially when we are alone together ; 
 you are so sociable, so talkative, so gay, and 
 you love me so dearly ; and then I am so 
 gentle and good ; why we are like two lovers, 
 dear William, are we not ? Why should we 
 separate ? let us be married again, dear ! The 
 day of the funeral will do, the clergyman you 
 know will be here, and your father will be 
 present, and we will invite the sexton and 
 the grave-diggers, and the pall-bearers, and 
 the mourners, and the bell shall toll ; ah that 
 is just the thing ! " 
 
 Fanny burst into a hysterical laugh, and 
 then fell into a long fainting fit. Mr. Roberts 
 rang the bell for assistance, and after he had 
 carried her to her bed-room, left her with Mrs. 
 Hawkins. Some hours afterwards, when she 
 had revived, she sent for her husband : there 
 was a rigid statue-like quietness about her, 
 very unlike her usual appearance. 
 
 " I am perfectly composed," said Fanny, 
 in answer to his entreaty that she would be 
 calm. " Do not fear that I shall so lose posses 
 sion of myself again, I promise to be calm. I 
 have some questions to ask of you, and some 
 affairs of importance to settle. Are you re 
 solved to go to Europe ? "
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 241 
 
 " Yes. Fanny, I think it would be better 
 for us both ; but let us avoid all excitement ; 
 it is enough that we cannot be happy to 
 gether, and therefore part." 
 
 " What do you mean to do with our boy ? " 
 Fanny nearly lost her self-command as she 
 spoke the word. 
 
 " I mean to leave him with you, Fanny ? " 
 
 " But would you not like to have him 
 yourself? Surely you love that baby ; he has 
 never done wrong ; do you not love him ? " 
 There was a frightful stiffness in her muscles 
 as she asked this question. 
 
 " God knows I love him better than life ! " 
 answered her husband. 
 
 " Then why do you leave him ? " 
 
 " Because," said Roberts, " I think you 
 have the best right to him. You have en 
 dured much for him ; a mother's sufferings 
 give her an inalienable right to her child ; no 
 law of man, no opinion of the world can 
 abrogate that higher claim. I have as yet 
 done nothing to deserve the name of father ; 
 you have endured pain and privation for his 
 sake, and have the highest claim to him." 
 
 " That is very generous in you, William." 
 After a short silence, during which she seem 
 ed lost in thought, she said, " I know I am 
 16
 
 242 SKETCHES OF 
 
 not competent to the charge of Willy. I have, 
 however, thought of a plan which will pro 
 mote his best good. I know of a person who 
 might take the care of him, who is entirely 
 competent, and who I know Willy would 
 be happy with. I want you to promise to 
 give me your sanction to my choice, and aid 
 me in my plan." 
 
 " Surely I will promise to agree to it, if it 
 is a good thing for my child," said Roberts. 
 
 " It is, I can solemnly assure you the best 
 provision that can be made for him : only 
 promise ; it is the only favor I ask of you." 
 
 " But I do not know the person," said her 
 husband. 
 
 " You do know the person," said Fanny, 
 " and you do know him to be upright, and 
 generous, and kind, and all that such an one 
 should be ; oh promise ! do promise, William ! 
 it is Fanny, your own Fanny, she whom you 
 once loved so well, who begs, who implores 
 you to make this one promise to her ; it is her 
 last, her dying request, for oh my head is so 
 hot it must be consumed ere long ! 
 
 " You told me Fanny, you would be calm," 
 said Roberts, greatly alarmed. 
 
 " And I will be," she said, with a calm but 
 yet more earnest tone, "if you will only
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 243 
 
 promise. But oh, promise me to agree to 
 what I propose for Willy ! here I remain on 
 my bended knees till you promise ; " and she 
 actually fell upon her knees before him. 
 
 In a state of unspeakable agony of mind 
 Mr. Roberts raised her from the floor, and 
 promised to agree to whatever she should 
 propose. With a strange unearthly expression 
 of joy, Fanny exclaimed," Thank God! I 
 have saved my child ! Let what will become 
 of me, I can bear it now." 
 
 " What are you going to do with our boy ? " 
 said her husband ; he feared that she was 
 really insane. 
 
 " I am going," she said, " to place him 
 with his only safe and worthy protector, his 
 only truly good friend ; one who will teach 
 him what is right, and walk himself in the 
 way he points out ; one who is just, and kind, 
 and oh, so patient ! One who will never let 
 him know his mother's faults ; for oh, once he 
 loved her ! it is in his father's hands I put 
 my child, my only earthly treasure. Take 
 him, dear William, take our dear boy ! and 
 keep him, and guard him as the apple of your 
 eye ; watch over him day and night, in the 
 early morning, and in the feverish noon-day. 
 Shelter him in your arms at night, keep him
 
 244 SKETCHES OF 
 
 from the cold ; be mother and father too, to 
 him. If he is sick, let no one sit by him and 
 nurse him but you. Lead him to God. Do 
 all this ! oh, I know you will do all this, and 
 more than this, for our sweet Willy ; and oh, 
 forget and forgive his faulty mother, who 
 could not make you happy." 
 
 Fanny said this in such a hurried and 
 vehement manner, that it was in vain that 
 her husband attempted to interrupt her with 
 his protest against taking their child with 
 him. In the midst of his agony of mind at 
 witnessing his wife's sufferings, and his ad 
 miration of her magnanimous self-sacrifice, he 
 felt a strange joy thrill through his whole 
 soul. 
 
 " Be composed, my dear Fanny ; I cannot 
 take away our boy from you, I never will do 
 this. Do not ask this." 
 
 " Oh but you have promised you will, and 
 you must take Willy with you." 
 
 " He sha'nt take me from my mother," 
 said the child, who just then ran in, and 
 heard the last words. 
 
 " He is your own boy, Fanny, you have 
 the best right to him. If I must go, I will 
 leave our dear child with you." 
 
 " But you shall not go, you shall not leave
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 245 
 
 me," said Willy. " I will stay with father 
 and mother too; let me hug you both to 
 gether." And with his little but irresistible 
 strength the child pulled his father towards 
 his mother, and lifted up his mother's arm 
 to put it round his and his father's neck ; but 
 it dropped lifeless. Mr. Roberts caught his 
 wife, just as she was sinking on the floor. 
 
 When Fanny recovered from the heavy 
 swoon she had fallen into, she was seized 
 with violent chills, which were followed by a 
 high fever, and before the physician who was 
 sent for, arrived, her mind began to wander, 
 with all the symptoms of a severe and dan 
 gerous illness. 
 
 A deeper gloom hung upon the heart of 
 Mr. Roberts on the day of his father's funeral, 
 than that which even the most affectionate 
 son feels when he is called upon to consign 
 to the grave the remains of the being, who 
 has been the author of his earthly existence, 
 the patient, the watchful, the ever-forgiving 
 and loving guardian of his childish and youth 
 ful days, the priceless companion and friend 
 of his maturer life. Deep and heartfelt as is 
 this sorrow it is in the order of nature ; and 
 the aching heart readily acknowledges the 
 duty of acquiescence. So felt this faithful
 
 246 SKETCHES OF 
 
 and affectionate son. He had a far deeper 
 sorrow to endure ; he feared that the being 
 whom he had taken to his heart with the 
 hope and belief that she would take the place 
 of all other earthly affections to him, that she 
 would be the heart of his heart, and the life 
 of his life, the joy of all his joys, would be 
 taken from him in the sweet morning and blos 
 soming time of her existence. But had she re 
 deemed the pledge and promise of the beauti 
 ful sunny hours of her early days ? Had she 
 been faithful to the spirit of her promise of 
 devoted love ? Had he ? Had he faithfully 
 cherished the heart that had committed it 
 self so trustfully, so fondly to his care ? 
 
 These last questions came to Roberts' 
 mind with a terrible energy. " But," he 
 said to himself, " she does not love me as I 
 hoped, as I desired to be loved ; she would 
 be happier without me. It is sad, oh terribly 
 sad, to see such a being so formed for enjoy 
 ment, so young, with the cup of happiness 
 before her but just tasted, to see her snatched 
 away so suddenly, to see all her young hopes 
 blighted. I hoped that I alone should be 
 sacrificed ; I hoped that when relieved from 
 my presence she might be happy ; but it is I 
 that have killed her."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 247 
 
 Such were the agonizing thoughts that 
 passed and re-passed through the mind of 
 the miserable man, as he performed the last 
 duties to his departed parent When he re 
 turned from the dwelling-place of the dead 
 to his own house, a more fearful coldness 
 than he had there felt came upon him as he 
 heard the answer to his inquiry about his 
 wife, from the doctor whom he met at the 
 door. " She is no better ; she is still deliri 
 ous, I think her case a very alarming one." 
 
 " Oh that I could die to save her/' exclaim 
 ed Roberts, as he sat down at his lonely fire 
 side. " Oh that by any suffering, or sacrifice, 
 I might restore her to life ! " 
 
 " Let us ask our Father in heaven to 
 make mother well," said Willy who had 
 crept into the room, and climbed his father's 
 knees, and put his arms round his neck. 
 " Let us beg him very hard, dear father, and 
 I am sure he will." 
 
 His father folded his boy in his arms, and 
 wept with him ; and his soul seemed refresh 
 ed and strengthened with hope, as he pressed 
 the little fellow to his aching heart.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 "How is 't 
 
 That in affliction only we can see 
 The hand of God leading the good to good, 
 And ministering, by man himself, to man 1 " 
 
 HERMAN AND DOROTHEA. 
 
 THE effort that Fanny had made to sur 
 render up her boy to the care of his father, 
 had evidently accelerated the disease which 
 had been for some time preying upon her 
 nervous system. During her delirium, she 
 was continually repeating her directions to 
 his father about the care of Willy. " Do n't," 
 she would cry out, " let any one frighten my 
 little boy. Willy is a brave boy now. When 
 he is sick, he will cry for his mother ; then 
 don't be angry with him, but hush him 
 gently ; put your arms around him softly, 
 so ; and sing to him very sweetly, so." 
 Then she would sing such wild and plain 
 tive notes, that the heart of poor Roberts 
 was like to break. Sometimes she would 
 exclaim, " Now I have saved my boy. Now
 
 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 249 
 
 he will be always with his father. Now my 
 husband will pity me. Now God will for 
 give me, and take me to his care. Have I 
 not bound and laid upon his altar my first 
 born my only son ? Will no angel provide 
 me with a burnt-offering, to take the place of 
 my heart's treasure ? Yet I have not with 
 held my son my only son. Will not God 
 pity me now, and let me die ? Be very still, 
 that I may hear the angel call to me out of 
 the heavens. He tells me that God has ac 
 cepted my sacrifice. Yes ; his father prom 
 ised to take him. I have saved my son. 
 Do n't let Willy say good-bye to me ; I can't 
 hear good-bye from Willy ; but let him hug 
 me close, closer, oh ! closer still, till he stops 
 this pain in my heart. One of these days, 
 when it will not make him cry to hear her 
 name, tell him pretty stories about his mother, 
 and sing him the little songs she wrote for 
 him ; tell him once she was merry, so merry, 
 more merry than wise. You need not tell 
 him how much she loved him ; he never will 
 forget it. Willy knows his mother loves 
 him. But his father does not know so well 
 as his boy does about his Fanny ; and he is 
 a grown-up man, and my Willy is a little 
 child, and yet he knows more than his father.
 
 250 SKETCHES OF 
 
 O, Willy, Willy, must I let you go ? must I 
 sacrifice this Isaac of my soul ? " 
 
 Such heart-rending expressions as these 
 was Roberts doomed to hear, from his suf 
 fering wife, for three long, agonizing weeks, 
 when, suddenly, after a long and more 
 quiet sleep than she had had for some time, 
 she opened her eyes, and knew her husband, 
 who was sitting by her bed-side, watching 
 her with an intense anxiety in his face. 
 
 "Give me a little drink, my dear," she 
 said. 
 
 O, had that cup of cold water, which her 
 husband gave her then, purchased for himself 
 eternal life, he would hardly have experienced 
 a greater joy than he felt, when he saw 
 Fanny lift up her bright blue eye calmly to 
 his, and heard the music of her natural voice, 
 as she pronounced his name, and gave signs 
 of recovered reason. 
 
 Roberts, who was unaccustomed to severe 
 illness, was alarmed to find that his wife's 
 recovery from the delirium was accompanied 
 by a childlike weakness of mind, as well as 
 body ; and, but for his physician, he would 
 have been thrown into utter despair, at hear 
 ing her speak of herself and him with a total 
 forgetfulness of all that had passed during
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 251 
 
 their residence in New York. She thought 
 that she was in Boston, and that her illness 
 was occasioned by her confinement, and was 
 continually asking for the baby, who, she 
 said, must be called Willy. They pacified 
 her by telling her that the doctor thought 
 her too ill to see him. Her husband was the 
 only person she knew. 
 
 "Dear William," she said to him, "what 
 a good nurse you are ! How sweet it is to 
 have you take care of me ! You can see our 
 boy, though they will not let me see him. 
 Who does he look like ? It is to be hoped 
 that he will have your nose and my eyes ; 
 and if he has your sense, pray let him have 
 my nonsense, or there will be two against 
 one, which is no fair, as the boys say." 
 
 It seemed as if her husband's heart 
 would now burst with joy, as it before had 
 been near breaking with hopeless misery. 
 Sometimes he almost felt selfish enough to 
 dread her gaining strength, and recovering 
 her memory, lest she should again lose her 
 love for him. 
 
 Gradually, Fanny began to recollect the 
 past. A most careful, skilful, and tender 
 nurse had assisted her husband in taking 
 charge of her during her illness, and still
 
 252 SKETCHES OF 
 
 more critical recovery ; and she seemed much 
 attached and very dependent upon her. About 
 a week after the recovery of her reason, she 
 said to her husband, when the nurse was out 
 of the room, " I have an indistinct recollection 
 of having seen that woman. I remember her 
 gown ; arid I cannot tell how it is, but it 
 makes me want to laugh when I look at it ; 
 and I don't like her then. But I never 
 knew such a devoted, tender, excellent nurse. 
 What is her name ? " 
 
 Her husband evaded the question. 
 
 "It seems to me that I have seen that 
 gown before," said Fanny, with a deep, low 
 emphasis, and a sort of self-questioning tone. 
 " It seems to me, William, as if that woman 
 brought some horrid dream to my mind." 
 
 " Remember," said her husband, " that 
 you have been very ill ; and the doctor says 
 that you must be very quiet." 
 
 " May I not see my boy to-day ? " said 
 Fanny. 
 
 " If the doctor consents, my love, you 
 shall." 
 
 " How kind you are to me, William ! " 
 said his wife, kissing his hand, which was 
 holding hers. " You will always love me ; 
 will you not ? "
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 253 
 
 " So help me God, I will ! " replied her 
 husband. 
 
 Fanny gained strength so fast, that in a 
 few days the doctor thought her husband 
 might venture, when she asked for her baby, 
 to tell her of the effect of her illness, and let 
 her see her boy. 
 
 " Can you be very calm," said Roberts, 
 when she asked for her child, " can you be 
 very calm, and hear what I have to say ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " I am getting 
 strong so fast, that I can promise even to be 
 quiet." 
 
 " You must know," said her husband, 
 " that the fever you have had has destroyed, 
 for the time, your memory. Your boy is 
 three years old, and you think he is only 
 three weeks. We are in New York not 
 in Boston." 
 
 " And why are we here ? " said Fanny ; 
 " why are we here in New York? O, now I 
 remember I have not seen Amy this long 
 while." 
 
 " My father sent for me to come and live 
 with him." 
 
 " Did he ? " said Fanny, with a vacant 
 and yet troubled look, like that of a person 
 coming to his senses, after being stunned.
 
 254 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " Yes, dear ; he sent for us. and we moved 
 here. And now, if you should like it, you 
 shall see Willy, and kiss him ; and then you 
 must try to sleep." 
 
 He was anxious to stop there ; and he took 
 the most effectual method of checking his 
 wife's waking memory, by mentioning her 
 boy. 
 
 " Yes, O yes, let me see my child." 
 
 The little fellow, carefully obeying his 
 father's directions, came in slowly, on tiptoe, 
 and went up to his mother. She held him 
 back an instant, and looked like one whose 
 eyes are dazzled, as the returning, light of a 
 mother's memory shone on the form and face 
 of her child. Poor Willy could bear it no 
 longer. 
 
 "Mother ! dear mother ! I love you. Do n't 
 you know me ? It 's Willy your own 
 boy," he sdbbed out, and nestled his head 
 into her bosom. 
 
 Tears, blessed tears, came to the relief of 
 the poor mother, as she pressed the child to 
 her heart. Alas! around that unutterable 
 joy, as it again took its place in her awak 
 ened memory, clustered so many terrible 
 thoughts ! Her husband feared this moment, 
 and had planned various ways of meeting it j
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 255 
 
 but they were all defeated, and a better way 
 found out, by the untaught, artless address 
 of a loving child. 
 
 " Do not cry any m>re, mother, now ; get 
 well directly, mother. Father told me this 
 morning that he never, never would leave you, 
 nor me, while he lived. He says if you only 
 get well we will all live together and try to 
 be good and happy ; and I have been want 
 ing to get into your room ever since and tell 
 you of it, for I knew that would make you 
 well." 
 
 Thus did the angel hand of her own sweet 
 innocent child suddenly lift up the veil which 
 had so mercifully for her been dropped over 
 the terrible past ; and it seemed as if the 
 darkness and dreariness of the scene were dis 
 sipated by the heavenly light that shone from 
 the countenance of the unconscious little 
 being, who had thus rendered of no avail 
 the councils of his elders. 
 
 " Is it so, William ? Am I again a wife, and 
 a mother? Now I remember all." 
 
 " It is so," said her husband, "but be still 
 now, say nothing more. The rest of our 
 lives may redeem the past. Only get well, 
 as Willy says." 
 
 Gently he disengaged the child from her
 
 ' 
 
 . * 
 
 256 SKETCHES OF 
 
 arms and led him out of the room, and her 
 kind nurse closed the curtains, and, exhausted 
 with her emotions, Fanny fell asleep. At the 
 first motion she made when she awoke, the 
 nurse was by her side offering her some re 
 freshment after sleep. 
 
 " You are Mrs. Hawkins," said Fanny. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am I am," answered the nurse. 
 
 " And is it you that have watched by me 
 night and day during my long illness, taking 
 no rest yourself? " 
 
 " God has given me strength to do my 
 duty, and I thank him for it." 
 
 " I have never deserved anything at your 
 hands, and you have been as kind to me as if 
 you had been my mother." 
 
 " I have only done what I ought to do." 
 
 " But your tenderness, and kindness I 
 had no right to it." 
 
 " Yes you had, for you were a great sufferer 
 and I was able to help you." 
 
 " But I had sinned against you," said 
 Fanny, as the tears rolled down her face. " I 
 had laughed at your appearance, I had nick 
 named you." 
 
 " You hurt yourself more than you did me 
 by that. I know I am an odd-looking person. 
 I pitied you, and so I helped to nurse you."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 257 
 
 " Do you always return good for evil ? " 
 
 " When I can." 
 
 " Did you not despise me when I was so 
 rude to you? " 
 
 " 1 despise no human being." 
 
 " You puzzle me ; you seem so contented 
 and yet have nothing to enjoy ; what makes 
 you so satisfied ? " 
 
 " A quiet conscience, and the pleasure I 
 find in doing the work that God gives me to 
 do. He gives us all our work." 
 
 " What work do you think he has given 
 to you ? " 
 
 " The care of the sick." 
 
 " And are you not wearied and dishearten 
 ed with this work sometimes ? " 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " Do you not hope some day to rest from 
 these hard labors, and enjoy your own time, 
 and the recollection of how much good you 
 have done ? " 
 
 " Yes, in heaven." 
 
 " I have been very unjust to you," said 
 Fanny ; " I ought to have reverenced your 
 self-devotion, and loved you instead of laugh 
 ing at you." 
 
 " Love can 't be forced," answered the 
 housekeeper. 
 
 17
 
 258 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " Will you forgive me for all my injustice 
 to you ? " 
 
 " With all my heart," replied Mrs. Haw 
 kins. 
 
 " You say," said Fanny, who was irresisti 
 bly induced to talk to her new friend, as she 
 considered her, " you say God gives to all 
 their work : what work do you think he has 
 given me ? " 
 
 " It is a part of the duty of a child to find 
 out his father's wishes, and ask of him what 
 is his work. Each one must answer that 
 question for himself. You have great means, 
 and can do much." 
 
 " I am very grateful to you for all your 
 kindness to me," said Fanny with a trembling 
 voice, " and most of all for pardoning my in 
 justice and rudeness towards you." 
 
 " I do not want people to feel grateful to 
 me," answered Mrs. Hawkins. 
 
 " You mean that you would rather be 
 loved than be thanked ; your own heart must 
 be full of love to have watched by me, and 
 labored and suffered for my relief and comfort, 
 when I deserved nothing but blame at your 
 hands ; and I shall, I will, I do love you, my 
 good and kind r and forgivin^ friend. You 
 will let me love you."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 The tear trickled on the eyelid of Mrs. 
 Hawkins as she said, " God has made all our 
 hearts for love, and we all crave it. In his 
 own good time he will give to each one his 
 share ; I am willing to wait. But you must 
 not talk any more, dear ; it will hurt you." 
 Her voice quivered with emotion as she 
 uttered these words, and Fanny was silent. 
 
 The whole of her past life now became 
 present, painfully present to Fanny's recover 
 ed mind. She was still too weak to discuss 
 any painful subject ; and her husband's only 
 object was to calm and cheer the present 
 moment. It was with mingled pain and 
 pleasure that he heard her continually repeat, 
 " You do then love me, William ? " 
 
 " Better than my own life, dear Fanny," 
 he would answer. 
 
 " And you will not leave me ? " 
 
 "Never while you wish me to remain 
 with you." 
 
 " How is my dear Amy ? has nothing been 
 heard from her ? " asked Fanny, " I pray that 
 her precious life may have been spared; if 
 she had been able to come she would have 
 been with me in that terrible fever, I know." 
 
 Her husband told her that the day after 
 she was taken ill, he had received a letter
 
 260 SKETCHES OF 
 
 from his friend Selmar, announcing the birth 
 of a daughter, and that Amy and her child 
 were doing very well. 
 
 " How long ago was that ? " asked Fanny. 
 
 " Five weeks, my dear Fanny." 
 
 " Then it is now spring, and Amy promised 
 me to come and see me in the spring, if she 
 should be the happy mother of a living child." 
 
 " And she is coming in a fortnight," replied 
 her husband, " if you are well enough to bear 
 the excitement of seeing her." 
 
 " Oh joy ! joy ! " exclaimed Fanny ; " I 
 will be well enough. I am sure I shall be 
 quite strong by that time, never fear, dear 
 William ; write to her directly to come, and 
 her husband, and baby : oh beautiful ! To see 
 Amy would seem to me like gathering hearts 
 ease again in my mother's garden, when she 
 and I were children, and used to dress our 
 selves up and play ancient statues. She was 
 fond of playing Flora, and I Minerva, and it 
 was then that I first saw you William, a great 
 raw school-boy ; and how you laughed at the 
 owl on my head. Oh if Amy had always 
 been with me I should have been a better 
 wife to you." 
 
 " Let us remember the sorrows and mis 
 takes of the past, only that we may take care
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 261 
 
 to avoid them ; and let us cherish the recol 
 lection of all its pure pleasures, as a pledge 
 and promise of what is in store for us. We 
 will call up again those sweet dreams of our 
 early days, dear Fanny, by returning to that 
 child-like trust and unquestioning love which 
 then made us so happy. But you must not 
 talk any more, your pulse is much too quick ; 
 while we have been talking, it has beaten 
 faster and faster, till now I can scarcely count 
 it. You will not be able to see Amy in a 
 fortnight, if you do not keep quieter than you 
 have been for these last few minutes." 
 
 " Oh but I will be very still, so quiet, and 
 so good that you shall not believe it is I ; 
 only write to Amy to come, and tell her that 
 I shall be quite well, and so tranquil and good 
 that even she will scarcely know her old 
 friend." 
 
 After a few moments of thoughtful silence, 
 Fanny suddenly said, " I think, William, I 
 should like to write to Amy myself." 
 
 " But you are hardly able to write, Fanny." 
 Fanny insisted very earnestly that she was 
 able, and that it was only a few lines that 
 were necessary. Her husband proposed that 
 she should dictate and he write. 
 
 "No, no, I must write myself; give me 
 some paper, and pen, and ink,"
 
 262 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 " Presently," replied her husband, " when 
 you are rested I will " but he looked as if he 
 would rather not. When Fanny wrote her 
 letter which was very short, she folded and 
 sealed it as soon as it was finished. Her 
 husband was sitting by her, and it was with 
 rather an effort at gaity that he said, " you 
 asked for no message from me, Fanny, but 
 have hastily sealed up your letter as if it con 
 tained treason." Fanny blushed and looked 
 disturbed. 
 
 " One always looks like a fool when show 
 ing a letter of one's own writing, and I can 
 never forget a lady's telling me when I show 
 ed her a letter which she asked to see, ' It 's 
 a very good letter, but if I had been you I 
 would not have shown it.' ' 
 
 Mr. Roberts was evidently disappointed ; 
 his reserve which had lately been dissipated 
 by Fanny's frankness and tenderness began 
 to creep over him again. Both were silent. 
 It seemed as if some mysterious invisible evil 
 presence had suddenly disturbed their peace. 

 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " There is a rose-lipped seraph sits on high, 
 Who ever bends his holy ear to earth, 
 To mark the voice of penitence, to catch 
 Her solemn sighs, to tune them to his harp, 
 And echo them, in harmonies divine, 
 Up to the throne of grace." MASON. 
 
 WE return to Edward and Amy. When 
 the bustle and trouble of moving were over, 
 and they were all established in their very 
 comfortable but less elegant house, Edward 
 and Amy came to the conclusion, that, as far 
 as their individual happiness was in question, 
 they were better off than before ; as their 
 present style of living left them more time for 
 reading and for the enjoyment of each other's 
 society. Mr. Weston prophesied that the 
 men of property and standing in society 
 would now forsake them entirely ; that the 
 world would never forgive such a departure 
 from its own principles ; and he thought that, 
 in some respects, they deserved the censure 
 and neglect that they would surely encounter.
 
 264 SKETCHES OF 
 
 Mr. Weston, to imitate his own style of 
 speaking, was right in some respects. Some 
 of the rich forsook them ; others treated 
 them with increased respect and attention. 
 Ruth, whose opinion ought not to be neg 
 lected, said, after they were all arranged, that 
 she did not see what they wanted of more 
 money ; that enough was as good as a feast ; 
 and that, as far as she knew of such things, 
 she had observed that great gains and great 
 pains went together. 
 
 Calmly and cheerfully, and with a holy 
 trust, that, whether she lived or died, it 
 would be well with her, Amy met her trying 
 hour ; and, as has been before mentioned, she 
 became the joyful mother of a living child. 
 With a yet more solemn earnestness than 
 they had ever before felt, did these happy 
 parents consecrate themselves anew to God, 
 as, with tears of joyful love, they thanked 
 him for this unspeakable blessing. 
 
 " What system do you mean to follow, in 
 educating your daughter ? " said Edward, 
 one day ; "authority or reason persuasion 
 or force? What punishments have you al 
 ready planned ? What great book shall you 
 keep on your work-table, all ready to refer 
 to?"
 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 265 
 
 " The punishments," replied Amy, laugh 
 ing, " I shall leave to you. Suppose we 
 make a plan, as the children make stories, as 
 we go along ? One thing we will surely do, 
 Edward ; study this exquisite instrument be 
 fore we play upon it. The great book of 
 nature, with its living pictures, is always 
 open, and we will teach her to read in it 
 with us ; and from the book of life, the word 
 of God, we will gather, day by day, lessons, 
 which, even before she can find them there 
 herself, if we are but faithful, her heart 
 will read in our example. This is my sys 
 tem." 
 
 In answer to Edward's letter, informing 
 Mr. Roberts of the birth of their child, he 
 received a letter from him, telling him of the 
 death of his father, and the dangerous illness 
 of his wife. Anxiously and with an aching 
 heart did Amy open every letter from New 
 York, till that came, giving the blessed news 
 of the safety of her friend, and of her restora 
 tion to reason. 
 
 The weeks passed rapidly, and Fanny's 
 letter arrived, saying she was well enough to 
 see her friend, and urging her to come imme 
 diately. A short postscript was added to it, 
 requesting Amy to bring all the letters which
 
 266 SKETCHES OF 
 
 she had received from her since her residence 
 in New York. 
 
 All Amy's arrangements for leaving home 
 were made, and Ruth had come to receive 
 her parting directions, as the next day was to 
 make her sole manager. 
 
 " Are you not afraid, ma'am, to go to-mor 
 row ? " said Ruth, with a portentous look. 
 
 " Why, Ruth, should I fear going to-mor 
 row ? " 
 
 " You know it says in the almanac, that 
 there will be an eclipse of the sun." 
 
 " Then I shall have a fine opportunity of 
 seeing it, in the steam-boat. Why, Ruth, 
 should we fear an eclipse ? " 
 
 " I am no coward, ma'am. I have lived 
 too long in the woods to be scared at an owl ; 
 but I never saw any good come of eclipses, or 
 comets neither ; and I do feel a kind o' 
 chicken-hearted about your going, Mrs. Sel- 
 mar, that 's a fact ; and I shall feel dreadful 
 lonesome without you and the dear babe." 
 
 Amy replied, that they should return in a 
 few days. She gave her some further direc 
 tions, and told her that she had nothing more 
 to say. " I know you will take good care of 
 my father, Ruth. I trust all to you." 
 
 Ruth still lingered. It was evident she
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 267 
 
 had something weighing heavily on her mind. 
 At last, she took courage, and began. 
 
 " There is something else that I feel rather 
 ugly about, ma'am. I wanted just to speak 
 a word to you about it before you went ; but 
 I am afraid you '11 think it ridiculous." 
 
 " What is it, Ruth ? " said Amy, very 
 kindly. 
 
 " Why, ma'am," said Ruth, hanging her 
 head one side, and pulling out her fingers, 
 one after another, to their full length, " you 
 know the old saying, There 's ne'er a Jack 
 without a Jill ; and Jerry has somehow or 
 other thrown dust in my eyes, so that I do n't 
 see but what, for want of a better, I may 
 about as well take up with him for a beau." 
 
 Amy found it hard to keep her countenance 
 during this explanation. 
 
 " Do you mean, Ruth, that you intend to 
 marry Jerry ? " 
 
 " I know it seems ridiculous, ma'am ; but 
 I have, if the upshot of it must be told, come 
 to the conclusion, that I might go further, 
 and fare worse ; and I have as good as told 
 Jerry so." 
 
 " But, do you love Jerry, Ruth ? " 
 
 " Why, I guess I kind o' love him. I tell 
 him that bad 's the best of the men-folks ;
 
 268 SKETCHES OF 
 
 but I rather guess I set more by him than by 
 any other of his species, though he is so short." 
 
 " But, are you sure, Ruth, that you shall 
 be happier with Jerry than you are with me ? 
 Do you love him enough to trust yourself to 
 him ? " 
 
 "Why, ma'am, nothing in life is certain 
 but death ; but I feel sure enough for my 
 own satisfaction : and, you know, nothing 
 venture, nothing have. The long and the 
 short of it is, if you approve, I expect I shall 
 marry Jerry." 
 
 " I shall certainly be sorry to lose you, 
 Ruth ; but, if you are really attached to Jerry, 
 and feel sure that you will be happier with 
 him, I shall be very glad for your sake. But 
 a woman ought to be very cautious to whom 
 she binds herself for life." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Ruth. "I have al 
 ways thought that the girls who marry, as 
 some of our girls do, your outlandish foreign 
 ers, who have no manners, were served right 
 for their folly ; but Jerry is one of our own 
 folks." 
 
 "It seems to me, Ruth," said Amy, "I 
 have heard you laugh at Jerry." 
 
 " That, ma'am, is one way I try whether 
 a beau suits me. If he won't let me have
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 269 
 
 my own way, in the matter of talking and 
 laughing, how should he in any other ? And 
 the truth is, he is as patient as Joh with me, 
 when I take to .my funning ways." 
 
 " But I hope, Ruth, that is not your object 
 in marrying Jerry, to have your own way. 
 He may also like his way, and you will 
 quarrel." 
 
 " We shall both have our own way. ma'am. 
 It takes two to make a quarrel, and I never 
 mean to be one. I guess we shall be peace 
 able enough. I always thought it was ridic 
 ulous for married folks to quarrel." 
 
 " Is Jerry a religious man, Ruth ? " 
 
 " You may be sure enough of that, ma'am, 
 or I should never have taken a shine to him. 
 It 's not a fair bargain between man and wife, 
 when one lives for time, and the other for 
 eternity." 
 
 " And you are sure, Ruth, that you have 
 well considered what you are doing, in prom 
 ising to marry Jerry ? " asked Amy. 
 
 "My maxim, ma'am," said Ruth, "is, be 
 slow in choosing a friend, but slower still in 
 giving him up." 
 
 Amy perceived that Ruth's mind was made 
 up; and as she believed Jerry was a good 
 fellow, and as she saw that Ruth was really
 
 270 SKETCHES OF 
 
 attached to him, she not only expressed her 
 approbation, which she knew was what Ruth 
 desired, but the great pleasure she felt at the 
 thought that she would have a faithful and 
 affectionate friend, who would stand by her 
 through life. 
 
 Amy and her husband and child arrived 
 safely, at the appointed time, at New York ; 
 and the friends met with that indescribable, 
 almost painful delight which we ever feel at 
 meeting with one whom we have loved from 
 our earliest childhood, and from whom we 
 have fondly thought and hoped, in our child 
 ish faith, never to part. 
 
 " I shall call my baby Fanny," said Amy, 
 as her friend pressed it to her heart. 
 
 " Heaven grant it may be wiser than her 
 for whom she is called," answered Fanny. 
 
 Selmar and Roberts were rejoiced to meet 
 again, after so long an absence. It was a 
 general holiday in the house. Even Mrs. 
 Hawkins said a great many things that, on 
 another occasion, and upon further considera 
 tion, she would have called superfluous. And 
 as for Willy, he was like a canary-bird at a 
 dinner party, singing, dancing, clapping his 
 hands, and chattering without heeding that 
 no one answered. The baby he called his 
 little sister, and its mother his own aunt.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 271 
 
 The friends had a deal of talk about every 
 thing, beginning, as friends are apt to, who 
 have much on their hearts, with what they 
 cared the least for. Fanny was anxious to 
 know if Amy had brought her letters ; and 
 Amy was equally anxious to ascertain if 
 Fanny was happier than when she last wrote 
 to her ; but neither spoke for some time. 
 At last, Fanny began. 
 
 " I hope you have brought my foolish let 
 ters, Amy. I believe you must have thought 
 I was crazed when I wrote them, or perhaps 
 trying my hand at novel- writing." 
 
 " I have brought all your letters, dear. 
 And now tell me, all jesting apart, are you 
 happy? " 
 
 " O yes," replied Fanny ; " happy as the 
 day is long. But I must tell you all first." 
 And she went back, and, with much pain, 
 told Amy all that had passed till the present 
 time. " And now," she continued, " I want 
 to burn all those letters, and forget all that 
 has passed." 
 
 " But, have you told your husband all that 
 you felt, Fanny ? " 
 
 " O no. Why should I ? It would only 
 give him pain." 
 
 " But do you not see that you are doing
 
 272 SKETCHES OF 
 
 now the very thing that caused the estn 
 ment between you and Roberts ? " 
 
 " How ? " said Fanny. 
 
 " Do you think," said Amy, " that if you 
 had been perfectly open and confiding to 
 your husband, he would have been cold and 
 reserved to you ? " 
 
 " How could I be frank with him, when 
 he was so silent to me ? How could I tell 
 him that his chilling, solemn reserve, when 
 he was displeased, hurt me more than any 
 censure, and that I would rather he would 
 find fault with me every hour in the day ? 
 He would have thought me a fool." 
 
 " And yet," answered Amy, " if you do not 
 tell him all this, you will never be happy." 
 
 " Yes I shall ; for I shall be more careful 
 not to do wrong, and then he will not be 
 displeased ; and he has promised that all shall 
 be forgotten ; and I am sure he does love me 
 as well or better than ever." 
 
 " And yet, believe me, Fanny, the same 
 thing will take place again, unless a perfect 
 understanding is established between you. 
 The flame of discontent is smothered, not 
 extinguished." 
 
 " O, I should die, he knows I should die, 
 if he were to leave me, or if he ever were to
 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 273 
 
 appear towards me again as he has this last 
 winter. But I shall never give him occasion 
 to find fault with me." 
 
 " Impossible," answered Amy. " Even 
 now, I doubt not, he begins to wonder why 
 you treated him as you say you did. You 
 must be open as the day with your husband, 
 Fanny, or your happiness is gone. You 
 must tell him all that you thought and felt, 
 said or did. You must not keep back your 
 opinion of his faults ; you must not extenuate 
 your own. You must be perfectly true with 
 him." 
 
 " But you see, Amy, it is all over now ; 
 and we are so happy ! " 
 
 " There is a root of bitterness in all your 
 happiness," replied Amy, " while anything 
 remains between you unexplained, untold. 
 There is a hidden wound in your love, if 
 aught remains unspoken of ; it can only be 
 healed by being laid bare. If there exist 
 anything between you too painful to be spok 
 en of, think you that this tender spot will 
 never be touched by accident, or by the same 
 cause that first excited it ? " 
 
 " He will blame me, when he knows all I 
 have felt and said to you, Amy." 
 
 "No matter, my dear friend. You have 
 18
 
 274 SKETCHES OF 
 
 nearly made shipwreck of all your peace 
 in this life, by the very system of conceal 
 ment which you are now madly commencing 
 again. Believe me, that if your love for each 
 other cannot -bear the test of a perfectly frank 
 and fearless confession of all your faults, all 
 your mistakes ; if it does not rest on truth, 
 perfect truth, its foundation is rotten, and 
 this is but a transient respite from the misery 
 that surely awaits you." 
 
 "Can I do this?" said Fanny. "Can I 
 go over the hateful past, and call up those 
 terrible hours, that I am trying to forget ? " 
 
 " Look, Fanny, at the cause of all your 
 misery, and you will find it was not any 
 Very wrong thing that either of you did ; not 
 a want of love, but it was a want of trust in 
 each other a want of truth. Each was 
 playing a part, till each became convinced 
 that the real character was lost in the assumed 
 one. Your love for each other could not 
 grow, thus smothered and warped ; it has 
 barely survived. Could you daily, and, as 
 the Christian wife should, with every passing 
 moment, give thanks, in your heart, to God, 
 for the possession of a friend to whom you 
 are perpetually false ? " 
 
 " O, not false, Amy ; that is too hard."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 275 
 
 " Yes, false, Fanny. You must, in such 
 a relation, be perfectly true in every thing, 
 or you are false." 
 
 While Fanny and Amy were talking, Mr. 
 Roberts came in. Fanny unconsciously put 
 the letters, that were lying on the table, out 
 of sight. Her husband observed it, and 
 looked embarrassed and hurt. The ladies 
 were silent, at his entrance. 
 
 " I fear that I am an intruder," he said. 
 " You have, perhaps, some private affairs." 
 This was said in a constrained tone ; and he 
 rather abruptly left the room. 
 
 " He saw me hide these foolish letters, and 
 supposed that there really was some important 
 secret between us," said Fanny, in a fretful 
 tone, and half speaking to herself. " It 's a 
 pity he came in." 
 
 " And is there not some important secret 
 hidden from your husband ? " replied Amy. 
 " Have you not something on your heart, 
 and in your thoughts, which you think you 
 cannot say to him ? And can you bear the 
 reality, while you are annoyed and pained at 
 the mere appearance ? " 
 
 " O, but it was foolish in Roberts to be so 
 troubled by such a trifle. These letters 
 might have related only to your concerns."
 
 276 SKETCHES OF 
 
 " He would naturally wonder, then, why 
 you did not say so why you should hide 
 them. He would know that you could not 
 suppose he would look at any letters unbid 
 den. Were you not afraid that he would 
 recognize your hand-writing ? " 
 
 " It is true," said Fanny ; " and I am sorry 
 they were not burnt immediately." 
 
 " And will you carry that about in your 
 heart, which you would, when on paper, 
 desire to burn, and yet call yourself a true, 
 and loving, and happy wife, Fanny ? " 
 
 " But I am a true, and loving, and shall be 
 a happy wife, if my husband will not have 
 this foolish, jealous sensitiveness about tri 
 fles." 
 
 " But the fact is, that he is sensitive, and 
 that you kftoW he is, Fanny. A man like 
 Roberts, whose love is so tender, so refined, 
 so elevated, cannot be satisfied with an affec 
 tion which would, perhaps, satisfy a coarser 
 mind. He wants an entire love, an entire 
 trust entire truth. He cannot bear to 
 be doubted, or feared, or separated from his 
 wife, even in trifles." 
 
 " I do not fear him. I know that he would 
 forgive me for anything that ought to be for 
 given."
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 277 
 
 " Yes you do, Fanny ; you fear that he 
 will discover what you have yet been will 
 ing to say to me. I think you have given 
 your husband reason to complain of you, and 
 to be jealous of your affections, within this 
 hour." 
 
 " He has never said this to me," replied 
 Fanny, thoughtfully. 
 
 " In that he has been wrong, and you 
 should say so to him ; but he may have 
 thought that unless this perfect confidence 
 were voluntary it was worth nothing." 
 
 " But would you have me tell my husband 
 every thing I say and do, and feel, and have 
 done or said and felt, Amy ? " 
 
 "Yes, every thing that he can wish to 
 know ; nothing is a trifle if he^ can care for 
 it. You should have but one heart between 
 you." 
 
 " How can I be good enough to show my 
 whole foolish heart, my whole whimsical 
 and faulty character to my husband ; what 
 will he think when he really sees me as I 
 am." 
 
 " If," replied Amy, " he finds in your heart 
 an entire love for himself, a perfect devotion 
 to truth, and an earnest desire to cure all 
 your faults, to be excellent ; if he finds that
 
 278 SKETCHES OF 
 
 you hunger and thirst after perfection, rely 
 upon it that even your faults will form 
 another bond of union between you. There 
 is nothing so touching to a generous mind, as 
 that entire trust, which induces a loving 
 heart to pour out to another all its weaknesses, 
 all its errors, even all its sins. We love each 
 other not so much for what we are as for what 
 we would be. It is that divine beau ideal 
 which each one who aspires after excellence 
 carries within, which is the real being. 
 Would you hide this from your husband? 
 No, Fanny, I know you would not ; and its 
 first and most unquestioned feature is a re 
 nunciation of that self-love which would hide 
 or vindicate our follies or our faults." 
 
 Fanny made no answer ; but her eyes 
 glistened, and Amy thought she saw some 
 noble purpose working in her heart, and she 
 left her. A few moments after, Fanny sent 
 for her husband. 
 
 " Are you at leisure ? " she said, " I have 
 something I wish to say to you." 
 
 " Quite, Fanny ; but from your looks I 
 fear it is something painful, and I think ex 
 citement is bad for your health." 
 
 " Never mind that," replied Fanny ; there 
 are things more important than health, or life,
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 279 
 
 William ; and I have come to the conclusion 
 that you and I must speak of them." Her 
 husband looked much troubled, and waited 
 for her to proceed. 
 
 " We have not been as happy, William, as 
 we ought to have been together, certainly as 
 we hoped to be ; have we ? " 
 
 " Let us not speak of the past, Fanny ; I 
 cannot bear it." Fanny was resolved to 
 proceed. 
 
 " If we cannot bear to speak of it, how can 
 we bear to think of it ? Shall we carry that 
 in our hearts which we cannot trust to our 
 lips ? " 
 
 " But what is the use of it Fanny ? " 
 
 " That we may, by confessing and under 
 standing our mistakes learn to correct them. 
 I have been the most faulty, William : no one 
 who does not see our hearts can tell who has 
 suffered most ; but Heaven knows I have 
 suffered enough." 
 
 " I hoped I had been the greatest, the only 
 sufferer ; but let us not talk of such painful 
 things, it will destroy you, Fanny ; I will not 
 consent to it, and I cannot bear it." 
 
 " If I die," answered his wife, " all must 
 now be said, all must be told to the last 
 word, all confessed to the veriest trifle. You
 
 280 SKETCHES OF 
 
 must bear it, let it be ever so painful, and I 
 must speak if these should be my last 
 words. Amy is right ; our love has a rotten 
 foundation if we have anything between us 
 that may not be spoken of. I will make a 
 clean breast to you now, if I never have 
 before." 
 
 " Dear Fanny, we have suffered too much ; 
 all is now as if it had never been ; there is no 
 danger that we shall commit the same faults." 
 
 " Within this hour we have both committed 
 the same faults that have caused all our 
 misery. I tried to hide these letters, and you 
 were hurt, and you did not tell me so. This 
 was untrue in me, and not right in you." 
 Fanny then reminded her husband of the 
 letter she wrote to Amy, and asked him if 
 he were not hurt at her not showing it to 
 him. He confessed he was. " Then why," 
 said Fanny, " did you not say so ? " 
 
 " I feared to give you pain." 
 
 " Very like," said Fanny, " I should not 
 then have told you the truth ; but hencefor 
 ward I promise to speak the truth to you, cost 
 what it may ; and I have a right, William, to 
 demand the same of you. It will be our 
 only security for happiness. What I wished 
 to hide from you, William, was a postscript
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 281 
 
 to my letter to Amy, asking her to bring me 
 all the letters I had written to her since our 
 marriage. There they are, and Amy's an 
 swers. I meant to burn them ; but Amy has 
 convinced me that I had better tell you 
 everything, and show them to you first ; take 
 them, and read them all." 
 
 Fanny then gave her husband the letters. 
 While he was reading she was perfectly 
 silent. When he had finished, she told him 
 calmly all she had endured from his silence, 
 his reserve, and finally, from the conviction 
 that he did not love her. She told him of 
 everything she had thought and felt. Her 
 husband heard her in profound silence ; but 
 his rising color, and his quivering lip showed 
 how deeply he was moved. At last, as she 
 spoke of her sufferings, he bowed his head, 
 and covered his face with his hands, and 
 groaned out, " Oh, Fanny, can you indeed 
 forgive me ? I have been unfaithful to my 
 marriage vow ; I have sinned against my 
 own heart, and against you in the sight of 
 God." 
 
 " We have both sinned." sobbed out Fan 
 ny ; " but the future is before us, let us do so 
 no more." 
 
 " Had I been open, and trustful, and true
 
 282 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 had my love been what it ought to have 
 been, Fanny, all this misery would have 
 been saved." 
 
 " Let us be true and faithful for the future," 
 said Fanny, as her head fell like that of a 
 wearied and repentant child on her husband's 
 bosom. 
 
 " Henceforward," he said, and pressed her 
 to his heart, " we will do better ; hencefor 
 ward we will be true to each other. We 
 cannot have perfection, but we may have 
 truth, we may have real love. 
 
 " What a load is off my heart ! " said 
 Fanny, as she finished telling Amy of what 
 had passed between her and her husband. " I 
 feel so calm, so fearless, so sweetly peaceful. 
 Bless you, dear Amy, for your truly faithful 
 and wise counsel ; you have saved me from 
 misery, from worse than death." 
 
 Mr. Selmar's business allowed of only a 
 short stay, and he and Amy returned with 
 their hearts overflowing with joy, at having 
 witnessed the return of health and peace to 
 the abode of their friends.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " 'T is summer, glorious summer 
 
 Look to the glad green earth, 
 
 How from her grateful bosom 
 
 The herb and flower spring forth. 
 
 These are her rich thanksgivings ; 
 
 Their incense floats above. 
 
 Father ! what may we offer 1 
 
 Thy chosen flower is love." LOUISA PARK. 
 
 IT was near sunset, on a fine day, in the 
 latter part of spring, when some travellers 
 slowly ascended a long steep hill. The 
 party consisted of a gentleman, and his wife, 
 and a little girl of about three years of age. 
 They were walking, in order to relieve the 
 horse of their weight, while he was slowly 
 dragging up their light travelling carriage. 
 
 " Poor old Robinette is so tired ; let him 
 rest on the top of the hill," said the father of 
 the little girl who was impatient to get in, 
 and find herself going again." 
 
 " But Willy is waiting for me," said the 
 child, as she threw back her golden ringlets,
 
 284 SKETCHES OF 
 
 and looked up in her father's face ; " Willy 
 wants to see his little Fanny." 
 
 "You will soon see him," replied her 
 mother. " Look Fanny at that pretty blue 
 smoke curling up out of that green wood in 
 the valley ; and see that pretty white house. 
 At the window, shining like gold with the 
 4ight of the setting sun, I think I see a little 
 boy about Willy's age." 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! it is he oh now he is gone. 
 Mother, mother," continued the child, " the 
 water looks as if it was on fire ; and see how 
 many flowers are on the trees : will not 
 Willy give me as many as I want ? he has so 
 many." 
 
 It was the time of the apple-blossoms, 
 and the whole country looked like a flow 
 er-garden ; the air was loaded with their 
 delicious perfume. At the foot of the hill 
 upon which the travellers stood, contempla 
 ting the scene below, ran a wild mountain 
 stream, through a narrow valley. Scattered 
 along its beautifully wooded banks were the 
 villagers' houses, and rising up from the midst 
 of them was a small white church ; the 
 glittering weather-cock on its spire caught the 
 last rays of the sun, as it seemed to bid a re 
 luctant farewell to the quiet scene below.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 285 
 
 " Hark ! Fanny, hear the water-fall ! " said 
 the father of the little girl, whose incessant 
 chattering made it almost impossible to hear 
 any thing else ; " and hear the birds singing 
 their go-to-bed-songs ; and hark ! that is the 
 bell from the factory, calling the workmen 
 and women and children all to their suppers, 
 and telling them that their labor is done." 
 
 " See all the factory people," said the 
 mother, " see them, Fanny, through the trees 
 running along by the little foot-path on the 
 side of the hill, so glad to go home." 
 
 " That is Willy running up the hill, mother ; 
 is it not ? Oh let me get out again," said 
 little Fanny, as they began to descend. 
 
 " We will take him in, if it is he," said her 
 father. In a minute they came up to him. 
 
 " What is your name, my little fellow ? " 
 said the'gentleman. 
 
 " Willy Roberts ; and are not you uncle 
 Edward, and aunt Amy Selmar, and little 
 Fanny ? " 
 
 " Yes, we are ; " and in another moment 
 the child was in their arms. 
 
 " Go fast," said the boy ; " father and 
 mother do n't know you have come. I saw 
 you on the top of the hill from the upper 
 chamber window, and thought I would come
 
 286 SKETCHES OF 
 
 and see if it was you, and run and tell them 
 first. They are in the piazza on the other 
 side of the house, that looks out on the river." 
 " Father ! mother ! here is my little sister 
 Fanny, and uncle, and aunt Selmar, and 
 Robinette ; " screamed out Willy, as they 
 stopped at the door ; and in an instant the 
 friends were clasped in each others' arms. 
 " Dear Amy ! " " Dear Fanny ! " was all the 
 two cousins could say for some time. At last 
 Fanny looked round for her little namesake. 
 She was no where to be seen ; Willy had 
 appropriated her to himself, and had gone to 
 show her the pigs, and the poultry-yard, the 
 old dog, and his new wagon and hoe, the 
 cow-yard, and the garden. Little Fanny, to 
 whom all these were novelties, was in an ec 
 stasy at everything she saw. Willy, who was 
 so familiar with them all, and who always said 
 our pigs, our chickens, our cow, was in her 
 estimation as great a hero as ever was the 
 most valiant and successful knight in the 
 days of yore, in the eyes of his admiring 
 mistress. When the mothers found the chil 
 dren, Fanny was standing with her bosom 
 stuck full of dandelions, apple-blossoms and 
 violets, and a bunch of lilacs dangling from 
 her belt, looking up into Willy's face with
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 287 
 
 her great laughing blue eyes wide open, and 
 full of solemn wonder, and almost oppressive 
 delight, listening to a grand story Willy was 
 telling her of a battle between the turkey 
 cock and himself, in which Willy was of 
 course the brave and triumphant conqueror. 
 
 " Come and speak to your aunt Fanny," 
 said Amy to her little girl ; the child turned, 
 and after one look held up her face for a kiss. 
 
 " Call her mother, as I do," said Willy ; 
 " because you know you are my little sister ; 
 but come and see my little brother ; he shall 
 be your brother too." And away they ran 
 into the house and up to the nursery to see 
 the baby. Tears came into Amy's eyes. 
 Fanny observed them, and said, " Come and 
 see my flower-garden ; it is not quite dark." 
 She wished to divert Amy's thoughts ; but 
 they were precious thoughts to Amy that had 
 brought tears into her eyes, and she said to 
 her friend, " I wish, Fanny, you had seen 
 our little Edward ; he was a lovely thing, and 
 the remembrance of him is very dear to us ; 
 for worlds I would not part with it." 
 
 " This is what I expected from you, Amy 
 your faith I know is a reality. How did your 
 husband bear the loss of his little boy ? " 
 " Do not say lost. Our little Fanny, with all
 
 288 SKETCHES OF 
 
 the visible signs of life, hardly seems a more 
 real an existence to us both, than does our 
 sweet angel baby." 
 
 " But how could you bear the parting ? " 
 
 " It was very hard, Fanny ; and we wept 
 as parents must weep. My heart was very 
 lonely for a while, when my vacant arms found 
 no infant to press to it ; and now when I 
 hear the words little brother, and think of my 
 little girl left without her natural friend and 
 playmate, I sorrow for her sake even more 
 than our own ; for to us the child lives, and 
 is still a blessing to us." 
 
 Amy spoke with the same trustful se 
 renity upon this subject as she did upon 
 others. Fanny felt that her religion was a 
 truth, and therefore a source of joy ; not a 
 mournful refuge from sorrow when no other 
 happiness is within reach. It was to her the 
 vital principle of peace and gladness, the 
 daily bread of a satisfied heart. 
 
 " It does me good," said Fanny, " to hear 
 you speak so ; I know that you think it right 
 and wish to feel so ; but to see that you 
 really do, now that the trial has come, that 
 strengthens my faith, Amy, more than all 
 arguments." 
 
 " Let us follow the children, and see the 
 baby ; " said Amy.
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 289 
 
 ,.***''>.*. "*" '"*'-'* 
 
 " Mother," said little Fanny, " the baby 
 looks like brother, and has the same name 
 Edward." 
 
 "You have no brother Edward," said 
 Willy. 
 
 "Yes I have, Willy." 
 
 " Where is he ? in Boston ? Why did you 
 not bring him ? " 
 
 " Father and mother say that he is in 
 heaven." 
 
 Willy was silent. He remembered what 
 his mother had said to him of the death of 
 his little cousin. 
 
 Tea was announced, and Willy ran to call 
 the gentlemen. 
 
 Tea was over, the children were abed, 
 and the birds were in their nests. The deep, 
 full, pervading roar of the water-fall not far 
 from the house, was the only sound that, like 
 a low running bass, harmonized with the con 
 versation of the four friends. " What do you 
 think," said Fanny, " of my being the Goody 
 of the village ; I am the moni tress, the Jack- 
 at-a-pinch upon all occasions. If they have 
 a quilting-match, they send for me to tell 
 them stories and be agreeable to them ; if a 
 girl has an offer, the mother consults me ; if 
 any child is unruly, they ask my advice of the 
 19
 
 290 SKETCHES or 
 
 best way to tame it. They come to me for 
 recipes for making pickles, for curing beef, 
 pork, disobedient children, and unruly horses. 
 Only yesterday a good woman came here 
 on horseback upon a man's saddle, on an 
 old horse, and wanted me to get on and take 
 a ride, and see if I could cure the wicked ani 
 mal of tripping ; another comes to ask me for 
 something strengthening for her stomach ; 
 and since they have seen our nice medicine- 
 chest, I should not be surprised if they were 
 to come to me for pills against thunder 
 storms and earthquakes." 
 
 " Stop, stop, Fanny, this is not fair," said 
 her husband ; " you are running away with 
 all the honors of the place, and will have no 
 breath even to relate mine. Am I not lawyer, 
 doctor, and schoolmaster, of the place ? do n't 
 they call me Squire, Dr., your Honor, Elder, 
 Major, &c. &c. ? I mean to have a gold- 
 headed cane, and a larger hat, and try to look 
 more respectable in your eyes at least, so that 
 I need not be overlooked entirely, by you, 
 my lady Bountiful." 
 
 " Fear not that I should forget you," said 
 Fanny. " You and your committee men, 
 your Lyceum gentlemen, your politicians, and 
 your tribe of boys, leave marks enough on my
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 291 
 
 carpet to make it sure you will be remember 
 ed. When we go to walk, there is not a 
 head of any description that does not nod to 
 him as he .passes, with a sort of hail-fellow- 
 well-met look and manner. The boys pull 
 the tail of his coat, some of the men almost 
 slap him on his shoulder, others hold him by 
 the button-hole, and I doubt not they will 
 send him for their representative to Congress, 
 and then he will be the honorable Mr. Rob 
 erts, and I Mrs. honorable." 
 
 " I confess," said Mr. Roberts, " that my 
 estimate of this office, and of the people at 
 large has changed since I left the city. 
 In cities, public officers are chosen simply 
 for their politics, in country towns, some 
 thing more is required ; if they are not mor 
 al and religious men, there are many who 
 will not vote for them. My love and rever 
 ence for human nature has much increased 
 during our residence in the country." 
 
 " Do tell them about the church steeple," 
 said Fanny. " But where is Mrs. Hawkins ? 
 she is so modest she will very like think we 
 do n't want her." 
 
 Fanny went out, and in a moment return 
 ed with the good housekeeper. 
 
 " Sit here. Mrs. Hawkins ; you will love 
 to hear the steeple story again r I know."
 
 292 
 
 SKETCHES OF 
 
 "Fanny," said Roberts, laughing, "makes 
 me tell this story to everybody. A very poor 
 man in our town, a carpenter, had contracted 
 to build the steeple to our new church ; it 
 was to be raised up into its place after 
 it was finished. The poor fellow expended 
 in making it every farthing he could com 
 mand, much of which was borrowed from his 
 fellow-townsmen. It was completed accord 
 ing to the contract, it only wanted to be 
 raised ; the levers, and pulleys were all 
 placed, the crowd were assembled, people had 
 come from far and near, to witness the raising 
 of the steeple. The carpenter's wife and 
 eight children had the best place for seeing 
 assigned to them. Yery soon the steeple 
 began to rise ; it arrives safely at its place, it 
 merely wants to be adjusted on its basis. As 
 soon as that should be accomplished the 
 carpenter, according to the contract, was 
 entitled to his pay. The crowd were be 
 ginning to shout at its ascension, when a 
 pulley gave way, then another, and in an 
 instant the steeple fell to the ground, and 
 became a shapeless mass of ruins."' 
 
 " Oh the poor carpenter and his famiJy," 
 exclaimed Amy, " what did he do ? " 
 
 " He was in utter despair ; he sat down on
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 293 
 
 the ground and exclaimed, ' take us all to jail ; 
 we are ruined ! ' His children cried aloud, 
 his wife tried to comfort him, but he cov 
 ered his face and would not look up. I 
 saw some of the leading men together, and 
 went up to learn what they were talking of. 
 I found they were proposing a subscription. 
 As I passed through the crowd I heard one 
 say, I '11 give him the timber ; and anoth 
 er, I '11 haul it ; another, I '11 give him a 
 week's work, and in less than ten minutes 
 the poor man's loss was made up to him. 
 This was too much for him ; he wept even 
 more than at his loss, he could not articulate 
 his thanks."* 
 
 " Surely," said Edward " that church can 
 never be the scene of a more devout and 
 acceptable service to the beneficent Being 
 for whose worship it was erected." 
 
 Amy's eyes glistened with delight, as she 
 said " It was indeed a beautiful consecration." 
 
 " They only did what they ought to do," 
 said Mrs. Hawkins. 
 
 After much pleasant talk, the friends retired 
 for the night. 
 
 The next morning, at breakfast, when they 
 were planning the pleasures of the day, " I 
 
 * A Fact.
 
 294 SKETCHES OF 
 
 speak for the children for a walk," said Ed 
 ward Selmar, " I wish to have them to my 
 self; Willy can show me the wonders of 
 the place." 
 
 " That I can," said Willy, and began to 
 tell beforehand of all there was to see. 
 
 " I speak for your company, Amy, for a 
 walk such as we used to have when we were 
 girls," said Fanny. 
 
 " Who '11 speak for me ? " said Mr. Roberts. 
 
 " If you will not come too soon," said 
 Fanny, " you may meet us upon the bridge 
 below the falls, on our return ; but we shall 
 chat and lounge, and stroll along slowly. 
 You are too consequential a person now to 
 pass the whole morning among the rocks 
 and trees ; so we will not invite you." 
 
 " I do 'nt believe you want me, Fanny," 
 said her husband. 
 
 " I do n't believe I do," said his wife 
 sportively, but with a look of such confiding 
 affection that the most jealous lover could not 
 be hurt. "Amy and I shall have a long talk 
 about everything, and among other things of 
 course discuss our husbands ; and rely upon it 
 you will have your turn, and you " 
 
 " Will not be much edified with your re 
 marks," interrupted Mr. Roberts. " So fare-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 295 
 
 well, ladies ; I leave my character to your 
 mercy ; three hours hence I will walk to the 
 old bridge to meet you." 
 
 " Follow me, Amy," said Fanny, " and I 
 will show you my favorite spot, where I have 
 passed many a joyful hour, and which to be 
 perfect only wants the blessed idea of your 
 presence to be added to its other charms. 
 Often have I brought you here in the spirit, 
 but I confess I do enjoy the visible appear 
 ance of those I love ; and it is a precious 
 pleasure to me to sit by you, Amy, and have 
 my arm around your waist as it used to be 
 when we were school-mates. Those were 
 happy days were they not ? " 
 
 " Not so happy as the present," said Amy. 
 
 " No ! no ! indeed. Then I dreamed and 
 talked of joy ; now I feel it too deeply to 
 speak of it to any one that I do not love as 
 I love you, Amy." 
 
 " So you have told me in your letters very 
 often ; but no words could be so eloquent as 
 your every look, Fanny. It makes me very 
 happy to see you, and, if possible, more so, 
 to see your husband. He is a new creature." 
 
 " It does, indeed, seem like a new life to 
 both of us. But here is the spot, and this is 
 the seat, where I love to sit in silence, or talk
 
 296 SKETCHES OP 
 
 with my husband, or sometimes sing all 
 alone, for hours together." 
 
 It was on the smooth, pebbly shore, where 
 they seated themselves upon an old, moss- 
 grown tree 7 that had fallen partly into the 
 stream. 
 
 " See this fairy bay," said Fanny. " Its 
 happy waters seem to have stopped here 
 while the rest of the stream hurries on like 
 loving hearts, that turn aside from the great 
 current, to reflect in their glad bosoms the 
 beauty of earth and the peace of heaven." 
 
 With their arms interlocked, the friends 
 contemplated, in silence, the lovely scene 
 around them. 
 
 " The wind was hushed, 
 And to the beach, each slowly lifted wave, 
 Creeping with silver curl, just kissed the shore, 
 And slept in silence." 
 
 Directly back of this little, sheltered nook 
 rose a tall, rocky bank, shelving over it, as if 
 to protect it from the storms. From its 
 crevices dangled the bright, gay blossoms of 
 the columbine, heavy with the morning dew. 
 On the top grew a graceful young riemlock, 
 waving its pliant branches and small, brown 
 cones with every breath of wind, looking 
 like a feather in the crest of a giant. Oppo-
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 297 
 
 site, arose steep, thickly-wooded banks ; the 
 trees just putting forth their tender leaves 
 and green tassels, were ringing with the 
 song of birds building their nests. Far up, 
 they had a glimpse of the fall, gleaming like 
 silver in the early sun, while its unceasing 
 sound fell in softened murmurs upon the 
 ear. Amy looked up at the spring-flowers 
 drooping over her head, and remembered 
 
 " The fair creature from her bosom gone, 
 With life's first flowers just opening in its hand, 
 And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, 
 
 Which in its clear eye shone, 
 Like the spring's wakening." 
 
 Amy wept, but not as without hope. Never 
 was her conviction stronger, her faith more 
 real, that her child lived, than at that moment 
 of tender remembrance. 
 
 After a long silence, Fanny said to her, 
 " You see, dear Amy, how happy we are ; 
 and you must rejoice to think that you were 
 the means of saving us from misery." 
 
 "No, no," said Amy; "no one can do such 
 a work for another. I helped you, perhaps ; 
 I pointed out the way, at the time ; but, had 
 you not been determined to do right, my help 
 would have been in vain." 
 
 " I do believe," replied Fanny, " that, feut
 
 298 SKETCHES OF 
 
 for the decision I made that morning, in 
 consequence of your advice and entreaty to 
 be simple, and true, and open-hearted to my 
 husband, to have no disguises whatever with 
 him, we should now be as miserable as we 
 are happy. It was a long while before we 
 formed those habits of perfect, transparent 
 confidence and truth which now are no longer 
 an effort. We had both to put aside our 
 peculiar faults. I had to be willing to confess 
 I was wrong, to bear to be blamed, and 
 to see myself, often, in a very ugly glass. 
 He had to conquer his pride, to subdue his 
 sensitiveness, and to put away his reserve. 
 In short, we have both felt the impor 
 tance and duty of loving excellence bet 
 ter than self; and now we are growing 
 more and more in love with each other every 
 day. All we want to make us perfectly 
 happy is, to have you and Edward with us. 
 Mrs. Hawkins is one of my best friends. I 
 have made her promise never to wear green, 
 and to add a quarter of a yard to the length 
 of her gown." 
 
 Amy and Fanny related to each other their 
 various experiences for the last three years. 
 During that time, Amy's father had died. 
 One of his last requests was^ that he might
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 299 
 
 be laid in the tomb of a rich though distant 
 relation of his wife's, where she had been in 
 terred. " If," said he, " I had not lost my prop 
 erty, I intended to have had a tomb of my 
 own at Mount Auburn. All the first people 
 are buried there. One does not wish, even in 
 the grave, to be confounded with the mass." 
 Amy did not herself relate to Fanny this 
 proof of the strength of her father's ruling 
 passion ; but the sad expression that came 
 over her face, when she spoke of his death, 
 showed that there was a deeper sorrow con 
 nected with the memory of it than she was 
 willing to confess. 
 
 The three hours passed rapidly with the 
 friends, as they strolled along, chatting by 
 the way, just as when they were girls; 
 with this difference, that what was then 
 a fancy or a golden dream, was real now ; 
 and that joys, which were then unthought 
 of, formed the ground-work of their hopes. 
 
 Before they came to the old bridge, they 
 met Mr. Roberts. His face beamed with 
 pleasure, at the sight of his wife with the 
 beloved friend of her childhood. 
 
 " Do you want me now, Fanny? " said he, 
 gaily. 
 
 " Yes, we do," said she. " We have noth* 
 ing more to say about you."
 
 300 SKETCHES OF 
 
 Soon the merry voices of the children 
 rang through the woods ; they bounded, like 
 fawns, at the sight of their mothers, Sel- 
 mar running after them, gay and light-heart 
 ed as they. 
 
 When they met at dinner, all were full of 
 glowing accounts of the pleasures of the 
 morning. 
 
 " I love uncle Selmar," said Willy ; " he 
 tells so many funny stories, and is so kind." 
 
 " You have not, Amy," said Fanny, " told 
 me anything of my friend Ruth. How is 
 she ? and where is she ? and what sort of a 
 husband does Jerry make her ? " 
 
 " A very good one," replied Amy. " They 
 live in a small house in the neighborhood of 
 Boston. I went to see her, not long since, 
 and she told me that she had a better hus 
 band than she or any other sinner deserved." 
 
 " Is she still as fond as ever of old proverbs ? " 
 
 " Gluite. I had not been in the house ten 
 minutes, before I heard her say, ' You know, 
 ma'am, that it 's an ill wind that blows no 
 body any good. The poor old sexton is 
 dead, and Jerry is chosen in his room ; and 
 what he gets by the business helps us on, 
 though it is not much to speak of. But 
 many a little makes a mickle.' I asked her
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 301 
 
 if she was happy ; and her eyes sparkled as 
 she answered, ' Happy, ma'am, as the day is 
 long. Jerry is one of that sort that can turn 
 his hand to anything ; nothing shiftless about 
 him. All is grist that comes to his mill. 
 There is no kind of chore but what he can 
 do so much better than any one else, that 
 every body employs him. He buries the 
 dead, and waits upon the living ; keeps a 
 singing-school, cobbles and blacks shoes. I 
 call him jack at all trades, and good at none ; 
 but, though I say it that should not say it, 
 he is a real good husband, and provides well 
 for his family.' " 
 
 When the time arrived for the Selmars to 
 return, their friends urged them to promise 
 that, at some future day, when Selmar's prop 
 erty would allow him to leave business, they 
 would come and join them in the country. 
 
 " This would be a great indulgence," an 
 swered Selmar ; " but, with my present hab 
 its, and our views of duty, I doubt whether 
 it would be so good for us. Nature is indeed 
 beautiful, as you see it here ; these hills, this 
 lovely glen, this river, this wilderness of 
 flowers, and the music of your birds, and, 
 above all, your dear selves; but all this, 
 to Amy and me, would be luxurious indul-
 
 I 
 
 302 SKETCHES OF 
 
 gence. The human soul, with all its heights 
 and depths, its rough, and deep, and discord 
 ant tones, and its sweet, immortal music, its 
 deformities and its deathless beauties, must 
 be the field in which we labor. There we 
 are apparently placed by our great Task-mas 
 ter, and there we think we shall find our hap 
 piness. I have an ambition which many will 
 call romantic, but which glorious evidences 
 have been given is not a chimera. It is, 
 to prove that a merchant, yes, a money- 
 making merchant, may be an imitator of 
 Jesus, as truly and as faithfully as another 
 man, in spite of the real difficulties and 
 the apprehended dangers that beset him on 
 every side. This seems to me to be my 
 mission. I have some notion that the travel 
 ling Samaritan, who, when the priest and the 
 Levite turned aside, stopped to bind up the 
 wounds of him who had fallen among thieves, 
 was a merchant ; and Amy and I have re 
 solved to devote my surplus gains, with the 
 help of God, to the good of our fellow-men. 
 I have to-day, Roberts, been in your village ; 
 and what I have heard there has proved to 
 me that your happiness here has arisen from 
 the very same source. All had some story 
 to tell me of your kindness, arid of the
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 303 
 
 efforts you make to do them good. While 
 your words invite me to stay here, your 
 example bids me go home, and imitate 
 you in the sphere in which I am placed, 
 only hoping that I may be as successful a 
 laborer in the great vineyard." 
 
 They bade each other a tender farewell. 
 It was hard to part ; but their visit had been 
 most happy, and they promised to come again 
 next year. 
 
 Edward returned to his business with a 
 new zeal for the accumulation of wealth, that 
 he might be enabled to enjoy the luxury of 
 changing tears of sorrow to tears of joy, and 
 of helping to make barren, desert minds blos 
 som like the rose to kindle in the dead eye 
 of him who was without hope, a light which 
 should never be extinguished. All of his 
 earnings beyond a certain sum, which he set 
 aside for the support and real good of his 
 family, he solemnly dedicated to works of 
 beneficence ; not to a useless and enervating 
 almsgiving, but to intelligent, thoughtful, 
 consistent methods to alleviate the sufferings 
 of the poor, by enabling them to raise them 
 selves to a dignified independence. He joined 
 in every effort for the diffusion of knowl 
 edge and general education ; and, above all,
 
 304 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 he gave his mind, his time, as well as his 
 money, for the advancement of the great 
 cause of human freedom of a true Christian 
 brotherhood throughout the world. In all 
 these duties and pleasures, Amy was his in 
 timate adviser and efficient helpmate, his 
 equal partner, his best friend. The fulfil 
 ment of this plan of life called upon them 
 for much self-denial. There were many 
 beautiful, many desirable things they relin 
 quished for the sake of the higher pleasure, 
 which they had chosen. They found so 
 much peace and satisfaction in their choice, 
 that it was apparent, that, with the good 
 vicar of blessed memory, " while some men 
 gazed with admiration at the colors of a tulip, 
 and others were smitten with the wing of 
 a butterfly, so were they, by nature, admir 
 ers of happy human faces."

 
 ,1683. F721S 
 
 Hill llll mi ii linn ii" l!l|V!"j "Q ""o'-i oVS 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONA LIBRARY ACI JTY 
 
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