a matrimonial tête-à-tête is proverbial—'what can I have to say to my wife, whom I see everyday?' Well, he reads some pamphlet or sleeps—she brings out the huge work-basket doomed to contain and repair the devastations of seven small children—she has given up her maiden accomplishments—and of course, a married woman has no time for music or reading. Perhaps, by way of agreeable conversation, she may say, 'My dear, I want some money: '
'Oh, sound of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!'
on which he wakes, and goes to bed. She follows; and Mrs. I.'s pelisse is the foundation of that piece of exquisite eloquence, a curtain lecture. Now, who can deny that this is a faithful and exact picture of three hundred out of the three hundred and sixty-five days that constitute a year of married life."
"You are a connubial Cassandra," said Emily.
"Yes; and, like that ill-fated prototype of all who tell disagreeeble truths, I shall get no lady, at least no young or unmarried one, to believe me. But I must now thank you for listening. Our carriage is announced; and Mr. Sullivan, when his horses are concerned,
