our discussions run on other topics than matrimony, and our thoughts are occupied with other things than courtships, establishments, dowries. The cloth we can’t sell, the hands we can’t employ, the mills we can’t run, the perverse course of events generally, which we cannot alter, fill our hearts, I take it, pretty well at present, to the tolerably complete exclusion of such figments as love-making, &c.”
“I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is one notion I hate more than another, it is that of marriage; I mean marriage in the vulgar weak sense, as a mere matter of sentiment; two beggarly fools agreeing to unite their indigence by some fantastic tie of feeling—humbug! But an advantageous connection, such as can be formed in consonance with dignity of views, and permanency of solid interests, is not so bad—eh?”
“No,” responded Moore, in an absent manner; the subject seemed to have no interest for him: he did not pursue it. After sitting for some time gazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he suddenly turned his head.
“Hark!” said he: “did you hear wheels?”
Rising, he went to the window, opened it, and listened. He soon closed it. “It is only the sound of the wind rising,” he remarked, “and the rivulet a little swollen, rushing down the hollow. I expected those waggons at six; it is near nine now.”
“Seriously, do you suppose that the putting up of this new machinery will bring you into danger?”
