
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
177 

FASHIONABLE SECRETS. 
THE HONEYMOON. 
iD 

ICTURES OF EVERY-DAY LIFE 
IN FASHIONABLE SOCIETY, 
when painted on canvass and 
brought prominently before 
the eye, are curiosities in their 
way. The more closely we 
examine them in detail, the 
greater is the amusement they 
afford. Who would not be a candidate for 
fashionable life? Laziness and indepen- 
dence are such luxuries ! 
“Tt is delightful to submit implicitly to 
the will and dictates of a wife for the first 
week, or so, after marriage—then it has 
something of a charm in it, a gentle reliance 
that tells of love, devotion, and a great many 
fine things in the catalogue of conjugal 
duties—but really, after one has been married 
almost a month, it is high time to shake it 
off, for then it becomes a_ positive 
‘calamity ;’ and, like all other calamities, it 
is sure to increase.”’ 
Such were the reflections of the Hon. 
Henry Manners, as he sat one morning in 
his easy chair, listlessly admiring his nails ; 
in presence of his young and beautiful wife, 
who was quietly sipping her coffee, and trying 
to look as prettily calm and domestic as any 
married beauty in the British Isles. 
“ John, bring me that book,” said she, 
pointing to a handsomely-bound volume on 
a table at the other end of the room. 
‘Henry,’ she continued, after the servant 
had withdrawn, turning over the leaves with 
her elegant little hand, “ see if you can guess 
its name.” 
“Kipp’s Own JOURNAL—no doubt,” 
observed her husband, carelessly. 
“No, it is not; though I bought that 
delightful book yesterday—try again.”’ 
“A Treatise on the Cure of Smoke: or 
Treatment of Children ;” replied Manners, 
yawning slightly, and grinning pointedly. 
“Nay, Henry,” replied his wife, with a 
slight pout and blush; “you are determined 
not to try.” 
“Tt is quite impossible for any one to 
guess,” replied the other, industriously biting 
a ragnail. 
‘“ How very tiresome you are, Henry!” 
said the lady, throwing the book on a sofa in 
a pet. 
“How very unreasonable you are, my 
dear,” said the other, looking at the action 
with great equanimity. 
‘“T hate morose people—I always did.” 
“ My dear Mary, how is it possible I should 
know what book you may have happened to 
purchase ? ” 
‘Nay, it is not that, but—but—you are 
quite changed, Henry.” 

“In some respects, certainly; for now 
I am married, formerly I was not,” replied 
the other, with the air of a Locke. “ But I 
am not aware that in any respect I—— ” 
“Oh! pray do not talk thus—I hate sen- 
tentious people.” 
“T see it is quite impossible to please 
you, my dear,” replied the other, consigning 
himself, with an air of ill-assumed resigna- 
tion, to the back of his cushioned chair. 
‘“You were not used to be so morose, 
Henry,” observed his wife, reproachfully ; 
but in a tone that indicated a wish to put an 
end to hostilities. 
‘¢ You were not used to ask such ex- 
ceedingly unreasonable questions, and then 
fly in a passion if they were not answered,”’ 
replied her husband, turning himself in his 
chair. | 
“ Ah! but then you did not think them 
unreasonable; you would join in any plea- 
santry with delight; for then’—she was 
going to add, “you loved me,”—but her 
tongue refused to utter it; for it was too 
dreadful to think that he loved her not still. 
“¢ Well, well,” replied her husband, “ this 
has been our first quarrel, and I hope it may 
be the last. You are a dear, good wife, 
Mary ; and if you are occasionally a little 
unreasonable, why——”’ 
‘Nay, Henry, it really was not I. Con- 
fess, now, were you not a little morose? 
But come, you must put on all your smiles, 
for I have set apart this forenoon for our 
making a few more calls together.”’ 
“Calls! Mary,” said her husband, starting 
up; “I thought they were now all over; 
and in honest truth, I’m heartily sick of 
lack-a-daisying it, and leaving cards tacked 
together by silver wire; and I am sure, my 
dear, we spent two mortal days in doing little 
else.” 
‘“ Nay, love, but you know there are still 
the Countess of Casquetville, Sir John and 
Lady Ringdove, and my old friend Mrs. 
Percy.” 
‘‘T have an engagement at the Carlton at 
one.” 
“Engagement! Henry. You forget it is 
still our honeymoon; and will be for two 
days yet.” 
“‘ Reckoning by tame, my dear,” replied the 
other, drily; “ but now having returned to 
town, you know—” 
“Pshaw, no! you must consent this one 
day.” 
‘“Can’t; upon myhonor. Besides, I don’t 
see any earthly occasion for it.” 
“To oblige me, Henry.” 
“YT would do anything but break my 
word ; and that you know you should not 
ask me to do.” 
‘When do you return?” 
“In time to dress, We go to Lord 

N 
