October 1st.—I have just returned from paying my long-promised visit to Dick Sheridan and his wife at their cottage. During the three days that I was with them I have been looking at happiness through these young people’s eyes, and indeed I think that I felt as happy as they. Betsy’s few months of married life seem to have added to that half divine beauty which ever dwelt upon her face. A lovely light came to her eyes when I told her that such was my thought. “Ah, yes,” she said, “when one has been living in heaven for a space, one cannot help acquiring something of a region that is all divine.” No flaw in her happiness seems to exist, though I fancied that I detected a certain momentary uneasiness on her face when Dick began to talk of his plans and his hopes for the future. He has a mind to write a comedy satirising Bath society—nay, he has even progressed so far as to have found a name for his heroine—a very foolish young woman, as full of ridiculous whims as any Bath belle—Miss Lydia Languish she is to be called; but ’tis doubtful if the name will ever become familiar to playgoers, in spite of the attractive jingle there is in it. I do not say that Betsy has yet come to look upon Miss Lydia Languish as a rival, but I am sure that she does not like to hear the wench’s name so often on the lips of her husband, though, like a good wife, she tries to brighten up and to discuss all the points of character which the young woman should possess. Has she a fear that Dick will some of these days tire of the blessed retirement—the sweet peace of this cottage to which she has led him? I know not. If he be wise he will perceive that the world can give him no more perfect measure of happiness than that which is his to-day; but alas! a man’s ambition soon passes beyond the pure tranquillity of a wife’s devotion. Alas! alas!

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