The Northern Star, And Farmers' And Mechanics' Advocate

From the New York Constellation.

Mr. Editor.—I take the liberty of laying my grievances before you, in hope you will point out some mode of redressing them. I am a married woman and therefore ought by good right to be a happy one. But alas! I am the most miserable creature in existence. And what do you think it all springs from? —Music—nothing in the world but music. Would you believe it? my husband has no ear for music! Had I known this beforehand, I never would have married him till the day of pancakes. But I was deceived by his flatterys. When he came a courting, he used to confess the most extravagant admiration of my singing and playing on the pianner. He said my music was angelic, and that he was exceedingly fond of it. But I now think 'twas all no such thing. I've reason to believe he never had no ear for music—and that all his confessions was a mere sham, done only to make an impression on my heart. Would you believe it? he has the audacity to think, because I'm married; that I ought to attend to household duties. Was there ever such a thing heard of? I mean in modern times? I havn't been married a year yet, and he thinks I ought to turn my hands to something else besides the pianner when the truth is, Mr. Editor, I don't play above six or seven hours a day at most. Of what use I would ask is a woman's knowledge, if she can't make any use of it? My father and mother dear good folk, took a great deal of pains in having me taught the pianner, and singing, and all that. And now my husband, he takes it into his head as it were, to nullify and veto all my kind parents has done. I don't wish to quarrel with him; or set up my will against hisn: But don't you think, Mr. Editor, I ought to exert my prerogative? If we wives give way in one thing, we must in another, and there's no knowing where it will end: "From harmony, from heavenly harmony," says Shakspeare; "this universal frame began," and I'm determined to stick to my music as long as I have the use of my fingers or my tongue—wouldn't you, Mr. Editor, if you was in my place?

TABITHA TYMPANUM.

P. S. I should have writ something more—but my husband has just this moment come in and therefore, I must wind off, to play him a tune: He flattered my music before he married me; and he shall have his ears full of it now.

—New York, Aug. 17, 1832. T. T.