Ef)GEVvrOODE.DIT!ON:
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
•
s- xi
THE YOUNG BRIDE.
THE
WEDDING GUEST:
OF THE
BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.
EDITED BF
T. S. ARTHUR.
' PHILADELPHIA:
HUBBARD BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
1888.
Copyrighted by
HUBBARD BROTHERS.
1888.
PREFACE.
THERE is no relation in life so important — none
involving so much of happiness or misery, as that
of husband and wife. Yet, how rarely is it, that
the parties when contracting this relation, have
large experience, clear insight into character,
or truly know themselves ! In each other,
they may have the tenderest confidence, and
for each other the warmest love; but, only a
brief time can pass ere they will discover that
the* harmonious progression of two minds, each
of which has gained an individual and independ
ent movement, is not always a thing of easy
attainment. Too soon, alas ! is felt a jar of dis
cord — too soon self-will claims an individual
freedom of action that is not fully accorded ; and
916
IV PREFACE.
unless there is wisdom and forbearance, tempo
rary or permanent unhappiness is sure to follow.
Much has been written on the true relation of
married partners, and we cannot do a better
service to the bride and bridegroom, than by
gathering words of wisdom on this subject from
all sources within our reach, and presenting them
in as attractive a form as possible. And this we
have done in the present volume, to which, as
the title-page indicates, we bear only the relation
of editor. In it will be found pictures of life,
serious counsel, earnest admonition, and hints
and suggestions, which, if wisely followed, will
keep the sky bright with sunshine, or scatter the
gathering clouds ere they break in angry storms.
May this " WEDDING GUEST" receive as warm a
welcome as we desire.
CONTENTS.
THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE ..... Pago 7
TUK AVlFE . . . . ' 14
MARRIAGE ...80
THE BRIDE'S SISTER 84
LOVE vs. HEALTH ........ 85
THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER 45
To AN ABSENT WIFE 67
THE WORD OF PRAISE . . . . «. . . . 68
LETTERS TO A YOCNQ WIFE FROM A MARRIED LADT . . 71
THE WIFE 82
BE GENTLE WITH THY WIFE 83
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE ........ 84
MAN AND WOMAN . . . 102
THE FAIRY WIFE — AN APOLOGCE 106
A BRIEF HISTORY, IN THREE PARTS, WITH A SEQUEL . . 109
ELMA'S MISSION . . . . . . . . .111
LIVING LIKE A LADY 123
Vi CONTENTS.
LADY LOOT'S SECRET . . ... • • .133
A WORD FOR WIVES 144
No JEWELLED BEAUTY 147
THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY 148
ONLY A FEW WORDS 150
THE Two HOMES 163
LOVE'S FAIRY RING 170
FANNIE'S BRIDAL . 172
THE LOVER AND THE HUSBAND . / . • • . . 182
NELLIE ..,..„ .... 185
A HOME IN THJB HEART . . .... 192
A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JouHHAi . ,- • ; .... 193
TRIFLES . . . . . '; .. . . . 205
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS . 224
A SYLVAN MORALITY ; OR, A WORD TO Wiv«8 ... 232
PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIART .... 245
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS .... 264
THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A Wm. . . . , 286
THE
THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE.
" WE shall certainly be very happy together !" said
Louise to her aunt on the evening before her marriage,
and her cheeks glowed with a deeper red, and her eyes
shone with delight. When a bride says we, it may
easily be guessed whom of all persons in the world she
means thereby.
" I do not doubt it, dear Louise," replied her aunt.
" See only that you continue happy together."
"Oh, who can doubt that we shall continue so! I
know myself. I have faults, indeed, but my love for him
will correct them. And so long as we love each other,
we cannot be unhappy. Our love will never grow old."
"Alas!" sighed her aunt, "thou dost speak like a
maiden of nineteen, on the day before her marriage, in
(7)
8 THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE.
the intoxication of wishes fulfilled, of fair hopes and
happy omens. Dear child, remember this — even the
heart in time grows cold. Days .will come when the
magic of the senses shall fade. And when this enchant
ment has fled, then it first becomes evident whether we
are truly worthy of love. When custom has made
familiar the charms that are most attractive, when youth
ful freshness has died away, and with the brightness of
domestic life, more and more shadows have mingled,
then, Louise, and not till then, can the wife say cf the
husband, ' He is worthy of love ;' then, first, the husband
say of the wife, ' She blooms in imperishable beauty."
But, truly, on the day before marriage, such assertions
sound laughable to me."
" I understand you, dear aunt. You would say that
our mutual virtues alone can in later years give us worth
for each other. But is not he to whom I am to belong
— for of myself I can boast nothing but the best intentions
— is he not the worthiest, noblest of all the young men
of the city ? Blooms not in his soul, every virtue that
tends to make life happy ?"
" My child," replied her aunt, " I grant it. Virtues
bloom in thee as well as in him ; I can say this to thee
without flattery. But, dear heart, they bloom only,
and are not yet ripened beneath the sun's heat and the
shower. No blossoms deceive the expectations more
than these. We can never tell in what soil they have
taken root. Who knows the concealed depths of the
he#rt?"
" Ah, dear aunt, you really frighten me."
" So much the better, Louise. Such fear is right ;
THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE. 9
such fear is as it should be on the evening before mar
riage. I love thee tenderly, and will, therefore, declare
all my thoughts on this subject without disguise. I am
not as yet an old aunt. At seven-and-twenty years, one
still looks forward into life with pleasure, the world still
presents a bright side to us. I have an excellent hus
band. I am happy. Therefore, I have the right to
speak thus to thee, and to call thy attention to a secret
which perhaps thou dost not yet know,, one which is not
often spoken of to a young and pretty maiden, one, in
deed, which does not greatly occupy the thoughts of a
young man, and still is of the utmost importance in every
household : a secret from which alone spring lasting love
and unalterable happiness."
Louise seized the hand of her aunt in both of hers.
" Dear aunt ! you know I believe you in everything.
You mean, that enduring happiness and lasting love are
not insured to us by accidental qualities, by fleeting
charms, but only by those virtues of the mind which we
bring to each other. These are the best dowry which
we can possess; these never become old."
" As it happens, Louise. The virtues also, like the
beauties of the body, can grow old, and become repulsive
and hateful with age."
" How, dearest aunt ! what is it you say ? Name to
me a virtue which can become hateful with years."
" When they have become so, we no longer call them
virtues, as a beautiful maiden can no longer be called
beautiful, when time has changed her to an old and
wrinkled woman."
" But, aunt, the virtues are nothing earthly."
10 THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE.
" Perhaps."
" How can gentleness and mildness ever become hate
ful ?"
" So soon as they degenerate into insipid indolence
and listlessness."
" And manly courage?"
" Becomes imperious rudeness."
" And modest diffidence?"
" Turns to fawning humility."
"And noble pride?"
" To -vulgar haughtiness."
" And readiness to oblige ?"
" Becomes a habit of too ready friendship and servi-
lity."
" Dear aunt, you make me almost angry. My future
husband can never degenerate thus. He has one virtue
which will preserve him as he is for ever. A deep sense,
an indestructible feeling for everything that is great and
good and noble, dwells in his bosom. And this delicate
susceptibility to all that is noble dwells in me also, I
hope, as well as in him. This is the innate pledge and
security for our happiness."
" But if it should grow old with you ; if it should
change to hateful excitability ; and excitability is the
worst enemy of matrimony. You both possess sensibi
lity. That I do not deny ; but beware lest this grac*
should degenerate into an irritable and quarrelsome
mortal."
" Ah, dearest aunt, if I might never become old ! I
could then be sure that my husband would never cease to
love me."
THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE. 11
*' Thou art greatly in error, dear child ! Wert thou
always as fresh and beautiful as to-day, still thy hus
band's eye would by custom of years become indifferent
to these advantages. Custom is the greatest enchantress
in the world, and in the house one of the most benevo
lent of fairies. She renders that which is the most
beautiful, as well as the ugliest, familiar. A wife is
young, and becomes old ; it is custom which hinders the
husband from perceiving the change. On the contrary,
did she remain young, while he became old, it might
bring consequences, and render the man in years jealous.
It is better as kind Providence has ordered it. Imagine
that thou hadst grown to be an old woman, and thy hus
band were a blooming youth ; how wouldst thou then
feel ?"
Louise rubbed her chin, and said, "I cannot tell."
Her aunt continued : " But I will call thy attention to
a secret which — "
" That is it," interrupted Louise, hastily, " that is it
which I long so much to hear."
Her aunt said : " Listen to me attentively. What I
now tell thee, I have proved. It consists of two parts.
The first part, of the means to render a marriage happy,
of itself prevents every possibility of dissension, and
would even at last make the spider and the fly the best
of friends with each other. The second part is the best
and surest method of preserving feminine attractions."
" Ah !" exclaimed Louise.
" The former half of the means, then : In the first
solitary hour after the ceremony, take thy bridegroom,
and demand a solemn vow of him, and give him a solemn
12 THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE.
vow in return. Promise one another sacredly, never,
not even in mere jest, to wrangle with each other ; never
to bandy words or indulge in the least ill-humour. Never !
I say ; never. Wrangling, even in jest, and putting on
an air of ill-humour merely to tease, becomes earnest by
practice. Mark that ! Next promise each other, sin
cerely and solemnly, never to have a secret from each
other under whatever pretext, with whatever excuse it
may be. You must, continually and every moment, see
clearly into each other's bosom. Even when one of you
has committed a fault, wait not an instant, but confess
it freely — let it cost tears, but confess it. And as you
keep nothing secret from each other, so, on the contrary,
preserve the privacies of your house, marriage state and
heart, from father, mother, sister, brother, aunt, and all
the world. You two, with God's help, build your own
quiet world. Every third or fourth one whom you draw
into it with you, will form a party, and stand between
you two ! That should never be. Promise this to each
other. Renew the vow at each temptation. You will
find your account in it. Your souls will grow as it were
together, and at last will become as one. Ah, if many
a young pair had on their wedding day known this
simple secret, and straightway practised it, how many
marriages were happier than, alas, they are !"
Louise kissed her aunt's hand with ardour. " 1 feel
that it must be so. Where this confidence is absent, the
married, even after wedlock, are two strangers who do
not know each other. It should be so; without this,
there can be no happiness. And now, aunt, the best
preservative of female beauty ?"
THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE. 13
Her aunt smiled, and said: "We may not conceal
from ourselves that a handsome man pleases us a hundred
/imes more than an ill-looking one, and the men are
pleased with us when we are pretty. But what we call
beautiful, what in the men pleases us, and in us pleasea
the men, is not skin and hair, and shape and colour, as
in a picture or a statue ; but it is the character, it is the
BOU! that is within these, which enchants us by looks and
words, earnestness, and joy, and sorrow. The men
admire us the more they suppose those virtues of the
mind to exist in us which the outside promises; and we
think a malicious man disagreeable, however graceful
and handsome he may be. Let a young maiden, then,
who would preserve her beauty, preserve but that purity
of soul, those sweet qualities of the mind, those virtues,
in short, by which she first drew her lover to her feet.
And the best preservative of virtue, to render it unchang
ing and keep it ever young, is religion, that inward
union with the Deity and eternity and faith — is piety,
that walking with God, so pure, so peaceful, so beneficent
to mortals.
"See, dear heart," continued the aunt, "there are
virtues which arise out of mere experience. These
grow old with time, and alter, because, by change of
circumstances and inclination, prudence alters her means
of action, and because her growth does not always keep
pace with that of our years and passions. But religious
virtues can never change ; these remain eternally the
same, because our God is always the same, and that
eternity the same, which we and those who love us are
hastening to enter. Preserve, then, a mind innocent
14 THE WIFE.
and pure, looking for everything from God ; thus will
that beauty of soul remain, for which thy bridegroom
to-day adores thee. I am no bigot, no fanatic ; I am
thy aunt of seven-and-twenty. I love all innocent and
rational amusements. But for this very reason I say to
thee — be a dear, good Christian, and thou wilt as ;i
mother, yes, as a grandmother, be still beautiful."
Louise threw her arms .about her neck, and wept in
silence, and whispered, " I thank thee, angel !"
THE
ROSA LEE was dressed in her bridal garments, and
as she knelt in all the bloom of her maidenly beauty,
angels must have rejoiced over her ; for the spirit of the
maiden was in a heaven of love, and she knelt in the
fulness of her joy, to pour out her gratitude to the
Heavenly Father, that " seeth in secret." Yes, alone
in her chamber, the young girl bowed herself for the last
time, and as the thought flashed over her mind, that
when next she should kneel in that consecrated place, it
would not be alone, but that manly arms would bear up
her drooping form, and two voices would mingle as one
in the holy prayer, a gushing tenderness flooded the
heart of the beautiful bride, and light as from Heaven
pervaded her whole being, and she could only murmur,
*' Oh, how beautiful it is to iove !"
But bustling stops and voices approach; and Rosa
THE WIFE. 15
hears one step that sends a thrill to her heart. In the
next moment, the maiden with the rosy glow of love
upon her cheek, and the heaven-light yet beaming in her
eyes, stood face to face with her lover. Her eyes met
his, in that calm, confiding look of an unbounded
affection, and, as her hand rested on his arm, strength
seemed to flow into her from him, and she looked serene
and placid as pure water, that reflects the moonbeama
of heaven ; and yet, her smiles came and went like these
same waters when the ripples sparkle in the glad sun
shine.
The bridal party moved forward to the festive hall,
where sympathizing friends were gathered to greet them,
as a married pair, and the heart of Ilosa opened to the
holy marriage ceremony with a sense of heavenly
rapture.
To her it was as a new and beautiful revelation, when
she heard the oft-repeated words, " In the beginning
created He them male and female." Ah, yes. It wag
' mf
beautiful to realize that she was created for her beloved
Paul, and that in all the vast peopled universe of God,
there was not another being so adapted to him as she
was.
Ah, this was the beautiful marriage joy, that earth so
seldom witnesses. These were of "those whom God
hath joined together." And Paul Cleves felt it in his
inmost soul, as he turned towards his congratulating
friends with his delicate and beautiful bride leaning upon
his arm.
Ah, how he watched every vibration of her feelings '
suddenly she had become the pulse of his own souL Ai
16 THE WIFE.
a maiden, he had loved her with a wondrous tenderness
and devotion. But now, as a wife ! There was at once
a new and quite different relation established between
them.
Paul was so filled with this new perception of blessed
ness, that he would fain have left the gay company, that
he might pour out the beautiful thought that possessed
him, to gladden the heart of Rosa ; and when he looked
his wish to her, she smiled, and whispered to him,
*' Eternity is ours, and we are not to live for ourselves
alone." And here was a new mystery to him. She
was revealed to him as another self, with power to read
his every thought. And yet it was a better self, for she
prompted him to disinterested acts ; and away went the
glad Paul to shower his attentions upon all those to
whom life came not so joyously. And an aged grand
mother, and a palsied aunt, almost feared that the
handsome bridegroom had forgotten his fair bride, in his
warm and kindly interest for them.
Happy Paul ! he had found an angel clothed in flesh
and blood, who was for ever to stand between him and
his old hard, selfish nature. Something of this thought
passed through his mind, as his eyv, glanced over the
crowd in search of his beloved and beautiful one. But
she, on the other side, was quite near. He felt her soft
presence, and as he turned he caught the light of her
loving smile.
Yes, she appreciated his self-sacrifice, and, as he
gazed upon her, his delighted mind and satisfied heart
felt a delicious sense of the coming joy of the eternal
future.
THE WIFE. 17
And the gay bridal passed away, but its light and its
joy seemed to overflow all the coming days. And Paul
Cleves at length found himself in that reality of which
lie had so often dreamed, and for which he had so
passionately yearned. Yes, he was in his own quiet
home, with Rosa by his side.
Months had passed ; he had settled into the routine
of his business, and she in that of her domestic life ; and
now it was evening. Paul had come to his home from
the labours of the day, with a beautiful hope in his
heart ; for to him his home was the open door of Heaven.
He carried into it no hard, selfish thought, but entered
it with the certainty of blessedness, and peace, and love.
Rosa's heart was in her eyes, when it was time for
Paul to come. How carefully she foresaw his every
want ! And when she had prepared everything that her
active love could suggest to promote his pleasure and
comfort, then she took her place at the window to watch
for his coming. This evening watch was a beautiful
time to the young wife, for she said, " Now, will I think
of God, who made for me a being to love." And at this
time, it was always as if the great sun of Heaven shone
upon her.
And now, Paul passes the bridge, to which Rosa's eye can
but just reach. And — is it not wonderful ? — Paul's figure
is distinguished, even if there be many others, in the dim
twilight, crossing that bridge. Ah ! how well she knows
his figure ; to her it is the very form of her love. She
gees her whole thoughts and desires embodied in him.
yAnd now, he passes the corner of a projecting building,
vdiich for a time partially conceals him from her sight.
2
18 THE WIFE.
And how her delight increases as he approaches ; th«
nearer he comes, the more her heart opens to the Divino
sun of Heaven. She feels as if she could draw its radia
tions down upon him. She waits at the window to catch
his first glad look of recognition, then she flies to the
door, and no sooner is it opened and closed again, than
Paul clasps her to his heart, and presses upon her warm
lips such kisses as can join heart to heart.
The evening meal being over, then Paul turns to his
peculiar delight — to listening to Rosa's thoughts and
feelings. All day, he hears of worldly things ; but with
Rosa he hears of heavenly things. Her heart feeds upon
his thoughts, and assimilates them into new and gracefxJ
forms of feminine beauty, and Paul sits and listens, ful]
of love and wonder, to his own thoughts, reproduce-.! by
the vivid perceptive powers of his wife. For instance,
this morning Paul was reading in the Bible, as he always
does to Rosa, before he leaves for his business, and he
paused on the words, " Then Abraham gave up the
ghost, and died in a good old age, and full of years, and
was gathered to his people ;" and he remarked that in
this verse there was a most striking affirmation of a
future existence ; for that Abraham being gathered to
" his people," must imply that these people yet lived, or
•why should mention be made of that fact ? And now, in
this beautiful evening hour, when Paul asked Rosa what
she had been thinking of all day, behold she had a whole
Heaven-world to open before him. With her arms
clasped around his neck, and her clear, bright eyes
looking into his, she answered —
" Oh, Paul, I have been so happy all day. Do you
THE WIFE. 19
remember what you told me about Abraham being gath
ered to ' his people' this morning ? Well, I have been
thinking about it, with such a delight in the thought of
those living people, to whom we will be gathered after
death. You left me wi*h a beautiful thought, dear Paul,
and it seemed as if the angels gathered around me, and
told me so many more things, that I have written all my
thoughts down."
"Where are they?" said Paul, feeling such a delight
in the possession of these written thoughts. And Rosa,
drawing a paper from her pocket, leans her cheek upon
his head, and reads : —
" ' Then Abraham gave up the ghost, and died in a
good old age, and full of years, and was gathered to hia
people.' How beautiful is this verse of the holy Word
of God ! It seems to open to us a glimpse of Heaven.
" After death, we are told, that he was * gathered to
his people.' What a blessed rest and enjoyment comes
over us, even in this world, when we find ourselves with
'•our people !'
" When congenial spirits meet, all strife and conten
tion ceases ; and how each hastens to give to the othe»
of the fulness of his thought and feeling ! Such mo
ments in our life are as if Heaven had come down to us,
and fleeting and transient as the moment may be, its
memory lives with us as a heavenly light, fed from above;
and ^rben we realize a continued existence of the har
mony of thought and feeling of an ever-flowing commu
nication of pure sentiments, of kindly affections, and of
that delight in perceiving good and truth in others, which
makes them one with us, — then we have a glimpse of
20 THE WIFE.
that Heaven to which Abraham ascended, and in which
}.e was 'gathered to his people.'
"I love to read this verse, and imagine what the an
gels would think if they could hear the words as I read
them. And, truly, although angels do not hear through
our gross material atmosphere, can they not see the image
of what we read in our minds ? It is beautiful to think
that they can ; and it is pleasant to conceive ho\> an an
gelic, perfectly spiritual mind would understand these
words, 'And Abraham gave up the ghost.' The angels
would see that the spirit of Abraham had laid off that
gross material covering, which was not the real man —
only the appearance of a man. To angels, this body,
which appears to us so tangible, must be but the ghost
of a reality, for to them the spirit is the reality.
" With us, in this outer existence, the laying off of
the body is death, that symbol of annihilation ; it is as
if our life ceased, because we no longer grasp coarse
material nature. But with the angels, the laying off of
the body is birth ; it is the beginning of a beautiful, new
existence. The spirit then moves and acts in a spiritual
world of light and beauty. It no longer moves dimly
in that dark, material world which is as but a lifeless,
ghostly counterpart of the living, eternal spirit-world.
" Thus, it seems to me, the angels would understand
the words, ' And Abraham gave up the ghost.' And
the words which follow would have for them a far differ
ent signification than to us. For with us ' old age' pre
sents the idea of the gradual wasting away and deterio-
rati :>n of the powers of the body ; it is the shadow from
the darkened future, foretelling the end of life. But
i
THE WIFE. 21
angels see the spirit advancing from one state of wisdom
to another, and to grow old in Heaven must be altoge
thcr different from growing old on earth; and we ca»
only conceive of a spirit as growing for ever more act
ive, intelligent, and beautiful, from the heavenly wisdom
and love in which it develops. Imagine an angel, who
has lived a thousand years in Heaven ; his faculties must
have all this time been perfecting and expanding in new
powers and activities; whereas, on earth, the material
body, in ' threescore years and ten,' becomes so cum
brous and heavy, so disorganized and worn out, that the
spiritual body can no longer act in it; hence an 'old
man, full of years,' appears to the angels as one whose
spirit has passed through so many changes of state;
consequently has thought and loved so much that it has
increased in activity, life, and power, and thus spiritus.1
progression must be onward to an eternal youth.
" Does it not thrill the soul with the joy of a beauti
ful hope to imagine Abraham, or any loving spirit, as
rising from the material to the spiritual world, '* full of
years,' or states of wisdom and love, for ever to grow
young among his * own people ?'
" What to Abraham, now, were all of those flocks,
and herds, and men servants, and maid servants, that
had made his earthly riches ? They were nothing more
to him, in his new heavenly life, than that ghost of *
body ' he gave up.' The only riches he could carry with
him were his spiritual riches — his powers of thinking
and feeling. All of his outer life was given to him to
develop these powers. All of his natural surroundings
were as a body to his natural thoughts arid feelings, ia
THE WIFE.
•which they might grow to the full stature of a man, that
he might become ' full of years,' or states.
" And thus to us is given a natural world ; and its
duties and ties are all important, for within the natural
thought and feeling the spiritual thought and feeling
grows, as does the soul in its material body. And like
as the soul ever feels within itself a separate existence,
higher, and above that of its material organization,
so also does the spiritual thought and feeling realize
itself in its world of natural thoughts and affections ; it
sighs to be gathered to its ' own people,' even while it
loves its natural ties. And, now and then, it has beau
tiful glimpses of the consociation of spirits according to
spiritual affinities.
" The love of the spirit, thus warmed into life, should
descend into its natural ties. Uncongenial brothers and
sisters are often thrown together and bound by the most
indissoluble natural ties. We should cultivate these na
tural affections and family ties as types of the beautiful
spiritual consociations of Heaven.
" Our spirit must grow in the constant exercise of na
tural affections, or we can have no capacity for the spi
ritual. If in this world we live morose, ungenial lives,
crushing down the budding affections, and the active
thoughts springing from them, can we ever be angels 9
No, assuredly not ; for the angels are like the Heavenly
Father, in whose light of love they live. They delight
to do good to every created being, whether good or evil.
They would not, and could not recognise an evil person
as a congenial spirit, but for the sake of awakening in
him some spark of a beautiful love, a disinterested
THE WIFE. 23
thought and affection ; they would crown his whole life
with loving kindness and tender compassion. A true,
heavenly angel could be happy in the effort to do good
to the most fallen human spirit ; and should not we imi
tate them, that we may be as one of them, one in thought
and feeling with them ?
" To love ! — love with our every power of being — is
the only eternal reality. From love springs thought;
and thought and affection are the flesh and blood of the
spirit. The spirit grows upon what it feeds, as does the
body upon its material food ; and to stint the spirit of
its food is a sad detriment to our after-life.
" A perception of the heavenly life should arouse us
to a power of loving every human being that we come in
contact with, and make us realize that to love and serve
is the happiness of angels, and the principle which "con
joins men and angels to God."
When the last word was breathed, as it were, in a soft,
holy brightness, from Rosa's lips, Paul sealed them with
a kiss. How much he had learned from the perception
of a mind that was so wholly gentle and feminine, that
its substance seemed all of love ; of a love that received
the impression only of heavenly things ! — while he, with
all of his brilliant talents and masculine understanding,
felt that his contact was with this hard outer world of
material facts and realities; and that oftentimes the
very density of the atmosphere in which his mind dwelt
obscured and clouded the delicate moral perceptions of
his being.
But Rosa saw above him, and revealed to him thoso
beautiful inner truths that were to give form and cha-
24 THE WIFE.
racter to his outer life. Yes; Paul had uncongenial
brothers and sisters, and his more refined tastes and
.pursuits would have led him away from them. But
Rosa, with her womanly tact, and grace, and lovingness,
led him out from the mists of selfishness into the halo
of a more genial and beautiful light, and he felt his
heart grow warm with an inexpressible love.
"Ah, Rosa," he said, "there comes over me a new
and more beautiful perception of the holy marriage re
lation ; and, like another Adam, I realize that an Eve
is created for me from my ow-n breast. My thought
grows so living in you, Rosa, — this morning, so uncon
sciously, was taken from me but a dry rib, and now God
grants to me this beautiful Eve ! Ah, Rosa, my heart ia
so full of gratitude for the beautiful gift of your thoughts
to me, — I realize so fully that you are a ' help meet for
me.'"
Happy Rosa ! She gazed into Paul's eyes, and caress
ed him with her soft touches, and said —
" Oh, Paul, Paul ! when I look at you, and think that
some day you will be an angel of Heaven, and ihat I
will see your glorious, spirit-beauty, my heart is so
happy ; for then I can feel, dear Paul, that our love
stretches far away beyond this world and this life ; and
if I love you so much here, what will it be when I see
you in the beautiful heavenly light?"
Paul smiled.
" Your fancy is dreaming of what I will be ; and can
you not dream for me of how bright and beautiful my
Rosa will be in that heavenly light?"
"Ah, yes," said Rosa, ".that too is pleasant, for 1
THE WIFE. 25
love to be beautiful, dear Paul, for your sake ; and to
day I was thinking of how happy I should make you—
not I, but the Lord will make you happy, dear Paul,
through me; and is not that a beautiful thought — that
it is God loving us through each other?"
How holy love grew at once to Paul ! though at first
he did not see this beautiful truth as clearly as did Rosa.
But she went on, in her loving way, and very soon she
raised him into that inner sunshine in which she dwelt,
and then he saw it all clearly, for she said —
" You know, dear Paul, that we read in the Bible that
' God is a sun, and that He is the fountain of life,' and
thus all life flows from Him into us, just as in the tiny
flowers upon the earth comes the warm living ray of th<>
material sun, developing in them beautiful colours and
odours — so the life-ray from God fills us with warm affec
tions; We are but dead forms — the power and the life
is in Him, and if we were cut off from Him, how could
we love each other?"
Paul was convinced, and did not fail to make Rosa
realize the Heaven-derived life and power that was in
him. And as they kneeled together in their evening
devotions, and Paul clasped his wife in his arms, how
clearly he felt the influence of that Divine sun upon his
soul, filling it with a gushing, yearning tenderness for
his beloved and beautiful one ; and how fervently he
prayed that the light might grow in her, and through
her descend to him ! Beautiful are the prayers of such
loving heaj-ts, for the inner door of their existence then
opens, and the great King of Glory enters in, and tb.->y
are in the Lord, and the Lord is in them.
26 THE WIFE. -
Yes, Paul had found a wife — not an external type or
shadow of one to mock and vex his soul with an unsatis
factory pretence, but a most blessed and eternal reality.
He was married not only in the sight of men, but before
God and the angels. And the heart of Rosa responded
to his mind as truly and unfailingly as his heart beat to
the breath of his lungs. She was as his inner life, and
he felt himself strong to guard and protect her as he
would his own existence. She had become one with
him, and henceforth there was no separate existence for
these two.
So serenely and lovingly flowed their life in its inte
rior light and beauty, that cares and anxieties seemed
scarce to touch their states. True, these came to them
in the guise of those calamities and disappointments,
that so often sweep as the destructive tornado over the
lower lives of the earth-loving children of men. But as
their affections were spiritual, they were not wounded
by the earth-sorrows. Their treasures were laid up
above, where "moth and rust doth not corrupt." Paul
realized this when he saw Rosa hold her dead baby in
her arms and smile through her tears. And yet this
was her "little Paul" that she loved with such an intense
delight and devotion ; because in him, all the day long,
she saw that wonderful life of God manifested in such
a heavenly innocence and purity, as in a tiny image of
her own Paul. Yet, when the spirit of the child waa
gone, she adorned the clay form in which it had dwelt,
with such loving care, and laid it in its little coffin, that
her hand might serve it to the very last, and then turned
THE WIFE. 27
and rested her head in the bosom of her husband as a
wounded bird in its downy nest.
Paul's love seemed to lift her to the Heaven to which
her baby had gone; and when, after a few days, she
urged him to leave her and go to his office where his du
ties called him, Paul feared that she would feel lonely,
and would fain have stayed beside her. But she said —
" No, dear Paul ; I shall never be alone again ; the
spirit of the child will be with me : it is so beautiful to
have loved him on earth, for now I can love him in Hea
ven." And so Paul left her, not as one in a dark land
of sorrow, but floating in a world of light and love. And
how eagerly he hastened back to his gentle, stricken
dove, and folded her to his heart, as though he would
shield her from all sorrow ! But he scarce found a sor
row ; she was all light and joy, and said —
" Oh, Paul, I am so happy, for I have been thinking
all day how happy the angels must be to have my little
Paul with them ! It seemed to me that I could see them
adorning him with heavenly garments, and I could see
his happy smile ; and I was glad that he was no longer
oppressed by his weak, earthly body. Yes, he is now a
blessed angel in Heaven, and is it not beautiful, dear
Paul, that we have given an angel to Heaven?"
Thus was the earth-sorrow turned to a heavenly joy.
And though other children were born to Paul and Rosa,
yet their chief delight in them was, that they were to be
angels in Heaven. How often Rosa said, " Paul, they
are the children of the Lord — not ours ; only we have
the loving work to teach them for Heaven."
Through Rosa, Paul realized this beautiful truth, and
28 THE WIFE.
earnestly strove to impart truth to the tender and im
pressible minds of his children ; he presented it to them
in the most beautiful and attractive forms. But it was
Rosa that made them love it and live in it ; it was the
teachings of the father that fell like "golden grains" in
the earth of their minds ; but it was the gentle, never-
ceasing culture of the mother, that caused it to spring
up into the sunshine of Heaven, and bear the fruit of
kind and loving actions. When Paul saw this, he felt
himself a man in the true sense of the word ; one, who
could perform the highest uses in life, without being
clogged and thwarted by the want of concert in action
by his partner in life. Thus it is that a harmony of
thought and feeling produces a harmony in action.
And how elevated and noble became all the ends of
Paul's life ! It was Rosa that elevated and refined them,
and directed them Heavenward. It was beautiful to see
how sht sould draw down the light of Heaven into all
the outer life. Everything on earth seemed to her but
the symbol of something in Heaven. And when Paul
once gave her money, she thanked him with such a grate
ful warmth of affection, that he laughingly asked her,
if she loved money, that she was so grateful for it. She
answered, " Yes, Paul ; I love your money, because you
have worked for it ; and when you give it to me, it seems
to our outer life what truth is to our inner life. If you
gave me no truth, I could not adorn your inner life with
love ; and if you gave me no money, I could not adorn
your outer life with good. I could not alone attain
either money or truth. I should be very poor, dear
Paul, both spiritually and naturally, without you. But
THE WIFE. 29
you, as a husband, bring me truth and money. With
the first I call the angels around you ; with the second
I call earthly friends around you ; and thus, both your
inner and outer life are made glad and warm and
genial."
And Paul knew this ; for his home was beautiful, — a
feminine taste and tact reigned through it, and Rosa's
diffusive charity made him the centre of a circle to whom
he dispensed not only earthly goods, but the noble
thoughts of his large understanding. And Paul realized
that while he guided all things by his wisdom, given to
him of God, Rosa was as the motive power to his
existence. Her influence pervaded his every thought
and feeling, and while it made his life upon earth so full
and perfect, it allied him to Heaven ; and thus he held
her in his house and heart as the Holy of holies.
Happy is the earth if it have one pair of such mar
ried ones, for through such, the Spirit and life of God
descend upon the earth, and bind it to Heaven. But
blessed, yea most blessed will be the earth when it has
many such, for then the heavenly sunshine will flood the
whole earth with its light and glory, and the Lord, who
is the centre and source of this glorious Sun, will see
His image reflected, in its mercy and tender beauty, in
the lives of the dwellers upon earth, even as it now is
seen by Him in those of the dwellers in Heaven, arid
thus will the " kingdom of God" come upon earth "-as
it is in Heaven."
MARRIAGE.
IN the truest sense of the \vord, worn? .. was created
to be man's comforter, a joyous helpmate in hours of
sunshine, a soother, when the clouds darken and the
tempests howl around his head; then, indeed, we per
ceive the divinely beautiful arrangement which marriage
enforces. Man in his wisdom, his rare mental endow
ments, is little fitted to hear adversity. He bows before
the blast, like the sturdy pine which the wintry storm,
sweeping past, cracks to its very centre ; while woman,
as the frail reed, sways to and fro with the fierce gust,
then rises again triumpl? ,nt towards the blackening sky.
Her affection, pure and steadfast, her unswerving faith
and devotion, sustaht man in the hour of darkness, even
•as the trailing w<;ed supports and binds together the
mighty walls of some mouldering ruin.
Would you know why so many unhappy marriages
geern to falsify the truth that they are made in Heaven ?
Why we see daily diversity of interests, and terrible
contentions, eating the very life away, like the ghoul in
the Arabian tales, that prayed on human flesh ? It is
that women are wrongly educated. Instructed, trained,
to consider matrimony the sole aim, the end of their
existence, it matters not to whom the Gordian knot la
tied, so that the trousseau, wedding, and eclat of bride-
hood follow. Soon the brightness of this false aurora
borealis fades from the conjugal horizon ; and the truths
of life, divested of all romance, in bitterness and pain
MARRIAGE. 3
rise before them. Unfitted for duties which muat be
fulfilled, physically incapacitated for the responsibilities
of life — mere school-girls in many instances — the chains
they have assumed become cables of iron, whose heavy
weight crushes into the heart, erasing for ever the foot
prints of affection, and leaving instead the black marks
of deadly hate. Then comes the struggle for supre
macy. Man in his might and power asserts his will,
while woman, unknoAving her sin, unguided by the
divine light of love, neglects, abandons her home ; then
come ruin, despair, and death. God help those mis
taken ones, who have thus hurried into union, ignorant
of each other's prejudices, opinions, and dispositions,
when too late they discover there is not, nor ever can
be, affinity between souls wide as the poles asunder.
Notwithstanding these miserable unions, we must con
sider marriage divine in its origin, and alone calculated
to make life blessed. Who can imagine a more blissful
state of existence than two united by the law of God
and love, mutually sustaining each other in the jostlings
of life ; together weathering its storms, or basking
beneath its clear skies ; hand in hand, lovingly, truth
fully, they pass onward. This is marriage as God
instituted it, as it ever should be, as Moore beautifully
Bays —
" There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two that are linked in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die !"
To attain this bliss, this union of the soul, as well ui
32 MARK I AGE.
4
of hands, it is necessary that much should he changed.
Girls must not think, as soon as emancipated from
nursery control, that they are qualified to become wives
and mothers. If woman would become the true com
panion of man, she must not only cultivate her intellect,
but strive to control her impulses and subdue her tem
per, so that while yielding gently, gracefully, to what
appears, at the time, perhaps, a harsh requirement, she
may feel within the " calm which passeth all understand*
ing." There must be a mutual forbearance, no fierce
wrestling to rule. If there is to be submission, let the
wife show how meekly Omnipotent love suifereth all
things. Purity, innocence, and holy beauty invest such
a love with a halo of glory.
Man, mistake not then thy mate, and hereafter, bit
terly repenting, exclaim at the curse of marriage. No,
no, with prudent foresight, avoid the ball-room belle —
seek thy twin soul among the pure-hearted, the meek,
the true. Like must mate with like ; the kingly eagle
pairs not with the owl, nor the lion with the jackal.
Neither must woman rush blindly, heedlessly, into the
noose, fancying the sunny hues, the lightning glances
of her first admirer, true prismatic colours. She must
first chemically analyze them to be sure they are not
reflected light alone, from her own imagination. Thai
frightsome word to many, "old maid," ought not tc
exercise any influence over her firmly balanced mind
better far, however, lead a single lifp, than form a sin
ful alliance, that can only result in misery and wretched
n<jss. Some of the purest and best women that ever
MARRTAGE. 85
lived, have belonged to that much decried, contemned
sisterhood.
Wed not, merely to fly from an opprobrious epithet ;
assume not the holy name of wife, to one who brings
trueness of heart, wealth of affection, whilst you have-
nought to offer in return but cold respect. Your first
love already lavished on another : believe me, respect,
esteem, are but poor, weak talismans to ward off life's
trials. Rise superior to all puerile fancies ; bear nobly
the odium of old maidism, if such be thy fate, and if,
like Sir Walter Scott's lovely creation, Rebecca, you
are separated by an impassable gulf from your heart's
chosen, or have met and suffered by the false and
treacherous, take not any chance Waverley who may
cross your path. Like the high-sbuled Jewess, resolve
to live on singly, and strive with the means God has
given you, to benefit, to comfort your suffering sisters.
Would man and woman give to this all-important sub
ject, so vital to their life-long happiness, the considera
tion it requires, we should not so often meet with men
broken in spirit — memento mori legibly written on their
countenances ; with women prematurely old — unloving
wives, careless husbands. Meditate long before you
assume ties to endure to your life's end. mayhaps to
eternity. Pause even on the altar-stone, if only there
thou seest thy error ; for a union of hands, without
hearts, is a sin against high heaven. Remember,
" There are two angels that attend, unseen,
Each one of us ; and in great books record
Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down
The good ones, after every action, closei
3
84 THE BRIDE'S SISTER.
His volume ; and ascends with it to God ;
The other keeps his dreadful day-book open
Till sunset, that we may repent ; which doing,
The record of the action fades away,
And leaves a line of white across the page."
THE BRIDE'S SISTER.
OH, sister, darling, though I smile, the tears are in my heart,
And I will strive to keep them there, or hide them if they start ;
I know you've seen our mother's glance ofttimes so full of woe,
The grief-sob rises to the lips that bid her first-born go.
It is not that she doubts his love to whom thou'st given thine,—
The fear that he may coldly look upon his clasping vine ;
But, oh, she feels however loved and cherished as his wife,
Though calm her lily may float down upon the stream of life;
Yet, by her own glad married years, she knows that clouds will
stray,
And tears will sometimes fill thy cup, though kissed by love away ;
And she will not be near her flower to lay it on her breast —
'Tis thus — 'tis thus the young birds fly, and leave the lonely nest I
Oh, sister, darling, I shall miss thy footfall on the stair,
Beside my own, when good-night words have followed good-night
prayer.;
And miss thee from our pleasant room, and miss thee when I sleep,
And feel no more thy twining arms, and soft breath on my cheek.
And I shall gaze with tearful eyes upon thy vacant chair —
Sweet sister, wherefore, wherefore go, 'tis more than I can bear I
Forgive me, Lizzie, do not weep — I'm strong again, and calm,
"Our Father" for my aching heart will sead a spirit-balm.
LOVE VS. HEALTH. 35
Now let me bind this snowy veil amid thy silken hair,
Thrt white moss-rose and orange buds upon thy bosom fair;
How beautiful you are to-night! Does love such charms impart!
An angel's wing methinks has stirred the waters of your heart ; .
So holy seem its outlets blue where sparkle yet the tears,
Like stars that tremble in the sky when not a cloud appears.
Art ready now ? The evening wanes ; the guests will soon be here,
And the glad bridegroom waits his own. God bless thee, sister
dearl
LOVE vs. HEALTH.
ABOUT a mile from one of the Berkshire villages, and
separated from it by the Housatonic, is one of the love
liest sites in all our old county. It is on an exhausted
farm of rocky, irregular, grazing ground, with a meadow
of rich alluvial soil. The river, which so nearly sur
rounds it as to make it a peninsula " in little," doubles
around a narrow tongue of land, called the "ox-bow" —
a bit of the meadow so smooth, so fantastic in its shape,
so secluded, so adorned by its fringe of willows, clema
tises, grape-vines, and all our water-loving shrubs, that
it suggests to every one, who ever read a fairy tale, a
scene for the revels of elves and fairies. Yet no Oberon
— no Titania dwelt there ; but long ago, where there are
now some ruinous remains of old houses, and an uncouth
new one, stood the first frame house of the lower valley
of the Housatonic. It was inhabited by the last Indian
who maintained the dignity of a Chief, and from him
passed to the first missionary to the tribe. There Kirk-
36 LOVE VS. HEALTH.
land, the late honoured President of Harvard College,,
was horn, and there his genial and generous nature
received its first and ineffaceable impressions. Tenants,
unknown to fame, succeeded the missionary.
The Indian dwelling fell to decay ; and the property
has now passed into the hands of a poet, who, rumour
Bays, purposes transforming it to a villa, and whose
occupancy will give to it a new consecration.
Just before its final high destiny was revealed, there
dwelt there a rustic pair, who found out, rather late in
life, that Heaven had decreed they should wear together
the conjugal yoke. That Heaven had decreed it no one
could doubt who saw how well it fitted, and how well
they drew together.
They had one child — a late blossom, and cherished as
such. Little Mary Marvel would have been spoiled, but
there was nothing to spoil her. Love is the element of
life, and in an atmosphere of love she lived. Her
parents were people of good sense — upright and simple
in their habits, w'th no theories, nor prejudices, ambi
tions, or corruptions, to turn the child from the inspira
tions of Heaven, with which she began her innocent life.
When little Mary Marvel came to be seven years old.
it was a matter of serious consideration how she was to
be got to the district school on " the plain" (the common
designation of the broad village street), full a mile from
the Marvels' secluded residence. Mrs. Marvel was far
better qualified than the teachers of the said school, to
direct the literary training of her child. She was a
strong-minded woman, and a reader of all the books she
could comp?ss. But she had the in-door farm-work to
LOVE VS. HEALTH. 37
do — cheese to make, butter to churn, &c. ; and after
little Mary had learned to read and spell, she must be
sent to school for the more elaborate processes of learning
— arithmetic, geography, &c.
"Now, Julius Hasen," said Marvel to his only neigh
bour's son, " don't you want to call, as you go by, days,
with your little sister, and take our Mary to school ? I
guess she won't be a trouble. She could go alone ; but,
somehow, mother and I shall feel easier — as the river is
to pass, &c. — if you are willing."
A kind boy was Julius; and, without hesitation, .he
promised to take Marvel's treasure under his convoy.
And, for the two years following, whenever the district
school was in operation, Julius might be seen conducting
the two little girls down the hill that leads to the bridge.
At the bridge they loitered. Its charm was felt, but
indefinable. It was a spell upon their senses ; they
would look up and down the sparkling stream till it
winded far away from sight, and at their own pretty
faces, that smiled again to them, and at Julius skittering
the stones along the water, (a magical rustic art!) That
old bridge was a point of sight for pictures, lovelier than
Claude painted. For many a year, the old lingered
there, to recall the poetry of their earlier days ; lovers,
to watch the rising and setting of many a star, and
children to play out their " noon-times" and twilights.
Heaven forgive those who replaced it with a dark, dirty,
covered, barn-like thing, of bad odour in every sense !
The worst kind of barbarians, those, who make war —
net upon life, but upon the life of life — its innocent
pleasures !
38 LOVE VS. HEALTH.
But, we loiter with the children, when we should go
on with them through the narrow lane intersecting broad,
rich meadows, and shaded by pollard willows, which form
living and growing posts for the prettiest of our northern
fences, and round the turn by the old Indian burying-
ground. Now, having come to " the plain," they pass
the solemn precincts of the village Church, and that
burying-ground where, since the Indian left his dead
with us, generations of their successors are already lain.
And now they enter the wide village street, wide as it
is, shaded and embowered by dense maples and wide-
stretching elms ; and enlivened with neatly-trimmed
court-yards and flower-gardens. It was a pleasant walk,
and its sweet influences bound these young people's
hearts together. We are not telling a love-story, and
do not mean to intimate that this was the beginning of
one — though we have heard of the seeds nature implants
germinating at as early a period as this, and we remem
ber a boy of six years old who, on being reproved by
his mother for having kept his book open at one place,
and his eye fixed on it for half an hour, replied, with
touching frankness —
"Mother, I can see nothing there but Caroline
Mitchell ! Caroline Mitchell !"
Little Mary Marvel had no other sentiment for Julius
than his sister had. She thought him the kindest and
the best ; and much as she reverenced the village peda
gogues, she thought Julius's learning profounder than
theirs, for he told them stories from the Arabian Nights
— taught them the traditions of Monument Mountain —
made them learn by heart the poetry that has immor-
LOVE VS. HEALTR 89
talized them, and performed other miracles of learning
and teaching, to which the schoolmaster didn't approach !
Children's judgments are formed on singular premises,
but they are usually just conclusions. Julius was an
extraordinary boy, and, fortunately, he was selected on
that account, and not because he was sickly and could
do nothing else (not uncommon grounds for this elec
tion), for a liberal education. Strong of heart and
strong in body, he succeeded in everything, and without
being a charge to his father. He went through college
— was graduated with honour — studied law — and, when
Mary Marvel was about nineteen, he came home from
his residence in one of our thriving Western cities, for
a vacation in his full legal business.
His first visit was to the Marvels, where he was received
with as much warmth as in his father's home. As he
left the house, he said to his sister Anne, who was with
him —
" How shockingly poor Mary is looking !"
" Shockingly ! Why, I expected you would say she
was so pretty !"
" Pretty ! My dear Anne, the roses on your cheek
are worth all the beauty that is left in her pale face.
What have they done to her ? When you were children,
she was a robust, round little thing — and so strong and
cheerful — you could hear her voice half a mile, ringing
like a bell ; and now it's ' Hark from the tomb a doleful
sound !' When I last saw her — let me see — four years
ago — she was — not perhaps a Hebe — but a wholesome-
looking girl."
"Julius ! — what an expression !"
40 LOVE VS. HEALTH.
" Well, my dear, it conveys my meaning, and, there
fore, is a good expression. What has been the matter ?
Has she had a fever ? Is she diseased ?"
" Julius ! No ! Is that the way the Western people
talk about young ladies? — Mary is in poor health —
rather delicate ; but she does not look so different from
the rest of our girls — I, you know, am an exception."
" Thank Heaven, you are, my dear Anne, and thank
our dear, sensible mother, who understands the agents
and means of health."
" But Mary's mother is a sensible woman too."
" Not in her treatment of Mary, I am sure. Tell me
how she lives. What has she been about since I was
here?"
" Why, soon after you went away, you know, I wrote
to you that she had gone to the School. You
know her parents are willing to do everything for her—
and Mary was very ambitious. They are hard students
at that school. Mary told me she studied from eight to
ten hours a day. She always got sick before examina
tion, and had to send home for lots of pills. I remem
ber Mrs. Marvel once sending her four boxes of Brand-
reth's at a time. But she took the first honours. At
the end of her first term, she came home, looking, as you
say, as if she had had a fever."
"And they sent her back ?"
" Why, yes, certainly — term after term — for two
years. You know Mary was always persevering; and
BO was her mother. And now they have their reward.
There is not a girl anywhere who surpasses Mary for
scholarship."
LOVE VS. HEALTH. 41
"Truly, they have their reward — infatuated people !"
murmured Hasen. " Have they taken any measures to
restore her health, Anne ?"
" Oh, yes. Mrs. Marvel does not permit her to do
any hard work. She does not even let her sweep her
own room ; they keep a domestic, you know ; and, last
winter, she had an air-tight stove in her room, and it
wag kept constantly warm, day and night. The draft
was opened early ; and Mrs. Marvel let Mary remain in
bed as long as she pleased ; and, feeling weak, she
seldom was inclined to rise before nine or ten."
" Go on, Anne. What other sanitary measures were
pursued?"
"Just such as we all take, when we are ill. She
doctors, if she is more unwell than usual ; and she rides
out almost every pleasant day. There is nothing they
won't do for her. There is no kind of pie or cake,
sweetmeat or custard, that Mrs. Marvel does not make
to tempt her appetite. If she vrants to go to 'the
plain,' Mr. Marvel harnesses, and drives over. You
know, father would think it ridiculous to do it for me."
" Worse than ridiculous, Anne ! — What does the poor
girl do? How does she amuse herself?"
" I do believe, Julius, you are interested in Mary
Marvel !"
" I am. I was always curious as to the different
modes of suicide people adopt. Has she any occupation
— any pleasure ?"
" Oh, yes ; she reads for ever, and studies ; she is
studying German now."
"Poor Mary !"
42 LOVE VS. HEALTH.
u What in the world makes you pity Mary, Julius ?"
"Because, Anne, she has been deprived of nature's
best gift — defrauded of her inheritance : a sound con
stitution from temperate, active parents. One may
have all the gifts, graces, charms, accomplishments,
under Heaven, and, if they have not health, of what use
or enjoyment are they? If that little, frail body of
Mary Marvel's contained all that I have enumerated, it
would be just the reverse of Pandora's box — having
every good, but one curse that infected all."
" Dear Julius, I cannot bear to hear you talk so of
Mary. I expected you would like her so much. I — I —
hoped . She is so pretty, so lovely — she is fit for
Heaven.'"
" She may be, Anne, — I do not doubt it ; but she is
very unfit for earth. What has her good, devoted,
sensible, well-informed mother been about? If Mary
had been taught the laws of health, and obeyed them, it
would have been worth infinitely more to her than all
she has got at your famous boarding-school. Ignorance
of these laws is culpable in the mothers — disastrous,
fatal to the daughters. It is a disgrace to our people.
The young women now coming on, will be as nervous, aa
weak, as wretched, as their unhappy mothers — languish
ing embodiments of diseases — mementos of doctors and
pi'1-boxes, dragging out life in air-tight rooms, religi
ously struggling to perform their duties, and dying
before they have half finished the allotted term of life.
They have no life — no true enjoyment of life !"
" What a tirade, Julius ! Any one would think you
were a cross old '>achelor !"
LOVE VS. HEALTH. 43
" On the contrary, my dear Anne, it is because I am
a young bachelor and desire not to be a much older one,
that I am so earnest on this subject. I have been
travelling now for two months in rail-cars and steamers,
and I could fill a medical journal with cases of young
women, married and single, whom I have met from town
and country, with every ill that flesh is heir to. I have
been an involuntary auditor of their charming little con
fidences of ' chronic headaches,' ' nervous feelings,'
' weak backs,' ' neuralgia,' and Heaven knows what all !"
" Oh, Julius ! Julius !"
" It is true, Anne. And their whole care is, gentle
and simple, to avoid the air ; never to walk when they
p-an ride ; never to use cold water when they can get
warm ; never to eat bread when they can get cake, and
so on, and so on, through the chapter. In the matter
of eating and drinking, and such little garnitures as
smoking and chewing, the men are worse. Fortunately,
their occupations save most of them from the invalidism
of the women. You think Mary Marvel beautiful?"
"No — not beautiful, perhaps, — but very, very pretty,
and so loveable !''
" Well," rejoined Julius, coldly, after SDme hesitation,
" Mary is pretty ; her eye is beautiful ; her whole face
intelligent, but so pale, so thin — her lips so colourless —
her hands so transparent, that I cannot look at her with
any pleasure. I declare to you, Anne, when I see a
woman with a lively eye, a clear, healthy skin, that
shows the air of Heaven visits it daily — it may be,
roughly — if it pleases Heaven to roughen the day, — an
44 LOVE VS. HEALTH.
clastic, vigorous step, and a strong, cheerful voice, I am
ready to fall down and do her homage !"
Julius Hasen was sincere and zealous in his theory,
but he is not the first man whose theories Love has
overthrown. "Love laughs at locksmiths," -and mis
chievously ir.ocks at the stoutest bars and bolts of
resolution.
Hasen passed the summer in his native town. He
renewed hid intimacy with his old neighbours. He per
ceived in Mary graces and qualities that made him feel
the heavenly and forget the earthly ; and, in spite of
his wise, well-considered resolution, in three months he
had impressed on her "pale cheek" the kiss of betrothal,
and slipt on the third finger of her " transparent hand,"
the "engagement ring!"
But, we must do Julius Hasen justice. When his
laughing sister rallied him on his inconsistency, he said —
" You are light, Anne ; but I adhere to my text,
though I must now uphold it as a beacon — not as an
example. I must say with the Turk — ' It was written.' "
He was true to himself and true to his wife; and, at
the risk of shocking our young lady readers, we must
betray that, after the wedding-ring, Hasen's first gift to
Mary was — " The Principles of Physiology applied to
the Preservation of Health, and the Improvement of
Physical and Mental Education ; by Andrew Combe,
M. D." This book (which should be studied by every
mother in the United States) he accompanied by a
solemn adjuration, that she would study and apply it.
He did not stop here. After his marriage, he bought
two riding-horses — mounted his bride on one and him-
THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER. 45
self on the other, and thus performed the greater part
of the journey to Indiana — only taking a rail-car for
convenience, or a steamer for repose !
And, arrived at his Western home, and with the
hearty acquiescence of his wife, who only needed to
know the right to pursue it, she began a physical life in
obedience to the laws laid down by the said oracle,
Andrew Combe.
Last fall, six years since his marriage, he brought his
wife and two children to visit his Eastern friends. In
reply to compliments on all hands, on his wife's improved
health and beauty, he laughingly proposed to build, on
the site of the old Indian dwelling, a quadrangular
Temple, dedicated to the Four Ministers to Health —
Air, Water, Exercise, and Regimen !
THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER.
" I HOPE, Emily, that you don't think I expect you to
work — to spend the bright morning hours in the kitchen,
when we commence keeping house," said George Bren-
ton to his young wife.
This remark was made as he left the room, in reply
to something which Emily had been saying relative to
their projected plan of housekeeping. Mrs. Anderson,
her mother, entered the parlour at one door, as her son-
in-law left it by another. " And I hope," said she, " that,
for your own sake as well as your husband's, yon
46 THE 10UNG HOUSEKEEPER.
will not think of fulfilling his expectations — that is,
strictly speaking/'
" And why not ? George is always pleased to have
any suggestion of his attended to, however indirectly it
may be made."
" He would not he pleased, if on trial it should com
promise any of his customary enjoyments. George's
income, as yet, is not sufficient to authorize you to keep
more than one girl, who must be the maid-of-all-work ;
and even if you should be so fortunate as to procure
one who understands the different kinds of household
labour, there will be times when it will be necessary for
you to perform some part of it yourself — much more to
superintend it."
"But, mother, you know how I always hated the
kitchen."
" This is a dislike which necessity will, or at /east
ought to overcome. You have never felt that there was
much responsibility attached to the performance of such
household tasks as I have always recquired of you, and
in truth there never has been, as I could always have
very well dispensed with them. I required them for
ycur own good, rather than my OAvn. Before habits
of industry are formed, necessity is the only thing
which will overcome our natural propensity to indulge
in indolence."
" I am sure that I am not indolent. I always have
my music, embroidery, or reading to attend to. As to
being chained down to household drudgery, I cannot
think of it, and I am certain that it would be as much
against George's wishes as mine "
THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER. 47
" It would undoubtedly be gratifying to him, -when
ever he had an hour or two, which he could spend at
home, to see you tastefully dressed, and to have you at
leisure so as to devote your time wholly to him."
" You make George out to be extremely selfish, which
I am sure he is not."
"No, not more so than we all are."
" Why, mother, I am sure you are not selfish. You
are always ready to sacrifice your own enjoyment for the
sake of promoting that of others."
" I have been subjected to a longor \.ov?se of discipline,
than cither you or George. I have lived long enough
to know, that the true secret of making ourselves happy
is to endeavour to make others so. This is, at least, t\ e
case with all those whose finer sensibilities have not been
blunted, or, more properly speaking, have been rightly
cultivated. But it will do no good to enter into a n:eta-
physical discussion of the subject. The course proper
to be pursued by a woman, whose husband's income is
rather limited, appears to me perfectly plain."
" The course proper for me to pursue, is that which
will best please George."
" Certainly, and that is precisely what I would advise
you to do; but I don't think that literally acting upon
this suggestion of his, respecting domestic duties, will
please him for any great length of time."
Emily made no reply to this. She had decided in her
own mind to obey the wishes of George, more especially
as they exactly accorded with her own.
A few weeks from the time of the foregoing conversa
tion, George and Emily Brenton commenced houseketp-
4? THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER.
ing. Their house was neatly and handsomely furnished,
and through the influence of Emily's mother, Experience
Breck, a girl thirty-five years old, who well understood
domestic labour, undertook to perform the duties of
chambermaid, laundress, and cook, for what all concerned
considered a reasonable compensation.
Their home, to make use of George's v.ords, the first
time he saw Emily's parents after everything was satis
factorily arranged, " was a little paradise. Pedy (the
diminutive for Experience) was the best of cooks and
clear-starchers, and never had he tasted such savory
soups, and meat roasted so exactly to ft, turn, or sucl
puddings and such pastry ; and never had it been 4u
fortune to wear shirt-bosoms and collars, which fcu com
pletely emulated the drifted snow/
"And Emily too — she was the dearest an,i nret
cheerful of wives, and so bright an atmosphere alwayf
surrounded her, that one might almost hiiaglne that she
was a bundle of animated sunbeams. She was always
ready to sing and play to him, or to listen while he read
to her from some favourite author."
This eulogy was succeeded by an invitation to Mr.
and Mrs. Anderson to dine with them the ensuing day,
that they might judge for themselves that he did not
colour the picture of their domestic bliss too highly.
The invitation was accepted ; and Emily could not help
taking her mother aside to tell her that since they saw
each other, she had done nothing but read and play on
the baautiful harp her uncle gave her, except that wher.
sl-.e grew tiled of these, she sewed a little ; "and yet,"
THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER. 49
she added, with a bright smile, " George has never
given me an unkind look — much more an unkind word."
" And you have been housekeeping four whole days."
*• Eight days, mother !"
"It is only four days since everything was arranged,
and you commenced taking your meals regularly at
home."
" I know, but then if we can live happily four days.
Tve can four years."
"Yes, if Pedy could always live with you.'
" She appears to be quite well satisfied with her situa
tion," was Emily's answer.
There was one at work, however, though neither he
nor they realized it, who was sapping their happiness at
its very foundation. This was an honest, intelligent
farmer, by the name of Simon Lundley, who one day,
when in the city, happened to overhear the praises
bestowed on Pedy Breck by George Brenton, touching
her excellence as a cook and clear- starcher.
"If," thought he, "she could do these well, the same
good judgment would direct her how to excel in making
butter and cheese ; and as his mother, who kept his
house, was growing old and infirm, it appeared to him,
that it would be convenient for her to have some person
to assist her in the performance of these and other
onerous duties belonging to the in-door work of a farm.
He had seen Pedy a few months previous, when on a
visit to a sister who resided in the neighbourhood of hia
home, and remembered of having thought it strange that
she had never married as well as her sister, as she was
remarkably good-looking." Simon Lundley, therefore,
4
80 THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER.
the next Sunday, about sunset, arrayed in a suit of
substantial blue broadcloth, boldly presented himself at
George Brenton's front door, and inquired if Miss Breck
was at home. It proved to be a fortunate, as well as a
bold step. Pcdy recognised him at once, and had a
kind of a vague prescience as to the object of his visit,
or such might have been the inference drawn from the deep
crimson which suddenly suffused her cheeks.
From that time he visited her regularly e^ciy Sunday,
and it was soon decided that they should be married in
season to enable her 'to pack the fall butter. This de
cision she, for sometime, delayed to communicate to
Ernily, from sheer bashfulness. She could not, she said,
when she at last had wrought herself up to what ap
peared to her the very pinnacle of boldness, make up her
mind to tell her before, for the life of her, but then, she
did suppose that Simon kind of had her promise that she
would be married to him in just three weeks from the
next Sunday.
Emily immediately called on her mother to communi
cate to her the melancholy information. Mrs. Anderson
saw that these were what might be termed " minor trials,"
for her daughter in prospective. She hoped that she
would be discreet enough not to allow them to be mag
nified into what might appropriately be called major
trials.
"Don't you think, mother," said Emily, "that you
can manage to find me a girl as good as Pedy ?"
" I think it will be impossible. Pedy is a kind of rara
avis in all that appertains to housekeeping. She excela
in everything. You will be obliged now to limit your
THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER. 51
expectations. If you can obtain a girl who knows
to cook well, it is the best you can hope to do. Even
that, I am afraid, will prove very difficult."
"It appears to me that if girls who are obliged tc
work for a living understood what was for their good,
they would be at more pains to inform themselves rela
tive to what is expected of them."
"A great difficulty lies in the want of competent
teachers. Such things are not known by instinct ; and
experience, though a good, is a slow teacher."
" If I have got to stay in the kitchen all the time to
teach a girl, I may as Avell do the work myself."
" I will do the best I can for you, but you must not
expect me to find you a girl who will fill Pe'dy's place,
and do not, for your own sake — leaving George out of
the question — be too afraid of the kitchen."
Mrs. Anderson fulfilled the promise she made her
daughter. She did her best, and felt tolerably well
satisfied at being able to find a girl who had done the
cooking in a large family in the country for more than
a year.
Pedy Breck left Mrs. Brenton on Saturday after tea,
and Deborah Leach took her place on Monday morning.
Emily gave her a fevr general directions, and, as usual,
seated herself in the parlour ^ii.h her books, her music, and
her embroidery, as resources against ennui. Deborah,
also, was abundantly provided with the means^to keep her
out of idleness. She said to herself, after receiving t^e
directions from Eniily, tl-at khe "guessed there wcul'iu't
be time for much grass to grow under her feet lhat day."
Deborah did not possess Pedy's "sleight" at doing
62 THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER.
housework, and she felt a little discouraged when she
found that, besides washing and preparing the dinner,
Bhe would be obliged to wash the dishes and do the
chamber-work.
" I should think that she might take care of her own
chamber," she said to herself; "and I don't think it
would hurt her delicate hands a great deal, even if sho
should wash the dishes."
In consideration of its being washing-day, George had
Bent home beefsteak for dinner, and Pedy, the same as she
always did, had made some pies on Saturday, and placed
them in the refrigerator for Sunday and Monday. De
borah had not been much accustomed to broiling steaks,
as the family where she had been living considered it
more economical, when butter brought such a high price,
to fry them with slices of pork ; but knowing the cele
brity of her predecessor in everything pertaining to the
culinary art, she exerted her skill to the utmost, and
succeeded in doing them very well, and in tolerable sea
son, so that George, after he came home, had to wait for
dinner only ten minutes, which passed away very quickly,
as time always did when he was with Emily.
Deborah's first attempt at pastry was a decided failure.
It was plain that she had never been initiated into the
mysteries of making puff paste, nor did she, when telling
over what she called her grievances to a friend, think it
worth while, she said, " to pomper the appetite by making
pies sweet as sugar itself, when there were thousands of
poor souls in the world that would jump at a piece of pie
a good deal sourer than what Mr. Brenton and his idle,
delicate wife pretended wasn't fit to eat. She was sure
THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER. 53
that she put two heapin' spoonfuls of sugar into the
gooseberry pie, and half as much into the apple pie, and
Miss Brenton might make her fruit pies, as she called
'em, herself the next time, for 'twas a privilege she didn't
covet bj no means."
But Mrs. Brenton did not covet the privilege more
than she did. and after a great show of firmness on tb.3
subject, declaring to herself and her intimate friend that
she never would give up, and that there was no use talkin'
about it, she concluded she would try again, if Mrs.
Brenton would stand right at her elbow and tell her tho
exact quantity of ingredences she must put into each. pio.
" I s'pose you calc'late to do the ironing ?" she said, to
Emily, on Saturday morning.
"No, I am sure I don't," was Emily's reply. "I
thought you had done it."
" Well, I havn't — I expected that you were agoing t©
do it. Miss Hodges, the woman I lived with before I
came here, always did it, and she was the richest and
genteelest woman in the place. She used to say there
wasn't that girl on the face of the earth, that she vouirt
trust to starch and iron her fine linens and muslins, a:?.d
laces."
Emily merely said that she was not in the habit of
doing such things herself, and that she should expect her
to do them.
Deborah went abcut her task y-'/ry unwillingly, She
told Emily that she knew f/bo should sp'ile the whole let,
and she proved a true prophetess. The shirt-bosoms wad
collars borfc indisputable ovv?encfc that she v»e,s act stated
lor fuel, the hot flat-irco. La/ring kit its full impress upoa
54 'JI1E YOUNQ HOL'^KLEPKR.
some, while u Charcoal Skbtchds," of a kind nsver
dreamed of by Keal, were conspicuous on others. As
for the muslins and laces, biinc of a frailer fabric, t£f y
gave way beneath the vigorous treatment to vrhica thty
were subjected, and exhibited move wrecks of their former
selves. Not a single article was wearable which had
passed through the severe ordeal of being starched and
ironed by Deborah, and what was still more lamentable,
many of them could not even, like an antique painting
or statue, be restored.
" This is too bad,-" said George, as he contempiatsd
his soiled and scorched linen. " It appears to n\>?,
Emily, that you might have seen what the girl was al;out
before she spoiled the whole."
" How could I," said Emily, " when she was in tho
kitchen and I was in the parlour — hem-stitching yo^or
linen handkerchiefs? Pedy never needed any oversee
ing."
Some linen of a coarser texture which h iu passed
through Pedy's hands, was obliged to be resorted to on
the present occasion, while Emily concealed her chagrin
from George on account of the destruction of some Brus
sels lace, the gift of the same generous uncle who gave
her the harp. She silently made up her mind that for
the future she would not trust such articles to the unskil
ful Deborah.
Hitherto George, who probably had recalled to mind
what he had said to Emily previous to commencing house-
keeping, had never, except in a playful manner, alluded
to the ill-dressed food which daily made its appearance
on the table. To-day, however, when they returned
THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER. 55
from church and sat down to dinner, probably owing to
being a little sore on the subject of the soiled linen,
Emily saw him knit his brows in rather a portentous
manner, while, in no very amiable tone of voice, he
Baid —
" It appears to me that this girl don't understand how
to do anything as it ought to be done — not even to boil
a piece of corned beef. This is as salt as the ocean, and
hard as a flint. If the girl has common sense, I am sure
6he could do better if you v.^-JJ ~ive her a few directions.
I confess that I am tira,3 uf oatir^ ill-oooked meat, half-
done vegetables, anl heavy bro;-«l, and of drinking a
certain muddy decoction, dignified by the name of coifee."
" iv-ioli food is, of course, 1*0 uioi e palatable to me than
to you : but I thought, by v/hat I have heard you say,
that you would not be pleased when you came home to
dinner to see me with a flushed face and in an unbecom
ing dress, which must be the case if I undertake to do
the principal part of the cooking myself, and to superin
tend the whole."
" We must try and get s^me one that will do better,"
said George.
" I don't think that it will be of any use," replied
Emily. " We may as well try her another week."
The truth was, she had had, for several days, a dim
perception that the indolence she had indulged in since
released from her mother's influence, was not half so de
lightful as she had anticipated. Her physical and mental
energies had regained 30 entirely quiescent, that she be
gan to think it would be rather a luxury to be a little
fatigued. She moreover half suspected that Deborah
56 THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER. *
might, and would do better, if not embarrassed with that
feeling of hurry and perplexity, which so many of what
in colloquial phrase are sometimes termed slow-moulded
people, experience when obliged to divide their attention
among a variety of objects.
Monday morning, Emily determined that she would
turn over a new leaf: and a bright leaf it proved to be.
She told Deborah, that for the future she should take
care of her own room, prepare the dessert, and starch and
iron all the nicer artio!o3.
"I am glad to heir yoa say so, ma'am, I am -sure,"
said Deborah, " for when I have to keep going from one
thing to another, my head spins round like a top, and I
can't do a single thing as it ought to be done. How
Pedy Breck got along so smooth and slick with th-i work,
I don't know, nor nerer shall. I can make as good light
bread as ever was — I won't give up to anybody — hi it
when I made the last, my mind was all stirred up with
a puddin'-stick as 'twere, and I couldn't remember whe
ther I put any yeast into it or not."
From this time all went well. Deborah, in her slow
way, proved to be a treasure. She told Emily that,
"Give her time, nobody could beat her at a boiled diah,
apple-dumplings, or a loaf of bread," and the result
proved that her words were no vain boast.
" I have concluded to follow your advice," said Frdly,
the next time she saw her mother, " and lock i/ato the
kitchen occasionally."
"I am glad to hear it, and I kayo no doubt that
you will enjoy yourself much better for it."
" I am certain that I shall — I do already. You can't
TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 57
imagine what queer, fretful-looking lines were beginning
to show themselves on George's brow. He would have
looked old enough for a grandfather in a few years, if I
had gone on trying to realize the hope he expressed, that
I would abstain from the performance of all household
tasks. And I should have looked quite as old as he, I
suspect, for I believe that the consciousness of neglected
duties is one of the heaviest burdens which can be boine."
TO AN ABSENT WIFE.
'Tis Morn : — the sea breeze seems to bring
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing;
Bright flowers, to me all strange and new,
Are glittering in the early dew,
And perfumes rise from every grove,
As incense to the clouds that move
Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear,—
Hut I am sad — thou art not here !
'Tis Noon : — a calm, unbroken sleep
Is on the blue waves of the deep ;
A soft haze, like a fairy dream,
Is floating over wood and stream,
And many a broad magnolia flower,
Within its shadowy woodland bower,
Is gleaming like a lovely star,—
But I am sad — thou art afar !
'Tis Eve : — on earth the sunset skies
Are painting their own Eden dyoe;
5$ THE WORD OF PRAfSE.
The stars come down and trembling glow,
Like blossoms in the waves below ;
And like an unseen sprite, the breeze
Seems lingering 'midst these orange trees,
Breathing its music round the spot, —
But I am sad — I see ihee nol!
'Tis Midnight : — with a soothing spell
The far-off tones of ocean swell —
Soft as a mother's cadence mild,
Low bending o'er her sleeping child ;
And on each wandering breeze are heard
The rich notes of the mocking bird,
In many a wild and wondrous lay, —
But I am sad — thou art away !
I sink in dreams : — low, sweet, and clear,
Thy own dear voice is in my ear : — >.
Around my cheek thy tresses twine —
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine.
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed —
Thy head is pillowed on my breast ;
Oh, I have all my heart holds dear,
And I am happy — thou art here !
THE WORD OF PRAISE
-A LITTLE thing is a sunbeam — a very little thing. It
streams through our casement, making the cheerful room
still more cheerful ; and yet so accustomed are we to its
presence, that we notice it not, and heed not its exhila
rating effect.
But its absence would be quickly seen and felt. Tho
THE WORD OF PRAISE. 59
unfortunate prisoner in his dimly-lighted cell would hail
with rapture th;i t blessed stream of light ; and the scarcely
less imprisoned inmates of the more obscure streets of
our crowded cities would welcome it as a messenger fr jin
Heaven.
It is even thus with the sunbeams of the human heart.
Trifling things they are in themselves, for the 'heart ia
wonderfully constituted, and it vibrates to the slightest
touch ; but without them life is a blank — all seems cold
and lifeless as the marble slab which marks the spot
where the departed loved one lies.
A gloomy home was that of Henry Howard, and yet
all the elements of human happiness seemed to be there.
Wealth sufficient to secure all the comforts and many of
the luxuries of life, was theirs, and both husband and
wife were regarded by their numerous acquaintances as
exceedingly intelligent and estimable people — and so
indeed they were. The light tread of childhood was not
wanting in their home, although its merry laugh was
seldom heard, for the little children seemed to possess a
gravity beyond their years, and that glad joyousness
which it is so delightful to witness in infancy, was with
them seldom or never visible. ,
Life's sunbeams seemed strangely wanting, yet the
why and wherefore was to the casual observer an unfa
thomable mystery.
Years before, that wife and mother had left the home
of her childhood a happy and trusting bride. Scarcely
seventeen, the love which she had bestowed upon him
who was now her husband, was the first pure affections
of her virgin heart, and in many respects he was worthy
60 THE WORD OF PRAISE.
of hor love, and, as far as was in his nature, returned
it. Her senior by many years, he was possessed of high
moral principles, good intellectual endowments, and an
unblemished reputation among his fellow men.
But there was a cold, repulsive manner, at variance
sometimes with his more interior feelings, which could
ill meet the warm, affectionate disposition of his young
wife, who, cherished and petted in her father's house,
looked for the same fond endearments from him to whom
she had given all.
Proud of her beauty and intelligence, charmed with
her sprightliness and wit, the man was for a time lost in
the lover, and enough of fondness and affection were
manifested to satisfy the confiding Mary, who had in
vested her earthly idol with every attribute of perfection.
But as months passed on, and he again became immersed
in his business, his true character, or, more properly
speaking, his habitual manners, were again resumed, and
the heart of the wife was often pained by an appearance
of coldness and indifference, which seemed to chill and
repulse the best affections of L.-r nature.
Tears and remonstrance were useless, for the husband
was himself unaware of the change. Was not every
comfort amply provided, every request complied with ?
What more could any reasonable woman desire ?
Alas ! he knew but little of a woman's heart ; of that
fountain of love which is perpetually gushing forth
toward him who first caused its waters to flow: and still
less did he know of the fearful effect of the constant
repressing of each warm affection. He dreamed not
that the loving heart could become cold and dead, and
THE WORD OF PRAISE. 61
that his own icy nature would soon ' be reflected in the
devoted being who now clung to him so fondly.
It was but in little things that he was deficient, mere
trifles, but still they constituted the happiness or woe oi'
the wife of his bosom.
The loving glance was seldom returned, the affectionate
pressure of the hand seemed unfelt, the constant effort
to please remained unnoticed. One word of praise, one
kindly look, was all that was desired, but these were
withheld, and the charm of life was gone.
Gradual was the change. Bitter tears were shed, and
earnest endeavours to produce a happier state of things
were sometimes made, but in vain. Oh ! could the hus
band but have known how wistfully that young creature
often gazed upon him as he sat at the evening meal upon
his return from business, arid partook of luxuries Avhich
her hand had prepared in the hope of eliciting some
token of approbation — could he have seen the anxious
care with which domestic duties were superintended, the
attention paid to the toilette, the constant regard to his
most casually expressed wishes, surely, surely he would
have renounced for ever that cold, repulsive manner, and
clasped to his bosom the gentle being whom he had so
lately vowed to love and cherish.
But he saw it not — felt it not. Still proud of her
beauty and talents, he loved to exhibit her to an admir
ing world, but the fond endearments of home were want-
.ng. He knew nothing of the yearnings of that devoted
heart ; and while the slightest deviation from his wishes
was noticed and reprimanded, the eager and intense de
62 THE WORD OF PRAISE.
sire to please was unheeded — the earnestly desired won!
of praise was never spoken.
The first year of wedded life passed away, and a ne^v
chord was awakened. Mary had become a mother ; and
as she pressed the babe to her bosom, new hopes were
aroused. The clouds which had gathered around her
seemed passing away, and the cheering sunbeams again
broke forth. The manifest solicitude of her husband in
the hour of danger, the affection with which he had gazed
on the countenance of his first-born, were promises of
happy days to come.
But, alas ! these hopes were but illusory. All that a
father could do for the welfare of an infant was scrupu
lously performed, but its expanding intellect, its innocent
playfulness, soon remained unmarked — apparently un-
cared for.
"Is he not lovely?" exclaimed the fond mother, as
the babe stretched his little hands and crowed a welcome
as the father entered.
" He seems to be a good, healthy child," was the quiet
reply. " I see nothing particularly lovely in an infant
six months old, and if I did I would not tell it so. Praise
is very injurious to children, and you should school your
self from the first, Mary, to restrain your feelings, and
utter no expressions which will have a tendency to foster
the self-esteem common to us all. Teach your children
to perform their duties from a higher motive than the
hope of praise."
A chill like that of mid-winter came over the heart
of the wife as she listened to the grave rebuke.
There was truth in the words. Our duties should he
THE WORD OF PRAISE. 63
performed from higher motives than the approbation of
our fellow men ; but that little word of praise from those
we love — surely, surely it cannot he hurtful. It is one
of life's brightest sunbeams, encouraging the weak,
soothing the long-suffering, bringing rest to the weary
and hope to the desponding.
Something of this Mary longed to urge, but her hus
band had already turned away, and the words died on
her lips.
Time passed on. Another and another child had been
added to the number, until four bright little faces were
seen around the family table. The father seemed un
changed. Increasing years had altered neither the outer
nor the inner man, but In the wife and mother few would
have recognised the warm-hearted, impulsive girl, who
ten years before had left her father's home, with bright
visions of the future floating before her youthful mind.
Whence came that perfect calmness of demeanour, that
almost stoical indifference to all that was passing around
her ? To husband, children, and servants she was the
same. Their comfort was cared for, the routine of daily
duties strictly performed, but always with that cold,
lifeless manner, strangely at variance with her natural
disposition.
But the change had come gradually, and the husband
noticed it not. To him, Mary had only grown more
matronly, and, wisely laying aside the frivolity of girl
hood, had acquired the sedateness of riper years. True,
there were moments when his indifference was somewhat
annoying. Although he never praised, he often blamed,
and his lightest word of rebuke was at first always met
64 THE WORD OF PRAISE.
with a gush of tears, but now there was no sign of emo
tion ; the placid countenance remained unchanged, and
quietly he was told that his wishes should he attended
to. Certainly this was all that he could desire, but he
would have liked to feel that his pleasure or displeasure
was a matter of more consequence than it now appealed
to be.
And yet the warm affections of the heart were not all
dead. They slumbered — were chilled, paralyzed, starv
ing for want of their proper and natural nourishment,
but there was still life, and there were times when the
spirit again thrilled with rapture, as the loving arms of
childhood were twined around the mother's neck, or the
curly head rested upon her bosom.
But to the little ones, as to others, there was the same
cold uniformity of manner, a want of that endearing
tenderness which forms so close a tie between mother
and child. Their health, and the cultivation of their
minds, were never neglected, but the education of the
heart remained uncared for, and the spot which should
have bloomed with good and true affection, was but a
wilderness of weeds.
The two eldest children were promising boys of seven
and nine years old. Full of health, and buoyant, al
though constantly repressed spirits, they thought not
and cared not for aught save the supply of their bodily
wants ; but with the third child, the gentle Eva, it was
far otherwise. From infancy her little frame had been
so frail and delicate, that it seemed as if the spirit was
constantly struggling to leave its earthly tenement ; but
her fifth year was rapidly approaching, and still she
THE WORD OF PRAISE. 65
lingered a blessed minister of love in that cheerless
home.
How wistfully she gazed upon the mother's face as
aho unweariedly performed the many little offices neces
sary for her comfort, but ever with the same frigid, un
changing manner ! How earnestly she longed for that
manifestation of tenderness which she had never felt!
Even the stern father spoke to her in gentler and more
subdued tones than was his wont, and would sometimes
stroke the silky hair from her white forehead, and call
her his "poor child."
But it was the fondness of a mother's love for which
the little one yearned, and with unerring instinct she
felt that beneath that calm and cold exterior, the waters
of the fountain were still gushing. Once, when after a
day of rootless pain she had sunk into an uneasy slum
ber, she '.vis aroused by the fervent pressure of that
mother's kiss, and through her half-opening eyelids she
perceived the tears which were flowing over her pale
face. In an instant the arms of the affectionate child
were clasped about her neck, and the soft voice whis
pered, —
" Dearest mother, do you not love your little Eva ?"
But all erection was instantly repressed, and quietly
as ever caw)'j the answer —
" Certainly, my child, I love you all. But lie down
now, and tuke some rest. You have been dreaming."
" "iVas snch a happy dream," murmured the patient
little sufferer, as obedient to her mother's words she
again closed her eyes, and lay motionless upon her pil?
low. Once more she slept, and a sweet smile beamed
66 THE WORD OF PRAISE.
upon her countenance, and her lips moved as if about ti
speak. The watchful mother bent over her.
"K.ss me again, dear mother," lisped the slumbcrer.
" Call me youi dear little Eva."
None could tell the workings of that stricken heart, a3
hour after hour the mother watched by her sleeping
child; but the dawn of morning found her .still the
same; statue-like as marble, that once speaking face
reflected not the fires within.
Day after day passed on. and 'it was evident that the
spirit of the innocent child would soon rejoice in its
heavenly home.
She could no longer raise her wasted little form from
the bed of pain, but still her deep blue eyes gazed lov
ingly upon those around her, and her soft voice spoke
Df patience and submission.
The last hour drew near, and the little sufferer lay
in her mother's arms. The destroyer claimed but the
frail earthly covering, and even now the immortal soul
shone forth in its heavenly brightness.
"Am I not going -to my Father in Heaven?" she
whispered, as she gazed earnestly upon her mother's
face.
"Yes, dearest, yes," was the almost inaudible reply.
" And will the good angels watch over me, and be to
me as a mother?" again asked the child.
" Far, far better than any earthly parent, my dear
one."
A radiant smile illumined the countenance of the dying
child. The fond words of her mother were sweet music
to her ear.
THE WORD OF PRAISE. 67
The father approached, and bent over her.
"My little Eva, ' he whispered, "will you not speafc
to me?"
" I love you, dear father," was the earnest answer,
44 and when I am in Heaven I will pray for you, and fcr
my poor mother ;" and again those speaking eyes were
riveted upon the mother's face, as if she would read her
inmost griefs.
The physician entered, and, in the vain hope of pro
longing life, judged it necessary to make some external
applications to relieve the difficulty of breathing, which
was fast increasing. The pain was borne without a
murmur.
"Do I not try to be patient, mother?" whispered
that little voice.
"Yes, darling, you are a dear, patient, good little
girl."
An expression of happiness, amounting almost to rap
ture, beamed in Eva's face, at these words of unqualified
praise.
" Oh, mother ! dear, dear mother," she exclaimed,
"will you not always call your little Eva your dear,
good little girl ? Oh, I will try to be so very good if
you will. My heart is so glad now," and with the
strength produced by the sudden excitement, she clasped
her feeble arms about her mother's n.eck.
" Her mind begins to wander," whispered the physi
cian to the father ; but there was no reply. A sudden
light had broken upon that stern man, and motionless
he stood, and listened to the words of his dying child.
But she had already sunk back in an apparent slum-
68 THE WORD OF PRAISE.
ber, and hour after hour those calm but agonized parents
sat watching by her side, at times almost believing that
the spirit had indeed gone, so deep was the repose of
that last earthly slumber.
At length she aroused, and with the same beautiful
Bmile which had played upon her features when she sunk
to rest, again exclaimed,
"I am so very happy, dear mother; will you call me
your good little Eva once more?"
In a voice almost suffocated with emotion, the desired
words were again breathed forth, and long and fervent
kisses imprinted upon the child's pale cheek.
" My heart is so glad !" she murmured. " Oh, mother,
kiss my brothers when I am gone, and smile upon them
and call them good. It is like the sunlight on a cloudy
day.
"Put your face close to mine, dear father, and let me
whisper in your ear. Call poor mother good, sometimes,
and kiss her as you do me, now that I am dying, and
sho will never look so sad any more."
"I will, my precious child! I will!" And the head
of the strong man bowed upon his breast, and he wept.
A change passed over the countenance of the little
one.
" The angels will take me now," she whispered. The
eyelids closed, there was no struggle, but the parents
saw that her mission on earth was ended. Henceforth
fehe would rejoice in the world where all is light and
love.
The mother wept not as she gazed upon that lifeless
clny. She wept not as she laid the little form upon th*
THE VPORD OF PRAISE. 69
bed, and straightened the limbs already stiffening in the
embrace of death ; but when her husband clasped her
to his bosom, and uttered words of endearing affection,
a wild scream burst from her lips, and she sunk back in
his arms, apparently as unconscious as the child who lay
before them.
A long and alarming state of insensibility was suc
ceeded by weeks of fever and delirium.
How many bitter but useful lessons did the husband
learn as he watched by her bed-side ! Often in the still
hours of the night, when all save himself slumbered, she
would gaze upon him with that earnest, loving, but re
proachful look, which he well remembered to have seen
in years gone by, and murmur,
" Just one kind glance, Henry, one little kiss, one
word of love and praise."
And then as he bent fondly over her, that cold, fixed
expression, which she had so long worn, would again
Bteal over her countenance, and mournfully she added,
" Too late, too late. The heart is seared and dead.
See, little Eva stands and beckons me to the land of
love. Yes, dear one, I come."
But the crisis came, and though feeble as an infant,
the physicians declared the danger past. Careful nurs
ing, and freedom from excitement, would restore the wife
and mother to her family.
With unequalled tenderness did her husband watch
ever her, but with returning health returned also that
unnatural frigidity of manner. There was no response
to his words or looks of Jjve.
Was it, indeed, too late 1 Had his knowledge of the
70 THE \^ORD OF PRAISE.
wants of a woman's heart come only when the heart,
which once beat for him alone, had become as stone ?
It was the anniversary of their marriage. Eleven
years before they had stood at the altar and taken those
holy vows. Well 'did Henry Howard recollect that
bridal morning. And how had he fulfilled the trust
reposed in him ? With bitter remorse he gazed upon
the wreck before him, and thought of that gentle being
once so full of love and joy.
An earnest prayer broke from his lips, and his arms
•were clasped around her.
"Mary, dear Mary," he whispered, "may not the
past be forgotten ? Grievously have I erred, but believe
me, it has been partly through ignorance. An orphan
from my earliest childhood, I knew not the blessing of
a mother's love. Cold and stern in my nature, I com
prehended not the wants of your gentle spirit. I see it
all noAV : your constant self-denial, your untiring efforts
to please, until, wearied and discouraged, your very
heart's-blood seemed chilled within you, and you became
the living image of that cold heartlessness which had
caused the fearful change.
" But may we not forget the past ? Will you not be
once more my loving, joyous bride, a:.d the remainder
of my life shall be devoted to your happiness?"
Almost fearful was the agitation which shook that
feeble frame, and it was long before there was a reply.
At length, in the words of little Eva, she whispered,
" Oh, my husband ! my own dear husband ! My
heart is so glad ! I had thought it cold and dead, but
now it again beats responsive to your words of love.
LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE. 71
The prayers of my angel-child have been answered, and
happiness will yet be ours. My dear, dear Eva, how
often have I wept as I thought of my coldness toward
her, and yet all power to show my earnest love seemed
gone for ever."
" It slumbered, dearest, but it is not gone. The breath
of affection will again revive your warm-hearted, gene
rous nature, and our remaining little ones will rejoice in,
the sunshine of a mother's love. Our Eva, from her
heavenly home, will gaze with joy upon those she held
so dear."
Another year, and feAV would have recognised that
once dreary home.
Life's sunbeams shone brightly now. Those little
messengers to the human heart, — the look of love, the
gentle touch, the word of praise, — all, all were there.
Trifles in themselves, but ah, how essential to the spirit's
life!
LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE
FROM A MARRIED LADY.
LETTER L
MY I)^JP. LIZZIE,
I have just received the pleasing intelligence of your
marriage v/ith one so worthy of your trust and affection.
Of course, jou are very happy; for there is no more
perfect hstp^Wss for a young and loving woman than to
<li LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE.
centre her heart's best feelings upon one being — to feel
her destiny bound up in his — to become, as it were, a
very part of his life. Perhaps, at such a time, my dear
girl, it may seem unkind to throw the least shadow
over the bright sky of your happiness ; but I cannot
refrain from giving you some little advice now, at the
outset of your new life.
You are looking forward — are you not ? — with perfect
confidence to the future. You think that the sea upon
which you are launched, will ever remain calm and
untroubled as now ; that you will go on for ever thus,
joyous and happy — thus, free from care and sorrow ;
but, Oh, remember, there is no sunshine that is not
clouded over sometimes ; no stream so smooth as to be
always undisturbed. Then, make up your mind to
have cares, perplexities, and trials, such as have never
troubled you before ; and be prepared to meet them.
As yet, you are to your husband the same perfect
being that you were before marriage, free from all that
is Avrong — your follies even regarded as delightful. You
are now placed upon a pedestal — a very goddess ; but,
believe me, you must soon descend to take your place
among mortals, and well for you if you can do it grace
fully. Believe me, dearest, I have no wish to sadden
your spirit — only to prepare it for the trials which must
come to perplex it.
You must learn to have your faults commented upon,
one by one, and yet be meek and patient under reproach.
You must learn to have those sayings which you have
heard praised as witticisms, regarded as mere nonsense.
You must learn to yield even when you seem to be in
LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE. 73
the right ; to give up your will even when your husband
seems obstinate and unreasonable ; to be chided when
you expected praise, and have your utmost endeavours
to do rightly regarded as mere duties. But, be not cast
Aowri by this dark side of the picture. You will be
happier, spite of all these trials, than you have ever been,
if you only resolve to be firm in the path of duty ; to
sti ive to do well always ; to return a kind answer for a
harsh word, and, above all, to control your temper.
There may be times when this may seem impossible ; but
always remember that one angry word provokes another,
and that thus the beautiful gem of wedded affection is
tarnished, until what seemed to be the purest gold is
found only gilded brass. Amiability is the most neces
sary of all virtues in a wife, and perhaps the most diffi
cult of all others to retain.
Pray fervently for a meek forbearing spirit; cherish
your kindly impulses, and leave the rest to your Father
in Heaven.
I shall, if you like, write you again upon this subject.
You know I have been wedded long enough to have had
some little experience, and if it can benefit you, you are
welcome to it.
Adieu for a while. Ever your friend.
LETTER IL
MY DEAR LIZZIE,
I hardly know whether pleasure or pain was the
uppermost feeling of my mind, while reading your reply
to my last letter. You have some secret disappointment
74 LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE.
preying upon your young and thus far happy heart ;
and although you speak favourably of your new duties
as a wife, still there is not that coulcur de rose about your
descriptions of the present which used to tinge those of
the future.
You have felt already, have you not, that the world
has interests for your husband other than those con
nected with yourself — that he can be very happy even
when you are not present to share his happiness? You
are not the first, dear Lizzie, who has been thus
awakened from an exquisite dream of love; yet do not
repine nor fret, for that will only increase your sorrow,
but reason with yourself. Think how many claims there
are upon your husband's time and society — claims to
which he must bow if he wish to retain the position he
now holds. Before your marriage, you were the all
engrossing object of his thoughts — all that he depended
upon for happiness. There was all the excitement of
winning you for his wife, which caused him for a time to
forego every other pleasure which might interfere with
this one great object. But now that is all over. Like
all others, he must proceed onward, and ever look for
ward to something yet to be attained.
You say that he has left you alone one whole evening,
and that you punished him for it by appearing very
much offended when he returned. Now, dear Lizzie,
was that the way to cure him of not appreciating your
society ? By making yourself thus disagreeable upon
his return, would he not rather delay that return another
time ?
Think over what I have written, and when he is obliged
LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE. 75
to leave you again, wear no sullen frowns, nor gloomy
looks, but part from him with smiles and pleasant words ;
amuse yourself during his absence with your books, your
music, your work ; make everything around you wear a
cheerful look to welcome him home; and believe me,
he will appreciate the kindness which is thus free from
selfishness.
A man's home must ever be a sunny place to him, and
it should be a wife's most pleasant duty to drive for ever
from his hearth-side those hideous sister spirits, discon
tent and gloomy peevishness.
This way that young wives have of punishing their
husbands, always comes back upon themselves with
double force. Any man, however unreasonable he
appears, may be influenced by kindly words and happy
smiles, and there is not one, however affectionate and
domestic, that will not be driven away by sullen frowns
and discontented looks.
Do not allow, my dear girl, these feelings of gloom
and sadness to grow upon you. Believe me, you can
overcome them if you will, and now is the time for you
to exert all your power of self-control.
] know there is much to make a young married woman
Bad. Ere many days of wedded life are past she begins
to feel the difference between the lover and the husband.
She misses that entire devotion to her every whim and
caprice which is so delightful ; that all absorbed atten
tion to her every trifling word ; that impress ivencss of
manner which is flattering and pleasing; and she al
most fancies that she is a most miserable, neglected
personage.
76 LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE.
This is a trying moment for a young and sensitive
woman, but if she only reason with herself, and resolve
to yield no place in her spirits to feelings of repining,
she will be happier — far happier with her husband as he
is, than were he to retain all the devotion of the lover.
I know this seems difficult to believe : but reflect a
moment. Suppose your husband should remain just the
same as he was before marriage, should give up all other
society for you, should be constantly repeating his pro
testations of love, constantly hanging around you,
watching your every step, living upon your very breath
as it were ; do you not agree with me in thinking that
all this would after awhile become very tiresome?
Would you not get weary of such a perpetual display
of affection, and would you feel any pride in a husband
who made no advancement in the world, even though it
were given up for you ? No, no ! Think this all over,
and you will see that it is just as well for you to relin
quish his society sometimes ; that is, if you welcome his
return with a happy face.
Try my experiment, dear, when next he leaves you,
and write me the result. Adieu for awhile.
LETTER III.
MY DEAR LIZZIE,
A severe illness has prevented my answering youi
kind letter for some weeks, but now I am quite well
again, and hope to continue without further interruption
our pleasant correspondence.
Your last letter I have read and re-read, not without,
I must confess, some little secret misgiving as to whe-
LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE. 77
iher you have not taken one step to mar the happiness
of your married life, now so perfect in its beauty.
You speak, in your own whole-souled affect ion at o
manner, of a, friend with whom you have met, and whose
kindness has so won your affection and gratitude, that you
have opened your whole heart to her. Now, my dear
Lizzie, that same little heart of yours is quite too pre
vious a volume to he thus shown to every new comer who
wins upon you hy a few kindly words. You have given
t to your hushand ; let it be kept, then, only for his
gaze ; open every page of it for his inspection, and let
him correct whatever errors he may find traced there
upon. Believe me, dear, you will find no truer or more
disinterested confidant than him to whom you have
pledged your marriage vows.
Do not think I wish to discourage all friendships with
your own sex. Oh, no ; they possess too great a charm
to be thus rudely thrown aside. To me, there is hardly
a more lovely sight in the world than the union of two
congenial spirits in the tie of sincere and unselfish affec
tion. But I do not dignify with the name of friendship
those caprices of the moment, which so often assume its
title and usurp its place. A young girl meets another
at an assembly — she is pleased with her manners ; thinks
her amiable, because she smiles frequently ; intellectual,
because she converses easily ; winning and fascinating,
because she receives some kind attentions from her.
Forthwith they become devoted friends. In a few weeks
tlioy discover that they are not so congenial as they
imagined, and i\\e friendship is broken off. Away with
such desecration ! One might as well compare the
78 LETTERS TO A YOT. NO
scenes of forest, grove, and field in a theatre, to those
painted by nature's own hand, as this momentary impulse
to that noble, unwavering affection which gives such
beauty and dignity to the female character. There ar«
many imitations of the precious gem, but although they
are equally bright and beautiful at first, they soon tar
nish and show themselves in their true and ungilded
state.
There is another part of your letter, dear Lizzie,
•which gives me much uneasiness. Alter your piquant
description of the soiree you attended, you say that you
were quite a belle there, and that you met again Frank
H , your former admirer, who was very devoted to
you. Lizzie, dear Lizzie, do not think thus, do not act
thus, do not write thus a second time. Remember you
are a wife. A sacred, solemn duty is yours, which will
require all your powers to perform with unwavering
fidelity. Let me be frank with you, darling, and tell
you that love of admiration has ever been your greatest
fault, and is one of the most dangerous that a young
wife can have. Check it, control it now, before it has
led you farther into a snare which may involve your
everlasting happiness. If you find it impossible to drive
it away from you entirely, endeavour to centre it upon
your husband. Think of your personal appearance only
so far as it will please him ; your dress, so far as it will
gratify his taste ; your intellect, as it will make his
home agreeable ; your musical powers, as they will
enable you to give him pleasure ; learn to view all your
charms and powers of pleasing in this light j improve
LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE. 79
them with this view, and all will go well with you and
your married life.
I was quite charmed with your description of your
gweet little home, dear Lizzie ! What a lovely place it
must be, and what a heautiful prospect of happiness
there is before you !
You must be very watchful, dear, of your husband's
tastes and peculiarities. Always continue to have his
favourite seat ready when he comes home wearied with
the day's business ; his favourite slippers ready for
immediate use ; his favourite dishes set before him.
There is much influence to be gained over a man by thus
proving to him that he has been thought of while absent,
and his particular fancies remembered. Always have a
cheerful home, a bright fire, a happy welcoming smile,
and, believe me, you will have a domestic husband.
I was very happy to learn that you tried the experi
ment I recommended, and met with so pleasant a result.
Cultivate the cheerfulness you seem to have regained ;
do not allow a shadow to rest upon your spirit, and you
will be doubly rewarded in the devoted affection of your
husband, and the approval of your own conscience.
Adieu for awhile.
LETTER IV.
MY DEAR LIZZIE,
I have thought many, many times of your last beau-
tifu1, wife-like letter. It was so full of tenderness — so
full of a spirit of humility — so free from all selfishness,
that it called from my heart a gush of the warmest
80 LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE.
emotion. I have read it again and again, and each tinio
with an increased feeling of interest and pleasure.
You are in the right path, now, darling — God grant
that you may never be induced to deviate from it ! Go
on as you have commenced, and, believe me, more hap
piness will be yours than you have ever dreamed of.
There is no richer treasure in this world — no greater
blessing — no more unalloyed happiness to a woman than
the perfect trust and love of a good husband. The tie
that binds the wedded is one that must be guarded well,
or it may become partially unloosed, and it is almost
impossible ever to fasten it as at first.
Cherish that all-absorbing love for your husband,
which now so fills your breast ; regard nothing as be
neath your watchful attention which adds to his happi
ness ; consult his wishes, his tastes, in all your actions,
your habits, your dress. Above all, never deceive him.
Be able ever to meet him with an unflinching eye, a true
and honest heart.
Ever be guided by the lovely light of principle ; let
this direct you in all your paths ; keep your eye fixed
upon it ; lose not sight of it a moment, for it beams from
a beautiful home of peaceful happiness, whither it would
lead you, and where all arrive who follow its guidance1.
Cultivate in your heart a love of home and home du
ties. Strive to make that place as attractive as possible,
and do everything in your power to render it an agree
able resting-place for your husband. The daily routine
of home duties, when performed in the right spirit,
diffuse a feeling of cheerfuln-ess oyer one's heart that
LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE. 81
.an never be found in the applause of the world, or the
gratification of any favourite desire.
Endeavour to make your husband's evenings at home
as pleasant as you are able ; call forth your powers of
pleasing; bring up his favourite topics of conversation ;
amuse him with music ; do all that you can to convince
him that he has a most delightful wife, and trust me,
dear girl, you will never fail to make his own "ingle
Bide" the happiest spot in the world to him.
I once knew a wife who complained to me, with many
tears, that her husband left her, evening after evening,
to pass his time in the reading-room of a hotel. Rally
ing the husband upon his desertion of so pleasant a wife,
he replied to me, that he had commenced his married
life with the determination to be a kind, domestic hus
band, but that he had actually been driven from his home ;
and for what, do you imagine, my dear Lizzie ? Why,
because he had not the simple privilege of enjoying a
cigar ! Yes, his wife actually would not allow him to
smoke in the parlour where their evenings were passed,
because, forsooth, she was afraid of spoiling her new
curtains ! They, it seems, were of more importance to
her than the comfort of her husband. He had been
confirmed in the habit of smoking for years, and could
not pass an evening without it. He did not feel inclined
to sit alone in a cold, cheerless room, so he went to a
neighbouring hotel, which he found so lively and plea
sant that he came to the conclusion, for the future, to
enjoy his cigars there.
You may smile, and look upon this as a trifle, and so
it was ; yet was it of sufficient importance to drive a
6
82 THE WIFE.
man from his own fireside, and render a woman lonely
and unhappy
Life is ma.\e up of trifles, and it is by paying atten
tion to opportunities of winning love by little tilings that
a wife makes her husband and herself happy. Are such
means, then, to be neglected when they lead to such
results ?
I must bid you adieu now for a while, dear Lizzie. I
think of you very, very often, and pray most fervently
that you may be enabled so to perform your duties as a
•wife as to be a blessing to your husband, and an exam
ple to all womankind.
Ever your friend.
THE WIFE.
BEHOLD, how fair of eye, and mild of mien
Walks forth of marriage yonder gentle queen ;
What chaste sobriety whene'er she speaks,
What glad content sits smiling on her cheeks,
What plans of goodness in that bosom glow,
What prudent care is throned upon her brow,
What tender truth in all she does or says,
What pleasantness and peace in all her ways!
For ever blooming on that cheerful face,
Home's best affections grow divine in grace ;
Her eyes are rayed with love, serene and bright;
Charity wreathes her lips with smiles of light ;
Her kindly voice hath music in its notes ;
And Heaven's own atmosphere around her floats I
BE GENTLE WITH THY WIFE.
BE gentle ! for you little know
How many trials rise ;
Although to thee they may be small,
To her, of giant size.
Be gentle ! though perchance that lip
May speak a murmuring tone,
The heart may beat with kindness yet,
And joy to be thine own.
Be gentle ! weary hours of pain
'Tis woman's lot to bear ;
Then yield her what support thou canil.
And all her sorrows share.
Be gentle ! for the noblest hearts
At times may have some grief,
And even in a pettish word
May seek to find relief.
Be gentle! none are perfect hero—
Thou'rt dearer far than life,
Then husband, bear and still
Bo gentle to thy wife.
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.
IN one of the New England States, the little church-
bell in Chester village rung merrily in the clear morning
air of a bright summer's day. It was to call the people
together, and they all obeyed its summons — for who
among the aged, middle-aged, or the young, did not wish
to witness the marriage ceremonies of their favourite,
Ellen Lawton ? Ere the tolling of the bell had ceased,
the gray-haired man was leaning on the finger-worn ball
of his staff, in the corner of his antiquated pew ; the hale,
healthy farmer came next ; and then the seat was filled
with rosy-cheeked boys and girls, till the dignified matron
brought up the rear at the honourable head. The church
became quiet, eager eyes were fastened upon the door.
Presently a tall form entered, that of a handsome man,
apparently about thirty years of age, on whose arm was
leaning, in sweet childlike smiling trust, the young and
loved Ellen Lawton, whose rose-cheek delicately shaded
the pale face, and who looked more beautiful in her
angel loveliness than ever before, even to the eyes of the
humble villagers, to whom she ever was but a " thing of
beauty" and "a joy for ever." If thus she looked to
familiar eyes, how transcendently beautiful must she have
appeared to him, who this hour was to make her his own
chosen bride, the wife of his bosom, the pride, the price
less jewel of his heart. They stood before the altar ; he
cast his dark eye upon her — she raised hers, beaming in
tb°ir blue depths, all full of love and tenderness, and aa
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE. 85
they met his, the orange blossoms trembled slightly in
her auburn tresses, and the rose-tint deepened on her
cheek. The voice of the man of God was heard, and
soon Frederic Gorton had promised to " love, cherish,
and protect," and Ellen Lawton to "love, honour, and
obey." As it ever is, so it was there, an interesting
occasion — one that might well cause the eye to fill with
tears, the heart to hope, fearfully but earnestly hope,
that that young girl's dreams may not too soon fade,
that in him to whom she has given her heart she may
ever find a firm friend, a ready counsellor, a kind and
forbearing spirit, a sympathizing interest in all her
thoughts and emotions. On this occasion many criticis
ing glances were thrown upon the handsome stranger,
and many Avhispers were circulated.
"I fear," said one of the deacon's good ladies, "that
<he is too proud and self-willed for our gentle Ellen ;" and
she took off her spectacles, which she wiped with her silk
handkerchief, as if she thought they were wearied of the
long scrutiny as her own very eyes.
Is^there truth in the good lady's suspicion ? Look at
Frederic Gorton, as he stands there in his stateliness,
towering above his bride, like the oak of the forest above
the flower at its foot. His eye is very dark and very
piercing, but how full of tenderness as he casts it upon
Ellen's up-turned face ! His brow is lofty, and pale, and
stern, but partially covered with long dark hair, with
which lady's finger had never toyed. His cheek was as
if chiselled from marble, so perfect had the hand of na
ture formed it. His mouth — another space of Ellen's
86 A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.
impenetrating discernment, would have been reminded
of Shakspeare's
"0, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip."
There was about it that compression, so indicative of
firmness, which, while it commands respect, as often wins
love.
A perfect contrast to him, was the fairy thing at his
aide ; gentle as the floating breeze of evening, trusting
AS true-hearted woman ever is, lovely, amiable, and beau-
iiful, she was just one to win a strong man's love ; for
ihere is something grateful to a proud man in having a
lelicate, gentle, confiding girl place all her love and trust
in him, and making all her happiness derivable from his
will and wish. Heaven's blessing rest upon him who
fulfils faithfully that trust reposed in him, but woe be
unto him who remembers not his vows to love and to
cherish !
The marriage service over^ the friends of Ellen pressed
eagerly around her, offering their many wishes for her
long life and happiness. The gray-haired man, and aged
mother in Israel, laid their hands on the young bride's
fair head, and fervently prayed " God bless thee ;" and
not a few there were who gave glances upward to Frede
ric Gorton, and impressively said,
" Love as we have loved the treasure God transfers to
thee." • ,
The widowed mother of Ellen gazed upon the scene
with mingled emotions. Ellen was her oldest child, and
had been her pride, her joy, and delight since the death
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE. 87
of her husband, many years before. She was giving her
to a stranger, whose reputation as a man of talent, of
worth, and honourable position in the world was unques
tioned ; but of whose private character she had no means
of acquiring a knowledge. It was all uncertainty if a
stern, business man of the world, should supply the ten
derness and devoted love of a fond mother, to her whose
wish had been hitherto scarcely ever disregarded. Yet
it might be — she could only hope, and her trust was in
"Him who doeth all things well."
For the two previous years Ellen had been at a female
boarding school in a neighbouring state, on the anniver
saries of which she had taken an active part in the exa-
minatory exercises. Frederic Gorton, who was one of
the board, was so much pleased with her, that he made
of the teachers minute inquiries in regard to her cha
racter, which were answered entirely satisfactorily — for
Ellen had been a general favourite at school, as well as
in her own village. Afterward he called on her fre
quently, and on her final return home, Frederic Gorton,
who had ever been so confident in his eternal old bache
lorship, accompanied her, and sought her from her mother
as his bride. Seldom does one so gifted seek favour of
lady in vain ; and Ellen Lawton, hitherto unsought and
unwon, yielded up in silent worship her whole heart, that
had involuntarily bowed itself in his presence, and be
came as a child in reverence.
But Frederic Gorton had lived nearly thirty-five
years of his life among men. His mother had died in
his infancy, his father soon after, and he, an only child,
had been educated in the family of an old bachelor uncle.
88 A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.
The influence of woman had never been exerted on liia
heart. In his boyhood he had formed, from reading
works of fiction, an idea of woman as perfection in all
things ; but as he grew in years and in wisdom, and
learned the falsity of many youthful ideas and dreams,
he discarded that which he had entertained of woman,
and knowing nothing of her, but by her general appear
ance of vanity and love of pleasure, he cherished for her
not much respect, and regarded her as an inferior, to
whom, he thought in his pride, he at least would never
level himself by marriage. He smiled scornfully, on
learning his appointment as trustee of the female school,
and laughingly said to an old bachelor companion : —
" They will make me to have care of the gentle weak
ones, whether I will or no."
" 0, yes," replied his friend, who was somewhat dis
posed to be satiric, "classically speaking, ' pulchra
faciant te prole parentum.' Depend upon it this will
be your initiation ; you will surely, upon attendance
there, be caught by the smiling graces of some pretty
Venus — but, be careful ; remember there is no escape
when once caught. Ah, my friend, I consider you quite
gone. I shall soon see in the morning daily — ' Mar
ried, on the 12th, Hon. Frederic Gorton, of M ,
to Miss Isabella, Mary, or Ellen Somebody,' and then,
be assured, my best friend, Fred, that I shall heave a sigh
into pectore, not for myself only, but for you."
Some prophecies, jestfully uttered, are fulfilled — so
were those of Frederic's friend ; and when they next met,
only one was a bachelor.
But we will return to that bright morning when the
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE. 89
hell had rung merrily — when Ellen Lawton had returned
from the village church to her childhood home as Ellen
Gorton, and was to leave it for a new home. After
entering the parlour, Mr. Gorton said,
"Now, Ellen, we will be ready to start in as few
moments as possible."
"Yes," answered Ellen, "but I wish bo go over to
Aunt Mary's, just to bid her good-bye."
"But, my dear," answered Frederic, "there is not
time ;" looking at his watch.
" Just a moment," persisted Ellen. " I will hurry.
I promised Aunt Mary ; she is sick and cannot leave her
room."
And, as Frederic answered not, and as Ellen's eyes
were brimful of tears, she could but half see the im
patience expressed on his countenance, and hastily
departed.
But, Aunt Mary had innumerable kisses to bestow
upon her favourite, and many words and wishes to utter,
brokenly, in a voice choked with tears ; and it was
many minutes ere she could tear herself away, and on
her return she met several loiterers from the church,
who stopped her to look, as they said, upon her sweet
face once more, and list to her sweet voice again. She
hurried on — Mr. Gorton met her at the door, and taking
her hand, said, sternly,
"Ellen, I wish you not to delay a moment in bidding
adieu to your friends — you have already kept me wait
ing too long."
There was no tenderness in his voice as he uttered
this, and it fell as a weight upon Ellen's heart, already
90 A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.
saddened at the thought of the parting with her mother
and home friends, which must be now, and which waa
soon over.
As the carriage rolled away, Ellen grieved b'.tterly.
Mr. Gorton, who really loved Ellen sincerely and fondly,
encircled her waist with his arm, and said, kindly,
" Do you feel, Ellen, that you have made too great a
sacrifice in leaving home and friends for me?"
" 0, no," answered Ellen, raising to his her love-lit
countenance, " no sacrifice could be too great to make
for you ; but do you not know I have left all I had to love
before I loved you? And they will miss me too at
home, and will think of me, how often, too, when I
shall be thinking of you only ! Think it not strange that
I weep."
Nevertheless, Mr. Gorton did think it strange. lie
had no idea of the tender associations clustering around
one's home. He had no idea of the depth and richness
and sweetness of a mother's love, of a sister's yearning
fondness, for they ever had been denied him ; conso
quently the emotions that thrilled the heart of his bride
could find no response and met with no sympathy in his
own. It was rather with wonder, than with any other
sensation, that he regarded her sorrow. Was she not
entering upon a newer and higher sphere of life ? Was she
not to be the mistress of a splendid mansion ? Was she
not to be the envied of many and many a one who had
feigned every attraction and exerted every effort for the
station she was to assume ; and should she weep with
this in view ?
Thus Mr Gorton thought — as man often reasons.
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE. 91
After having proceeded a little distance, they came
within view of an humble cottage, Avhen Ellen said,
" I must stop here, Mr. Gorton, and see Grandma
Nichols (she was an elderly member of the church of
which Ellen was a member), and when I was last to see
her, she said, as she should not be able to walk to church
to see me married, I must call on her, or she should
think me proud. I will stop for a moment — just a
moment," she added, after a pause, observing he did not
answer.
They were just opposite the cottage at that moment,
yet he gave no orders to stop. With a fresh burst of
tears, Ellen exclaimed,
" Please, Mr. Gorton, let me see her. I may never
see her again, and she will think I did not care to bid
her a last farewell."
But Mr. Gorton said,
" Really, Ellen, I am very much surprised at the
apparent necessity of trifles to make your happiness.
You went to see your aunt after I had assured you
there was not time. I wish you to remember that your
little wishes and whims, however important they may
seem to you, cannot seem of such importance to me
as to interfere with my arrangements. What matters it
if my bride do not say farewell to an old woman whom
I never heard of, and shall never think of again, and who
will soon probably die and cease to remember that you
slighted her?"
And he laid Ellen's head upon his shoulder, and
wiping the tears from her face, wondered of what nature
incomprehensible she was.
92 A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.
But, it did matter to her in more respects than one,
that she was not permitted to call at the cottage. A
mind so sensitive as Ellen's feels the least neglect and
the slightest reproof, and is equally pained by giving
cause for pain, as receiving. Besides, how much was
expressed in that last sentence of Mr. Gorton's, accom
panying the denial of her simple request ! How much
contained in that denial, too ! How plainly she read in
it the future — how fully did it reveal the disposition of
him by whose will she saw she was herself to be hereafter
governed ! Though her mind was full of these thoughts,
there was no less of love for him — love in Ellen Lawton
could never change, though she wondered, too, how he
could refuse what seemed to her so easy to grant. And
so they both silently pursued their way, wondering in
their hearts as to the nature of each other. This, how
ever, did not continue long ; and aoon Ellen's tears ceased
to flow, and she listened, delighted, to the eloquent words
of her. gifted husband, spoken in the most musical and
rich of all voices.
Woman will have love for her husband so long as she
has admiration, and Ellen knew she would never cease
to admire the talents and brilliant acquirements of Fre
deric Gorton.
After several days' travel through a delightfully ro
mantic country, they reached the town of M , where
was the residence of Mr. Gorton. It was an elegant
mansion, the exterior planned and finished in the most
tasteful and handsome style — the interior equally so —
and furnished with all that a young bride of most culti-
rated taste could desire. The eye of Ellen was delighted
A TRUE TALE OF LIBE. 93
and surprised, even to tears, and inaudibly, but fervently
in her heart she murmured, " how devotedly will I love
him who has provided for me so much comfort and splen
dour, and how cheerfully will I make sacrifices of my
feelings, ' my wishes and my whims,' for him who has
loved me so much as to make me his wife !" and she
gazed into her husband's face through her tears, and
kissed reverently his hand.
" Why weep you, my Ellen ? Are you not pleased ?"
" 0, yes ; but you have done too much for me. I can
never repay you, only in my love, which is so boundless
I have not dared to breathe it all to you, nor could I."
Gorton looked upon her in greater astonishment than
before. Tears he had ever associated with sorrow; and
surely, thought he, here is no occasion for tears, and he
said,
'• Well, if you love me, you will hasten to wipe away
those tears, and let me see you in smiles. I do not often
smile myself, therefore the more need for my lady to do
so. Moreover, we may expect a multitude of callers ;
and think, Ellen, of the effect of any one's seeing the
bride in tears."
Calling a servant to conduct her to her dressing-room,
and expressing his wish for her to dress in her most be
coming manner, he left her.
It is unnecessary to say that Ellen was admired and
loved by all the friends of her husband, even by his
brother judges and politicians. Herbert Lester, the par
ticular friend of Mr. Gorton, whose prophecy had thus
loon been verified, came many miles to express personally
his sympathy and condolence. These he changed to COP
94 A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.
gratulations, when he felt the influence of the grace and
beauty of the wife of his friend — and he declared that
he would make an offer of his hand and heart, could he
find another Ellen.
Meanwhile time passed, and thougli Ellen was daily
called upon to yield her own particular preferences to
Mr. Gorton's, as she had done even on her bridal day,
she was comparatively happy. Had she possessed less
keenness of sensibility, she might have been happier ; or
had Mr. Gorton possessed more, that he could have un
derstood her, many tears would have been spared her.
Oftentimes, things comparatively trifling to him would
wound the sensitive nature of Ellen most painfully, and
he of course would have no conception wliy they should
thus affect her.
Occupied as he was mostly with worldly transactions
and political affairs, Ellen's mind often, in his absence,
reverted to the scenes of her youth, and her childhood
home, her mother, and the bright band of her young
Bisters ; and longings would come up in her heart to be
hold them once more.
Two years having passed without her having seen one
member of her family, she one day asked Mr. Gorton
if it would not be convenient soon to make a visit to
Chester. He answered that his arrangements would not
admit of it at present — and coldly and cruelly asked her
if she had yet heard of Grandma Nichols' decease.
Ellen answered not, and bent her head over the face of
her little Frederic, who was sleeping, to hide her tears.
Perceiving her emotion, however, he added,
" Ellen, I assure you it is impossible for me to comply
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE. 95
with your wish, but I will write to your mother, and
urge her to visit us — will not that do ?"
Ellen's face brightened, as with a beam of sunshine,
ind springing to her husband's bide, she laid her glow
ing cheek upon his, and then smiled upon him so sweetly
that even the cold heart of Frederic Gorton glowed with
a warmth unusual.
Seven years passed away, leaving their shadows as
the sun does. And Ellen —
" But matron care, or lurking woe,
Her thoughtless, sinless look had banished,
And from her cheek the roseate glow
Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanished;
Within her eyes, upon her brow,
Lay something softer, fonder, deeper,
As if in dreams some visioned woe
Has broke the Elysium of the sleeper."
Never yet, since that bright bridal m,rn, had Ellen
looked upon her native village, though scarcely three
hundred miles separated her from it. Now her heart
beat quick and joyfully, for her husband had told her
that business would call him to that vicinity in a few
days, and she might accompany him. With all the wil
ful eagerness of a child she set her heart on that visit,
and from morning till night she would talk with her
little boys of the journey to what seemed to her the
brightest, most sacred spot on earth, next to her present
home. And the home of one's childhood ! no matter
how sweet, how dear and beloved the home the heart
afterwards loves, it never forgets, it never ceases most
9Q A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.
fondly to turn bu,ck to the memories, and the scenes, and
the friends of its early years.
One fault, if fault it might be called, among so many
excellencies in Ellen's character, was that of putting off'
"till to-morrow what should be done to-day." This had
troubled Mr. Gorton exceedingly, who, prompt himself,
would naturally wish others to be so also, and notwith
standing his constant complaints, and Ellen's desire
to please him, she had not yet overcome her nature in
that respect, though she had greatly improved. The
evening preceding the intended departure, Mr. Gorton
said to his wife,
" Now, Ellen, I hope you will have everything in
readiness for an early departure in the morning. Have
the boys and yourself all read}r the moment the carriage
is at the door, for you know I do not like *o be obliged
to wait."
Almost before the stars had disappeared in the sky,
Ellen was busy in her final preparations. She was sure
she should have everything in season, and wondered how
her husband could suppose otherwise, upon an occasion
in which she had so much interest. Several minutes
before the appointed time, Ellen had all in readiness for
departure, the trunks all packed and locked, the children
in their riding dresses and caps ; and proceeding from
her dressing-room to the front hall door, she was think
ing that this time, certainly, she should not hear the so
oft repeated complaint —
" Ellen, you are always too late !"
— when, to her dismay, she met Georgie, her youngest
boy, dripping with mud and water from the brook,
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE. 97
trhence he had just issued, where, he said, he had
ventured in chase of a goose, which had impudently
hissed at him, which insult the young boy, in his own
conception a spirited knight of the regular order, could
not brook, and in his wrath had pursued the offender to
his place of retreat, much to the detriment of his dross.
Ellen was in consternation ; but one thing was evident
— Georgie's dress must be changed. With trembling
hands she unlocked a trunk, and sought for a change of
dress, while the waiting-maid proceeded to disrobe the
child.
Just at this moment Mr. Gorton entered, saying the
carriage was at the door. Various things had occurred
that morning to perplex him, and he was in a bad
humour. Seeing Ellen thus engaged with the trunk,
as he thought, not half packed, various articles being
upon the carpet, and Georgie in no wise ready, the cloud
came over his brow, and he said, harshly,
" I knew it would be thus, Ellen, — I have never known
you to be in readiness yet ; but you must know I am not
to be trifled with."
And with this, not heeding the explanation she
attempted to make, he seized his valise and left the
room. Jumping into the carriage, he commanded the
driver to proceed.
Ellen heard the carriage rolling away, in astonish
ment. She ran to the door, and watched it in the dis-
vance. But she thought it could not be possible he had
gone without her — he would return : and she hastened
the maid, and still kept watching at the door. She
waited in vain, for he returned not.
98 A TRUE TALE DF LliTE.
The excitement into which Ellen was thrown by the
anticipation of meeting her friends once more, may be
readily imagined by those similarly constituted with her,
and the reaction occasioned by her disappointment, also.
Her heart had been entirely fixed upon it, and what but
cruelty was it in her husband to deprive her thus so
unreasonably of so great an enjoyment — to her so
exquisite a pleasure ?
In the sudden rush of her feelings, she recalled the
last seven years of her life, and could recollect no
instance in which she had failed doing all in her power
to contribute to her husband's happiness. On the other
hand, had he not often wounded her feelings unneces
sarily ? Had he ever denied himself anything for her
sake, but required of her sacrifice of her own wishes to
his?
The day wore away, and the night found Ellen in a
burning fever. The servant who went for the physician
in the early morning, said she had raved during the
latter part of the night. As the family physician
entered the room, she said, mildly,
" 0, do not go and leave me ! I am all ready — all
ready. Do not go — it will kill me if you go."
The doctor took her hand ; it was very hot ; and her
brow was terribly throbbing and burning. He remained
with her the greater part of the day, but the attack of
fever on the brain had been so violent that no attempt
for relief was of avail.
She grew worse ; and about midnight, with the words — •
" 0, do not go, Mr. Gorton, — do not go and leave
me!"
—her spirit tools its flight,
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE. 99
And the morning dawned on Ellen in her death-sleep
— dawned as beautiful as that bright one, when- the bell
rang merrily for her bridal. Now the dismal death-
notes pealed forth the departure of her spirit to a
brighter world. Would not even an angel weep to look
upon one morning, and then upon the other ?
The birds, from the cage in the window, poured forth
their songs ; but they fell unheeded on the ears they had
so often delighted. The voices of Fred and Georgie,
ever as music to the loving heart of the young mother,
would fall thrillingly on her ear no more. She lay
there, still and cold — her dreams over — her hopes all
passed by — the sun of her young life set — and how f
People came in, one after another, to look upon her —
and wept that one so young and good should die. They
closed her eyes — they laid her in her grave-clothes, and
folded her pale hands — and there she lay !
And now we leave that chamber of the too-early dead.
Mr. Gorton's feelings of anger .soon subsided. In a few
hours he felt oppressed with a sense of the grief Ellen
would experience. His feelings prompted him to return
for her. Several times he put his head out of the window
to order the driver to return, but, his pride intervening,
he as often desisted. Yet his mind was ill at ease. He,
also, involuntarily, reviewed the period of his wedded
life. He recalled the goodness, and patience, and sweet
ness, which Ellen had ever shown him — the warm lova
she had ever evinced for him : and his heart seemed to
appreciate, for the first time, the value and character of
Ellen. He felt how unjust and unkind he had often
been to her — he wondered he could have been so. — and
100 A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.
resolved that, henceforth, he would show her more
tenderness.
As he stopped for the night, at a public-house, his
resolution was to return early in the morning. Yet, his
business must be attended to.4 It was a case of emer
gency. He finally resolved to intrust it with a lawyer
acquaintance, who lived a half day's ride distant from
where he then was. Thus he did ; and, about noon of
the following day, returned homeward. He was sur
prised at his own uneasiness and impatience. He had
never so longed to meet Ellen. He fancied his meeting
with her — her joy at his return — her tears for her dis
appointment — his happiness in restoring her heart to
happiness, by an increasing tenderness of manner, and
by instantly gratifying her wish of a return home.
All day and night 'he travelled. It was early morn
ing when he arrived at his own door. He was surprised
at the trembling emotions and quickened beating of his
heart, as he descended the steps of his carriage, and
ascended those to his own door. He passed on to the
room of his wife. The light gleamed through the small
opening over the door, and he thought he heard whis
pers. Softly he opened the door. 0 ! what a terrible,
heart-rending scene was before him ! — The watchers left
the room ; and Mr. Gorton stood alone, in speechless
agony, before the being made voiceless by himself.
The sensibility so long slumbering within his worldly,
hardened heart, was aroused to the very keenness of
torture. And Ellen, gentle spirit that she was, — how
would she have grieved to have seen the heart she had
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE. 101
loved so overwhelmed with grief, regret, remorse, de
spair !
"Ellen ! my own Ellen !'
But she could not hear !
" I have killed thee, gentlest and best !"
But the kindness of her heart was not open noio !
" I forgive thee," could not fall from those lips so pale !
" I U ve thee," could never come upon his ear again —
never — and "NEVER!" thrilled his soul, every chord of
which was strung to its intensity !
If anything could have added to the grief inconsolable
of iha man stricken in his sternness and pride, it was
the grief of his two motherless boys, as they called on
their mother's name in vain, and asked him why she
slept so long !
Few knew why Ellen died so suddenly and so young;
but, while Mr. Gorton preserved in his heart her memo
ry arid her virtues, he remembered, and mourned in
bitterness and unavailing anguish, that it was his own
thoughtless, but not the less cruel, unkindness, that laid
her in her early grave.
Never came the smile again upon his face ; and never,
though fond mammas manoeuvred and insinuated, and
fair daughters flattered and praised, did he wed again ;
for his heart was buried with his Ellen, whom he too late
loved as he should have loved. His love —
" It came a sunbeam on a blasted flower."
"Washington Irving, in his beautiful " Affection for tho
Dead," says : " Go to the grave of buried love, and me-
102 MAN AND WOMAN.
ditate. There settle the account with thy conscience,
for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment
unregarded. Console thyself, if thou canst, with this
simple, yet futile tribute of regret, and take warning by
this, thine unavailing sorrow for the dead, and hence
forward be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge
of thy duties to th 3 living !"
MAN AND WOMAN.
AN eloquent, true, and beautiful article from the pen
of a woman and a wife (and no woman not a wife, do
we believe fully competent to write on this subject), re
cently met our eyes in the pages of a periodical. Its
title was " Conjugial Love." The Latin word conjugial
was used by the writer to indicate the true spiritual
union of man and wife in contradistinction to the mere
natural union as expressed in the word conjugal. From
this article let us make an extract : —
" Man is an angular mathematical form, exactly true,
but not beautiful. Woman seizes this form, and from
the crucible of her warm love she moulds the truth into
grace and beauty. For man's understanding deals in
outermost truths. But the Lord has blessed woman with
perceptive faculties above the sphere of man's reason,
and while he looks to the outermost relations of things
she at a glance perceives the inmost. Hence she be
comes, as it were, the soul of his thought; she is the will
MAN AND WOMAN. 103
and he the intellectual principle ; she is governed and
guided by him, while he in all things is modified by her
will,- and scarce recognises his own crude thought in her
plastic feminine representation of it ; hence he thinks
oftentimes that he acts from her wisdom, forgetting that
she has no wisdom except through him.
" Thus woman dwells in the heart of man, as in some
fair and stately palace, and she looks forth into his gar
den of Eden, his whole spirit world of thought ; she
knows every lofty tree, every blooming flower and odor
ous plant and herb for the use of man, and every singing
bird that soars heavenward in her beautiful domain, and
she culls the fairest of flowers and weaves bright -gar
lands, and adorns the brow of her beloved with his own
thoughts, while he even thinks that she is bestowing
treasures out of herself upon him. This gives to woman
a sportive grace, a gentle lovingness, an apparent wil-
fulness, a delight in the power which she has through
man, while she knows that he is the link that binds her
to Heaven, and thus she is humble and grateful and
yielding in the height of her power. How beautiful is
the life of conjugial partners ! The woman flows into
the thought of man like influent life ; she knows all
things that are in him, hence she can adapt herself to
his every variation ; she calms him when excited, ele
vates him when he is depressed, regulates him by her
heaven-given power, as a good heart regulates the judg
ment. The Lord loves the man through the woman,
and loves ' the woman through the man, and these two
distinct and separate confluent streams, from the foun
tain of Divine life, rejoice in their blessed and beautiful
104 MAN AND WOMAN.
union, as like ever does when it meets its like. And it
ts only when the two streams unite that they can reflect
the Divine image ; they are noisy, turbulent, and turbid,
until the meeting of the waters of life, and then in a
calm, serene, deep, and beautiful blessedness they flow
on so softly and smoothly that the holy heavens and the
Divine sun mirror themselves in the clear waters ; and
if night, chill and drear, draws its darkening curtain
around them, soon the silver moon of a trusting faith
floods them with a gentle radiance, and bright stars of
intelligence gild the night's darkness, and they patiently
await the dawn of an eternal day, when their joyous
waters will again flow in the sunshine of heaven." * *
" When the Lord in His Divine Providence brings the
two together, in this life, that were created the one for
the other, their union is wrought out by slow degrees.
The false and evil is to be put off before the Divine life
can ultimate itself — an unceasing regeneration is going
on — a purifying from self-love is the daily life of two
partners. The wisdom which the man has from the
Lord, and the love which the woman has from Him, are
ever seeking conjunction. But the false and the evil
that clings to every earthly being is constantly warring
against this Heavenly union ; in conjugial partners, hell
is opposed to heaven, and it is only by a steady looking
to the Lord, that Heavenly love can be preserved. The
Lord opens the inmost degree of thought and feeling in
the two, and elevates their love to higher planes, and
thus increases their joys and felicities; and when it is a
true spiritual love, an entire union of heart and mind,
then the two have entered heaven, and enjoy its beauti-
MAN AND WOMAN. 105
ful blessedness even while their material bodies yet dwell
upon this coarse outer world.
" How wonderful is the wisdom of the Lord ! How
blessed is His love, in thus creating two that they may
become a one I The sympathy, the gentle affection, the
losing tender confidence, that, like magnetic thrills,
makes one conscious of the inmost life of the other,
gives a charm — a fulness of satisfaction — a serene bles
sedness to existence, that no isolated being can possibly
conceive of, let external circumstances be what they
may.
" Conjugial love is independent of external circum
stances ; it is heaven-derived, and receives nothing from
the earth. It gives heavenly joy to all of its surround
ings. It is that glorious inner sunshine of life, that
blesses the poor man as boundlessly as the rich. And
how beautiful it is for two to realize that time and space
have nothing to do with their union. In each other they
see eternity ; they know from whence their emotions
flow, and know that the fountain is Infinite. The Lord
is the beginning and end ; to them, the first and the
last. They live in Him, /row Him, and to Him. They
love only His Divine image in each other; they seek to
do good to others, as organs of His Divine life. He is
the glory and blessedness of their whole being.
•' And if such blissful emotions can be realized in this
cold, hard, ungenial, outer life, what must it be when
the two pass into the conscious presence of the Divine
Father, and behold each other not in angular material
forms, and dead material light, but in the Divine light
of Heaven, in Heavenly forms, — radiant in intelligence
106 THE FAIRY WIFE.
— glowing in the rosy love of eternal youth — beautiful
in the ' beauty of the Lord ?' "
How pure, how wise, how beautiful ! Here is the true
doctrine, that man and woman are not equal in the sense
BO often asserted in these modern times ; that they are
created with radical differences, and that the life of
neither is perfect until they unite in marriage union—
oue man with one wife.
THE FAIRY WIFE.
AN APOLOGUE.
A MERCHANT married a Fairy. He was so manly, so
earnest, so energetic, and so loving, that her heart was
constrained toward him, and she gave up her heritage in
Fairyland to accept the lot of woman.
They were married ; they were happy ; and the early
months glided away like the vanishing pageantry of a
dream.
Before the year was over he had returned to his
affairs ; they were important and pressing, and occupied
more and more of his time. But every evening as he
hastened back to her side she felt the weariness of ab
sence more than repaid by the delight of his presence.
She sat at his feet, and sang to him, and prattled away
the remnant of care that lingered in his mind.
But his cares multiplied. The happiness of many
families depended on him. His affairs were vast and
THE FAIRY WIFE. 107
complicated, and they kept him longer away from her.
All the day, while he was amidst his bales of merchan
dise, she roamed along the banks of a sequestered stream,
weaving bright fancy pageantries, or devising airy gaye-
ties with which to charm his troubled spirit. A bright
and sunny being, she comprehended nothing of care.
Life was abounding in her. She knew not the disease
of reflection ; she felt not the perplexities of life. To
sing and to laugh — to leap the stream and beckon him
to leap after her, as he used in the old lover-days, when
she would conceal herself from him in the folds of a
water-lily — to tantalize and enchant him with a thousand
coquetries — this was her idea of how they should live ;
and when he gently refused to join her in these child
like gambols, and told her of the serious work that
awaited him, she raised her soft blue eyes to him in a
baby wonderment, not comprehending what he meant, but
acquiescing, with a sigh, because he said it.
She acquiesced, but a soft sadness fell upon her. Life
to her was Love, and nothing more. A soft sadness
also fell upon him. Life to him was Love, and some
thing more ; and he saw with regret that she did not
comprehend it. The wall of Care, raised by busy hands,
was gradually shutting him out from her. If she visited
him during the day, she found herself a hindrance and
retired. When he came to her at sunset he was pre
occupied. She sat at his feet, loving his anxious face.
He raised tenderly the golden ripple of loveliness that
fell in ringlets on her neck, and kissed her soft beseech
ing eyes ; but tl ere was a something in his eyes, a remote
look, as if his soul were afar, busy with other things,
108 THE FAIRY WIFE.
tthich made her little heart almost burst with uncompre-
hended jealousy.
She would steal up to him at times when he was
absorbed in calculations, and throwing her arms around
his neck, woo him from his thought. A smile, revealing
love in its very depths, would brighten his anxious face,
as for a moment he pushed aside the world, and concen
trated all his being in one happy feeling.
She could win moments from him, she could not win
his life ; she could charm, she could not occupy him !
The painful truth came slowly over her, as the deepen
ing shadows fall upon a sunny Day, until at last it is
Night : Night with her stars of infinite beauty, but with
out the lustre and warmth of Day.
She drooped ; and on her couch of sickness her keen-
sighted love perceived, through all his ineffable tender
ness, that same remoteness in his eyes, which proved that,
even as he sat there grieving and apparently absorbed in
her, there still came dim remembrances of Care to vex
and occupy his soul.
"It were better I were dead," she thought; "I am
not good enough for him."
Poor child ! Not good enough, because her simple
nature knew not the manifold perplexities, the hindrances
of incomplete life ! Not good enough, because her whole
life was scattered !
And so she breathed herself away, and left her hus
band to all his gloom of Care, made tenfold darker by
the absence of those gleams of tenderness which before
had fitfully irradiated life. The night was starless, and
Ije alone.
A BRIEF HISTORY, IN THREE PARTS, WITH A SEQUEL.
PART I.— LOVE.
A GLANCE — a thought — a blow—
It stings him to the core.
A question — will it lay him low?
Or will time heal it o'er ?
He kindles at the name —
He sits and thinks apart ;
Time blows and blows it to a Same,
Burning within his heart.
lie loves it though it burns,
And nurses it with care ;
He feels the blissful pain by turns
With hope, and with despair.
PART II.— COURTSHIP.
Sonnets and serenades,
Sighs, glances, tears, and vows,
Gifts, tokens, souvenirs, parades,
And courtesies and bows.
A purpose and a prayer ;
The stars are in the sky —
He wonders how e'en hope should dam
To let him aim so high !
Still hope allures and flatters,
And doubt just makes him bold;
And so, with passion all in tatters,
The trembling tale is told.
Apologies and blushes,
Soft looks, averted eyes,
Each heart into the other rushes,
Each yields, and wins a prize.
110 A BRIEF HISTORY.
PART III.— MARRIAGE.
A gathering of fond friends, —
Brief, solemn words, and prayer,—
A trembling to the fingers' ends.
As hand in hand, they swear.
Sweet cake, sweet wine, sweet kisses,
And so the deed is done ;
Now for life's waves and blisses.
The wedded two are one.
And down the shining stream,
They launch their buoyant skiff,
Bless'd, if they may but trust hope's drenm,
But ah 1 Truth echoes—" If!"
THE SEQUEL.— "IF."
If health be firm — if friends be true —
If self be well controlled,
If tastes be pure — if wants be few—
And not too often told —
If reason always rule the heart—
If passion own its sway —
If love — for aye — to life impart
Ine zest it does to-day —
If Providence, with parent care,
Mete out the varying lot —
While meek contentment bows to share
The palace, or the cot —
And oh ! if Faith, sublime and clear.
The spirit upwards guide —
Then bless'd indeed, and bless'd for ever,
The bridegroom and the bride 1
ELMA'S MISSION.
" EVER, evermore !" repeated a young man, bending
with a smile over the fair face that rested on his breast.
"Yes! evermore!" softly breathed the smiling lips
upon which he gazed, and evermore shone from the
melting, heavenly eyes.
" And you believe all these bright fancies you have
been telling me of, darling?" asked the young man.
" Ah ! yes — they are truth to me ; they dwell in my
heart of hearts — they belong to the deepest and sweetest
mysteries of my being. I gaze out through the glory
upon life, and I see no coldness, no darkness — every
thing is coloured with bright radiance from the eternal
world. It is happiness that gives me this beautiful view.
I have known that the world was filled with love, but I
have never so clearly seen it before. And sure I am
that if I were to die now, this same splendour of love
•would still be poured through my soul ; for it is myself,
and I cannot lose it. If you were next week in Europe,
far from me, would not your inner world be illumined
with love and hope ?•"
" It certainly would !"
" And can you doubt the durability, the truth and
reality of this inner-life? Can this clay instrument bo
of any moment farther than it serves to develop life,
in this, our first school ? — we should not confound the
earthly dwelling with the free man who makes it his
temporary home. AM Horace, I feel, I am sure, you
112 ELMA'S MISSION.
will some day enjoy all these ennobling thoughts with
me, and then existence will also be to you sublime."
An expression of radiant hope flitted over the young
man's face, and he kissed the soft lips and eyes of his
betrothed, while he murmured, " I would suffer the loss
of all happiness pn earth, I would bear every stroke the
Almighty might inflict, if I could believe as you do, of
a life beyond this. I am no unbeliever, you know. I
read my Bible daily, but beyond this world everything
to me is misty and dark. I shudder at the ghastliness
of the grave, and would forget that I cannot always
clasp your warm heart to my own. You were surely
sent to be my good angel, to teach me all that is gentlest
and best in my nature, and this holy love must last ever
more. I have always smiled at the idea of love, at first
sight, but when I first saw your face, Elma, none ever
was so welcome ; yet if you had not proved all that your
face and manner promised, I should not have fallen in
love. I half-believe matches are made in Heaven — ours
will be Heaven-made, if any are. You think human
beings are made for each other, as the saying is, do you
not?"
"Yes!" returned Elma, smiling, "I hope we arc
made to be partners in this world, and a better one, but
how can I know it ? When my happy womanhood first
dawned, I had wild, sweet dreams that here on earth I
and many others would surely meet the true half that
belonged to us — one with whom every thought would
rind a response. I have met many whose views are like
mine, and yet whose natures are so different that we
could not see each other's souls; perhaps if they had
ELMA'S MISSION. 113
loved me, I could have seen more clearly — but my rebel
lious heart went forth to meet you, although I tried so
long to turn away — although I trembled to think the
religion of our natures was so unlike."
" I once thought, love, that I should never win you —
it was your pale lips and the mournful intensity of your
look, when we met after a long absence, that gave me
new hope ; and I have often wondered, Elma, why you
gave so unhesitating an assent, when you had for months
at a time avoided me at every opportunity."
" It was because my views had changed in a manner
— although still believing in the fitness of two out of the
whole universe for each other, I began to think that on
earth these very two might each have a mission to
others, and others to them, which would more fully call
out their characters, and perhaps develop the dark
traits necessary to be conquered — so that perfect har
mony might be evolved from chaos. It once seemed
to Hie, with the views I held, that it would be a sin for
me to unite my destiny with one who did not sympathize
with me on all points. But the sad fate of Augusta
Atwood made me reflect deeply. She was my bosom
friend, and never did mortal go to the altar with brighter
hopes — never did human being love more unreservedly.
She whispered to me as I arranged her hair, on the
morning of her bridal : — ' This seems to me like the
beginning of my heavenly life — there is not a height or
depth cf my soul that Charles's nature does not respond
to — I know that we' two are truly one." And so it
Beemed for two happy years — his character took every
one by surprise, perhaps himself, and now Augusta is a.
8
114 ELMA'S MISSION.
miserably neglected wife, toiling on like an angel to
reap good from her desolated earth-life. Yet wo see
that her mighty love was not a true interpreter. No
doubt her lover was sincere at the time in believing that
they not only felt, but thought alike. I have known
many instances, very many, where two, perhaps equally
good and true, have thought themselves fitted for each
other and none else ; yet on the death of one, they have
found a companion who was still more especially made
for them. Thus we see that this is a matter where
there appears to be little certainty and many mistakes.
Doubtless, there are some few blessed ones who truly
find their better-half; but in this sinful, imperfect state
of life, we cannot believe that we are in an order suffi
ciently harmonious to have this a sure thing. Perhaps
one-third of the women in the world never even loved
half as well as they felt themselves capable of loving,
simply because no object "presented himself who could
call forth all the music of a high and noble nature.
" So many a soul o'er life's drear desert faring,
Love's pure congenial spring unfound, unquaffed,
Suffers, recoils, then thirsty and despairing
Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught."
"But, Elma, my child, it is not pleasant to me
that you should have a single doubt that we are not
dearer to each other than any other mortals could
ever be in this world, or the beautiful one you love to
Iream of."
" I am telling you, Horace, the thoughts that hav«
been in my mind — I only feel now thet you are good
ELMA'S MISSION. 115
and gifted, and I love you more than I ever dreamed of
loving."
" And you, sweet, are the breath of my life. It is
heavenly to know that God has given you, and you
alone, to be the angel ministrant of my oft tempestuous
life: you have risen like a star over my cloudy horizon
— may the light of the gentle star shine on my rath,
until it leads me unto the perfect day !"
" Only the light of the Sun of Righteousness can do
that," returned Elma; then, with a tear glistening on
her lash, she added, " I hope God will help me to be
good and pure, that I may be a medium of good, and
not evil to you."
Most blessedly passed the days to that hopeful maiden ;
it was a treasure full of all promise to have, not only the
happiness of her lover, but as she trusted, his best good
committed to her charge, next to God. When she knelt
in the morning hour, her prayer was ever a thanksgiving
— she lifted up the gates of her soul that the King of
Glory might come in, and His radiant presence per
meated her whole being — she left to Him the control of
her life, all the strange mysteries of heavenly policy,
which she felt and knew would ultimate in perfecting
her too worldly nature ; and she went forth, angel-
attended, to her duties, fusing into them this effluent
life that dwelt so richly within her. Every word of
kindness and love that dropped from her soft, coral lips,
bore with it a portion of the smiling life that overflowed
her spirit. When she arose, her constant thought was,
" Another day is coming, in which the work of progress
may go on : I may perhaps this day conquer some evil,
116 ELMA'S MISSION.
or do some humble good, that will fit me to be a still
better angel to Horace, and -which shall beautify my
mansion in the Heavens."
At length the bridal day came, and fled also like
other days, save that a sweeter brightness enwrapped
the soul of Elma ; so six months or more flitted away in
delicious dream-life, for outward things made a compara
tively slight impression ; Elma lived and loved more
than she thought. But one morning reflection and pain
came together ; the latter led in the former, a long-for
gotten friend, and the young wife asked herself how far
she had travelled onward and upward since the bridal
days, since her path had been all sunshine ; — she bowed
her head and wept bitterly. "Not for me, at least,"
she sighed, " is constant happiness a friend, — not yet
am I fitted to enjoy the highest harmony of life.
* Therefore, burn, thou holy pain, thou purifying fire !'
It is meet I should be wounded where my deepest joys
are lodged. I see that it is the lash of pain which must
drive me through the golden gates. Yes ! I will arise,
and thank my Father that He has not been as unmind
ful of my eternal well-being as I would be myself, if left
to wander only among flowers of love and gladness."
And what was this grief that awoke the bride from
her blissful dream ? It would seem the merest nothing
to the strong man of the world, to the gay woman who
glides superficially through existence. But many a
young bride will understand how it might be more sor
rowful than the loss of houses and lands. It was the
husband's first frown, his first petulant word : it was the
key that opened Elma's understanding to the true state
ELMA'S MISSION. 117
of the past. She could no longer blind her eyes, as she
had done, to a certain worldlincss in her husband, and
which had also reached her through him. This morn
ing, that revealed so much, Horace had impatiently ex
claimed as Elma held forth her Bible to him, as usual. —
" I have not time for that now, child !" and hastily
kissing her, he put on his hat, and went forth to his
business.
A pale anguish settled on Elma's face as she sunk
upon a chair.
"Is this the beginning of sorrows?" she murmured;
" he never spoke to me so before, perhaps he will often
do so again. If it had been about anything else, I think
I could have borne it better ! Oh God ! is the angel
leaving our Paradise ?"
And she thought over and over again of this worldli-
ness in her husband, and his want of the high standard
in religion that was so dear to her ; she felt that she
wasj in a measure, deceived in him — surely once ho
seemed to dwell in an atmosphere that was more
spiritual. Yes ! Elma was deceived in him, but Horace
had not deceived her. In the happy glow of his suc
cessful love, he had caught the warmth of Elrna'a
thoughts ; they had charmed his imagination, in a mea
sure commended* themselves to his understanding, and
made a temporary impression upon his heart, so that he
went out among men with a more benevolent spirit than
he had ever done before. But truth, to be abiding,
must be sought after with an eager thirst ; and it came
to Horace crowned Avith flowers ; he condescended to
tale the charmer in, and obeyed her for awhile, then
IIS ELMA'S MISSION.
she was forgotten, he thought not why, and he imper
ceptibly returned to the real self, which Elma had never
before had an opportunity to become acquainted with.
Three years went by. Horace was a devoted husband,
no being on earth was to him so perfect as his wife — nc
human being had ever exerted over him the quiet, hoty
influence that belonged to Elma. She had gradually
accomplished infinitely more than she suspected, yet
many a time, and oft, had he caused her grieved tears
to fall like rain. Many a time had despairing prayers
risen from her soul for him, while she breathed out tO
her God a cry for strength. She felt that she taw
through a glass darkly ; but she sought with most
earnest heart for every duty, knowing that thus her
pathway would lead continually to a more sure and
Bteady light.
Elma often wondered that so much joy was given to
her earthly life ; butishe understood the true philosophy,
for her every grief was regarded as a special messenger
from the spirit-land, and amid her tears she looked up,
and resolutely answered to the call, "Excelsior !" She
was ever receiving with gratitude the blessings that
clustered about her lot, and, as it were, transmuting all
common things into pleasures, by seeking out a bright
ness in them.
But a heavier trial was in store for the wife than she
had anticipated. Horace had been very unfortunate in
business ; he bore it with more gentleness than Elma
had expected, but it wore upon his spirits; day after
day he was busied in settling up, and came home with
ELMA'S MISSION. 119
a look of sadness and anxiety. One evening he came
in with a brighter look.
"What is the news?" asked his wife, as she read his
face.
" I have an offer of a clerkship, at a very good salary,
eighteen hundred dollars a year !"
" We can get along admirably with that !" said Elma,
with a bright smile. " You know we are retrenching
our expenses so much, that we can live on half that, and
the rest can go towards your debts. In a few years you
will be able to pay all you owe, will you not?"
" Perhaps so, by exerting every faculty, and living on
less than you propose !"
" Oh ! well, we can !" was the eager response. " I'll
manage to get along on almost nothing ; as small a sum
as you choose to name. Every trifling deprivation will
be an actual delight, that helps to discharge those debts.
It will, indeed!" she added, as Horace smiled at her
enthusiasm.
" I believe you, little one, every word you say !" and,
with an air of cheerful affection, such as he had not
shown for weeks, the husband drew his wife's head upon
his breast, and, forgetful of cold business cares and the
world, they were gay, tender, and happy.
It was with a different look that Horace entered his
home the next evening ; a shadow fell on Elma's heart
when she saw him, and the evening meal passed in
silence.
"What are you thinking of, TTorace?"she timidly
asked, some time after, approaching him as he stood by
120 ELMA'S MISSION.
the window, gazing out gloomily into the star-ligntej
street.
" I have received a better offer, and have determined
to accept it." It must be known that Horace came
quickly to a decision, and then persevered in it ; none
knew the vanity of striving to change him, when fairly
resolved, better than Elma ; but in small matters he was
yielding as Elma herself. She stood in a fearful silence,
looking into his face, which he had turned towards her.
" I am going to California !" he said, almost sternly,
for he feared Elma's tenderness might unman him.
"Not without me?" she asked, with pleading eyes.
" Yes ! Elma, I cannot take you, for 1 shall be con
stantly travelling, and subject to the greatest hardships
— you could not bear it ! I shall be back in a year and
a half."
" I could bear anything better than to be left behind
— you do not know as well as I what would be the
greatest hardship for me. Ah ! Horace, do not put me
to this dreadful trial. Let me go with you, and you will
find that I will not utter a complaint. You can leave
me at some place, while you travel over the roughest
country -you may be sick, and need me. I fear men
grow hard and selfish there, and what you gain in purse,
you may lose in what is dearest to me. ' It is not good
for man to be alone.' "
"Hush, darling; every word is vain!" answered
Horace, clasping her to his breast, and kissing her with
passionate vehemence. For the first time in his life he
wept without any restraint over her. " Do you think
anything hut duty would tear me from you ? It is my
ELMA'S MISSION. 121
Huty to be just to all men, and to pay what I owe as
soon as I can."
" But take me !" sobbed Elma.
" Dear child ! you must be reasonable. I know that
you fear the influence about me will not be as angelically
pure as your own, and I love you for that fear. I shall
go where no man will care for my soul as you do ; but
I shall not forget you, Elma. Now, cheer up, and show
me the ready resolution you have always had at hand."
" I never had such a cruel blow as this before !'
returned Elma, in an entire abandonment of grief.
" Oh ! take me with you, Horace, and nothing in the
world will be hard for me."
The wife's pleadings were vain, and in a week shfc
parted from her husband. After he had gone, she won
back a spirit of resignation ; indeed, as soon as she found
her doom Avas sealed, she gathered up her strength, and
strove to cheer Horace, whose spirits sunk miserably
when he had no longer to support Elma. She laid out
a plan for her life during her widowhood, as she called
it, and this plan was after the example of One who went
about doing good. The weary time passed slowly, but
each day added a little gem to Elma's heavenly life, and
when, at length, she received her husband's last letter
before his return, her thanks gushed forth in gladness,
as they had so often before done, in holy confidence.
Part of his letter ran thus : —
" And now, dear love, having told you of the outward
success which hap met my efforts, let me tell you a little
of the heart that belongs to you — which you have woo
122 ELMA'S MISSION.
from darkness to light. It is filled with images of hope
and love, and a light from your spirit shines "through all
— you have been ever with me, ever leading me to that
' true light which lighteth every man that cometh into
the world.' I often gave you pain, my darling, when
we were together; it was unintentional, and sprang from
the evil of my nature ; and a thousand times, when you
did not suspect it, your gentle look and touch brought
to my spirit better thoughts, and the thoughts brought
better words and deeds. You have been the angel of
my life still more during our separation ; for my soul
has yearned for your dear presence constantly, and
every day I have said to myself, ' Would this please
Ehna ?' ind when I have been enabled to do a kindness,
my heart glowed at the thought of Elma's approval.
Your blessed spirit never seems so near to me as when
I lift up my soul in prayer. I sometimes fancy your
prayers, beloved, have unlocked the Kingdom of Heaven,
for me. Good bye, dearest life, we shall soon meet.
IIORACE."
And when they met, the joy of their first wedding
days seemed doubled. Elma rejoiced at the discipline
she had been through, for it had better fitted her for the
joyful existence that was before her. It had now become
more of a habit for her soul to dwell in a heavenly
atmosphere — she had learned to rely steadfastly upon
her God for the good gifts of her life, and they were
showered upon her abundantly ; doubly beautifu], they
were shared by a heart in unison.
LIVING LIKE A LADY.
MR. HAMILTON BURGESS was a man of limited mean*,
but having married a beautiful and amiable woman, ha
resolved to spare no expense in surrounding her with
comforts, and in supporting her, as he said, "like a
lady."
" My dear Ammy," said Mrs. Burgess, to her indul
gent husband, about a year after their marriage — " My
dear Ammy" — this was the name she called him by at
home — " you are too kind to me, altogether. You are
unwilling that I should work, or do anything towards
our support, when I actually think that a little exertion
on my part would not only serve to lighten your ex
penses, but be quite as good for my health and spirits
as the occupations to which my time is now devoted."
" Oh, you industrious little bee !" exclaimed Mr. Bur
gess, " you have great notions of making yourself use
ful, I declare ! But, Lizzie, I shall never consent to your
propositions. I did not marry you to make you my slave.
When you gave me this dear hand, I resolved that it
should never be soiled and made rough by labour — and
it never shall, as long as I am able to attend to my busi
ness."
Mrs. Burgess would not have done anything to dis
please her husband for the world, and she accordingly
allowed him to have his way without offering farther
remonstrance.
But Hamilton's business was dull, and it required the
1"! LIVING LIKE A LADY.
greatest exertion on his part, and the severest applica
tion, to raise sufficient money to meet the daily expenses
of his family.
" My affairs will be in a better state next year," he
said to himself, " and I must manage to struggle through
this dull season-some way or another. I will venture to
run in debt a little, I think ; for any way is preferable
to reducing our household expenditures, which are by no
means extravagant. At all events, Lizzie must not know
what my circumstances are, for she would insist upon a
change in our style of living, and revive the subject of
doing something towards our support."
Mr. Burgess then ventured to run in debt a little ; he
did not attempt to reduce the expenses of his house
keeping ; he never gave his wife a hint respecting the
true state of his business matters, but insisted upon her
accepting, as usual, a liberal allowance of funds to meet
her private expenses.
Lizzie seemed quite happy in her ignorance of her
husband's circumstances, never spoke again of assisting
to support the establishment, but seemed to devote her
self to the pursuit of quiet pleasures, and to procuring
Hamilton's happiness. But Mr. Burgess's circumstances,
instead of improving, grew continually worse. His ven
ture of "running in debt a little," resulted in running
in debt a great deal. Thus the second year of his mar
ried life passed, and the dark shadows of disappointed
hope and the traces of corroding care began to change
the aspect of his brow.
One day a friend said to Hamilton —
" I am surprised at your conduct ! Here you are,
LIVING LIKE A LADY. 125
making a slave of yourself, while your wife is playing
the lady. She is not to blame ; it is you. She would
gladly do something for her own support, if you would
permit her ; and it would be better for her and for you.
Remember the true saying —
' Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do !' "
" What do you mean ?" demanded Hamilton, red
dening.
" I mean that, generally speaking, young wives of an
ardent temperament, when left to themselves, with no
thing but their pleasures to occupy their minds, are apt
to forget their husbands, and find enjoyment in such
society as he might not altogether approve."
" Sir, you do not know my wife," exclaimed Hamil
ton. " She, thank Heaven, is not one of those."
" I hope not," was the quiet reply.
Although Hamilton Burgess had not a jealous nature,
and would never have entertained unjust suspicions of
his wife, these words of his friend set him to thinking.
He remembered that Lizzie was always happy, however
he might be oppressed with cares ; and now he wondered
how it was that she could be so unmindful of everything
except pleasure, while he was so constantly harassed.
The consistent Mr. Hamilton Burgess undoubtedly for
got that he had taken the utmost pains to conceal his
circumstances from his wife.
It was in this state of mind that Mr Burgess one day
left his business, and went home unexpectedly. It waa
126 LIVING LIKE A LADY.
at an hour when Lizzie least thought of seeing him, and
on this occasion she appeared considerably embarrassed ;
nor did Mr. Burgess fail to observe that she was very
tardy in making her appearance in the sitting-room.
On another occasion, Mr. Burgess returned homo
under similar circumstances, and going directly to his
wife's room, found, to his astonishment, that he could
not gain admittance. After some delay, however, during
which Hamilton heard footsteps hurrying to and fro
within, and whispering, Mrs. Burgess opened the door,
and, blushing very red, attempted to apologize for not
admitting him before.
"Who was with you?" demanded Hamilton.
"With me?" cried Lizzie, much confused.
"Yes, madam. L heard whispering, and I am sure,
somebody just passed through that side door."
" Oh, that was nobody but Margaret !" exclaimed
Mrs. Burgess, hastily.
Hamilton could ill conceal his vexation ; but he did
not intimate to his wife that he suspected her of equivo
cation, nor did she see fit to attempt a full exposition of
the matter.
Nothing was said of this incident afterwards ; but for
many weeks it occupied Hamilton's mind. All this time
he was harassed with cares of business, and his brow
became more darkly shrouded in gloom as his perplexi
ties thickened. At last the crisis came ! Mr. Burgess
saw the utter impossibility of longer continuing his al
most profitless trade, under heavy expenses, which not
only absorbed his small capital, but actually plunged
him into debt. But one honest course was left for him
LIVING LiKE A LADY. 127
to pursue ; and he resolved to close up his affairs, and
sell off what stock he had to pay his debts.
It was at this time that Mr. Birgess saw in its true
light the error of which he had been guilty, in opposing
his wife's desire to economize, and devote a portion of
her time to useful occupation.
" Had I allowed her to lighten our expenses in this
way," thought he, " I might not have been driven to
such extremities. And what has been the result of my
folly ? Why, I have kept her ignorant of our poverty
until the very last, and now the sudden intelligence that
we are beggars, will well nigh kill her !"
Satisfied of the danger, if not the impossibility, of
keeping the secret longer from his wife, Mr. Burgess
went home one day, resolved to break the intelligence to
her without hesitation. Entering the house with his
latch-key, he went directly to Lizzie's room, which he
entered unceremoniously. To his surprise, he found on
the table a gentleman's cap, of that peculiar fashion
which he had seen worn by postmen and dandies about
town. Anxious for an explanation, he looked around for
his wife ; but Lizzie was not in the room. Then hearing
voices in another part of the house, he left the room by
a different door from that by which he had entered, and
hastened to the parlour, where he expected to find Mrs.
Burgess in company with the owner of that cap. To his
surprise, he found the parlour vacant, and meeting Mar
garet in the hall a moment after, he impatiently demanded
hU wife.
" She is in the room, sir," said the domestic.
Without saying a word, Hamilton again hastened IP
128 LIVING LIKE A LADY.
Lizzie's room, where he found her reading a late maga
zine with affected indifference !
" Madam," cried he, angrily, " what does this mean ?
Here I have been chasing you all over the house, without
being able to catch you. What company have you just
dismissed ?"
" What company ?" asked Lizzie.
"Yes, madam, what company?"
" Do not speak so angrily, dear Ammy. Why are
you so impatient ?"
" Because I wish to know what gentleman has been
favouring you with such a confidential visit !"
Hamilton remembered other occasions when, on his
coming home unexpectedly, his wife had shown signs of
embarrassment ; and, added to this, her present equivo
cation rendered him violently jealous. She appeared to
shrink from him in fear, and became alternately red and
pale, as she answered —
" There has been no gentleman here to see me !"
"No one?"
" No one, dear Ammy !"
Mr. Burgess was on the point of demanding to know
who was the owner of the cap which he had seen on his
wife's table, and which had now mysteriously disap
peared ; but emotion checked him, and he paced the floor
in silence.
" This is too much !" he muttered, at length, in the
bitterness of his heart. " I could endure poverty, with
out uttering a complaint for myself; I could endure any
thing but this !"
LIVING LIKE A LADY. 129
" Why, Ammy, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Bur
gess, in alarm.
"Nothing — only we are beggars!" answered Hamil
ton, abruptly.
" Have you been unfortunate ?" calmly asked his wife,
affectionately taking him by the arm.
" Yes — the most unfortunate of men ! I am ruined —
we are beggars — but" —
" Dear Ammy, you must not let this cast you down.
Business failures frequently happen, but they ought never
to destroy domestic happiness. Come, how bad off arc
we ? Are we really beggars ?"
"My creditors will take everything," answered Ha
milton, gloomily.
" They will not take us from each other," said Lizzie.
Mr. Burgess looked at his young wife with a bitter
smile.
" Are you such a deceiver ?" he muttered through his
teeth. " Can you talk thus when you have just dismissed
a lover ?"
" Sir !" cried Mrs. Burgess, a glow of indignation
lighting her fair face. " What do you mean?"
"Don't deny what I say!" replied Hamilton. "You
were having an interview with a gentleman when I came
iu."
Lizzie trembled with indignation.
" I saw his cap on the table !"
Lizzie laughed outright. "Come here," she said,
.lading her husband away.
Hamilton followed her, and she went to a bureau, un-
9
130 LIVING LIKE A LADY.
locked a deep drawer, and opening it, called her hus
band's attention to its contents.
It was half full of caps !
Hamilton looked at Lizzie in perplexity. Lizzie looked
at Hamilton, and smiled.
"I suppose that you will now declare that there are
twenty gentlemen in the house," said Mrs. Burgess.
" Lizzie !" cried her husband, clasping her hands, " 1
am already ashamed of my suspicions. I ask your for
giveness. But explain this matter to me. I am dying
in perplexity."
"Well," replied Lizzie, archly, "/made those caps."
"You!"
" Certainly ; that is, I and Margaret. I kept my
work a secret from you, because you were opposed to my
exerting myself, and although you have come near sur
prising me more than once, I have carried on my trea
sonable designs pretty successfully until to-day."
"But, dear Lizzie, how could you ?"
" I can answer that question. I saw pretty clearly
into your business affairs, and knew that we could not
live in this style long. So I thought I would disobey
you. My cousin George, the hat manufacturer, seconded
my designs, and privately sent me caps to make, nearly
a jear ago."
Hamilton opened his eyes in astonishment.
" Surprising, isn't it ? But this isn't all. You insisted
on my keeping Margaret, when I might just as well have
done my housework myself; I thought I would make her
useful, and made her help me work on the caps. Be
sides, you wore not satisfied if I neglected to use all the
LIVING LIKE A LADY 131
spending money you allowed me, and I pretended to use
that, just to please you. Now, before you scold me for
my disobedience, witness the results of my industry and
economy."
Lizzie opened her desk, and displayed to Hamilton's
bewildered sight, a pile of gold which filled him with
greater astonishment than anything else.
"There," continued Lizzie, without allowing him to
speak — "there are three hundred dollars. Of course,
this little sum wouldn't make anybody rich, but I hope
it will convince you that a wife's economy and industry
are not to be despised."
" Lizzie ! dear Lizzie !"
" Oh, this is nothing — only a sample of what I can do.
Come, now, acknowledge your error, and say that I may
have my own way in future."
Hamilton replied by clasping his wife in his arms.
" There, say nothing more about it," she continued.
" Don't think of your misfortunes, but remember that we
can be happy even if we both have to work hard. Po
verty canjiot crush us ; and I hope I have already con
vinced you that work will not make me lose attraction in
your sight."
The young husband's heart overflowed with gratitude
ttnd joy.
" How have I misunderstood you, dear Lizzie !" he
exclaimed. " You are worth more to me than southern
riches ; and now that I know poverty cannot crush you,
my mind is at ease. Lizzie, I am so happy !"
" And I may have my way ?"
"Yes, always."
132 LIVING LIKE A LADY.
" Remember this !" cried Mrs. Burgess, archly.
With a lighter heart than he had felt for many months
before, Hamilton went about the settlement of his busi
ness affairs, while Lizzie devoted herself to perfecting a
'new system of housekeeping.
When Mr. Burgess came home at night, he was sur
prised at the wonderful change which had taken place
during his absence.
" Don't scold," said his wife, regarding him with a
smile ; "you said I might have my way."
" True — but what have you done ?"
" I have been making arrangements to let half the
house to Mr. Smith's family, who will move in next week.
They are pleasant people, and as we had twice as much
room as we actually needed, I thought it best to take
them. Then again, we shan't need so much furniture,
and if you like, you can sell Mr. Smith some of what we
have, at a fair price."
Mr. Burgess neither frowned nor looked displeased,
nor did he ever afterwards oppose his wife's designs. He
soon found his expenses so reduced, that, with the fruits
of his wife's industry added to his own, they were able
to live quite comfortably and happily ; and, although he
soon became engaged in more profitable business, he
never again urged her to indulge in the folly of " living
like a lady."
LADF LUCY'S SECRET.
MR. FEJIRARS, ^ho sat reading the morning paper,
suddenly started with an exclamation of grief and
astonishment that completely roused his absent-minded
wife.
"My dear Walter, what has happened?" she asked,
with real anxiety.
" A man a bankrupt, whom I thought as safe as the
Bank of England ! Though it is true, people talked
about him months ago — spoke suspiciously of his per
sonal extravagance, and. above all, said that his wife
was ruining him."
"His wife!"
"Yes; but I cannot understand that sort of thing.
A few hundreds a year more or less could be of little
moment to a man like Beaufort, and I don't suppose she
spent more than you do, my darling. At any rate she
was never better dressed. Yet I believe the truth was,
that she got frightfully into debt unknown to him ; and
debt is a sort of thing that multiplies itself in' a most
astonishing manner, and sows by the wayside the seeds
of all sorts of misery. Then people say that when pay
day came at last, bickerings ensued, their domestic
happiness was broken up, Beaufort grew reckless, and
plunged into the excitement of the maddest specula
tions."
"How dreadful!" murmured Lady Lucy.
134 LADY LUCY'S SECRET.
" Dreadful indeed ! I don't know what I should do
with such a wife.''
" Would not you forgive her if you loved her very
much?" asked Lady Lucy, and she spoke in a singularly
calm tone of suppressed emotion.
" Once, perhaps, once ; and if her fault were the fault
of youthful inexperience, — but so much falseness, mean
deception, and mental deterioration must have accom
panied such transactions, that — in short, I thank Heaven
that I have never been put to the trial."
As he spoke, the eyes of Mr. Ferrars were fixed on
the leading article of the Times, not on his wife. Pre
sently Lady Lucy glided from the room, without her
absence being at the moment observed. Once in her
dressing-room, she turned the key, and sinking into a
low chair, gave vent to her grief in some of the bitterest
tears she had ever shed. She, too, was in debt ; " fright
fully," her husband had used the right word ; " hopeless
ly," so far as satisfying her creditors, even out of the
large allowance Mr. Ferrars made her ; and still she had
not the courage voluntarily tc tell the truth, which yet
she knew must burst upon him ere long. From what
small beginnings had this Upas shadow come upon her !
And what " falseness, mean deception, and mental
deterioration" had truly been hers !
Even the fancied relief of weeping was a luxury denied
to her, for she feared to show the evidence of tears ;
thus after a little while she strove to drive them back,
and by bathing her face before the glass, and drawing
the braids of her soft hair a little nearer her eyes, she
was tolerably successful in hiding their trace. Never,
LADY LUCY'S SECRET. 135
when dressing for court or gala, had she consulted her
mirror so closely ; and now, though the tears were dried,
she was shocked at the lines of anguish — those delvers
of the wrinkles of age — which marked her countenance.
She sat before her looking-glass, one hand supporting
her head, the other clutching the hidden letters which
she had not yet the courage to open. There was a light
tap at the door.
" Who is there ?" inquired Lady Lucy.
" It is I, my lady," replied Harris, her faithful maid.
" Madame Dalmas is here."
Lady Lucy unlocked the door and gave orders that
the visitor should be shown up. With the name had
come a flush of hope that some trifling temporary help
would be hers. Madame Dalmas called herself a
Frenchwoman, and signed herself " Antoinette," but she
was really an English Jewess of low extraction, whose
true name was Sarah Solomons. Her " profession" was
to purchase — and sell — the cast-off" apparel of ladies of
fashion ; and few of the sisterhood have carried the art
of double cheating to so great a proficiency. With
always a roll of bank-notes in her old leathern pocket-
book, and always a dirty canvass bag full of bright
sovereigns in her pocket, she had ever the subtle tempta
tion for her victims ready.
Madame Dalmas — for she must be called according to
the name engraved on her card — was a little meanly-
dressed woman of about forty, with bright eyes and a
hooked nose, a restless shuffling manner, and an ill-
pitched voice. Her jargon was a mixture of bad French
and worse English.
136 LADY LUCY'S SECRET.
" Bon jour, miladi Lucy," she exclaimed as she entered
Lady Lucy's sanctum ; " need not inquire of health, you
look si charmante. Oh, si belle ! — that make you wear
old clothes so longer dan oder ladies, and have so leetel
for me to buy. Milady Lucy Ferrars know she look
well in anyting, but yet she should not wear old clothes :
no right — for example — for de trade, and de hoosband
always like de wife well dressed — ha — ha !"
Poor Lady Lucy ! Too sick at heart to have any
relish for Madame Dalmas' nauseous compliments, and
more than half aware of her cheats and falsehoods, she
yet tolerated the creature from her own dire necessities.
*' Sit down, Madame Dalmas," she said, " I am dread
fully in want of money ; but I really don't know what I
have for you."
" De green velvet, which you not let me have before
.Easter, I still give you four pounds for it, though per
haps you worn it very much since then."
" Only twice — only seven times in all — and it cost me
twenty guineas," sighed Lady Lucy.
" Ah, but so old-fashioned — I do believe I not see my
money for it. Voyez-vous, de Lady Lucy is one petite
lady — si jolie, mais tres petite. If she were de tall
grand lady, you see de great dresses could fit small lady,
but de leetle dresses fit but ver few."
"If I sell the green velvet I must have another next
winter !" murmured Lady Lucy.
" Ah ! — vous avez raison — when de season nouveaute*a
come in. I tell you what — you let me have also de
white lace robe you show me once, the same time I
bought from you one iittle old pearl brooch."
LADY LUCY'S SECRET. IS'l
" My wedding-dress ? Oh, no, I cannot sell my
wedding -dress !" exclaimed poor Lady Lucy, pressing
her hands conclusively together.
" What for not? — you not want to marry over again
— I give you twenty-two pounds for it."
" Twenty-two pounds ! — why, it is Brussels point, and
cost a hundred and twenty."
" Ah, I know — but you forget I perhaps keep it ten
years and not sell — and besides you buy dear ; great
lady often buy ver dear!" and Madame Dalmas shook
her head Avith the solemnity of a sage.
"No, no; I cannot sell my wedding-dress," again
murmured the wife. And be it recorded, the temptress,
for once, was baffled ; but, at the expiration of an hour,
Madame Dalmas left the house, with a huge bundle
under her arm, and a quiet satisfaction revealed in her
countenance, had any one thought it worth while to study
the expression of her disagreeable face.
Again Lady Lucy locked her door ; and placing a
bank note and some sovereigns on the table, she sank
into a low chair, and while a few large silent tears flowed
down her cheeks, she at last found courage to open the
three letters which had hitherto remained, unread, in her
apron pocket. The first, the second, seemed to contain
nothing to surprise her, however much there might be to
annoy; but it Avas different Avith the last; here was a
gross overcharge, and perhaps it was not with quite a
disagreeable feeling that Lady Lucy found something of
which she could justly complain. She rose hurriedly
and unlocked a small Avriting-desk, which had long been
used as a receptacle for old letters and accounts.
138 LADY LUCY'S SECRET.
To tell the truth, the interior of the desk did not
present a very orderly arrangement. Cards of address,
bills paid and unpaid, copies of verses, and papers of
many descriptions, were huddled together, and it was
not by any means surprising that Lady Lucy failed in
her search for the original account by which to rectify
the error in her shoemaker's bill. In the hurry and
nervous trepidation, which had latterly become almost a
constitutional ailment with her, she turned out the con
tents of the writing-desk into an easy-chair, and then
kneeling before it, she set herself to the task of carefully
examining the papers. Soon she came to one letter
which had been little expected in that place, and which
still bore the marks of a rose, whose withered leaves also
remained, that had been put away in its folds. The
rose Walter Ferrars had given her on the eve of their
marriage, and the letter was in his handwriting, and
bore but a few days earlier date. With quickened pulses
she opened the envelope ; and though a mist rose before
her eyes, it seemed to form into a mirror in which she
saw the by-gone hours. And so she read — and read.
It is the fashion to laugh at love-letters, perhaps be
cause only the silly ones ever come to light. With the
noblest of both sexes such effusions are sacred, and would
be profaned by the perusal of a third person : but when
a warm and true heart is joined to a manly intellect;
when reason sanctions and constancy maintains the
choice which has been made, there is little doubt that
much of simple, truthful, touching eloquence is often to
be found in a "lover's" letter. That which the wife
now perused with strange and mingled feelings was evi-
LADY LUCY'S SECRET. 139
dently a reply to some girlish depreciation of herself,
and contained these words : —
" You tell me that in the scanty years of your past
life, you already look back on a hundred follies, and that
you have unnumbered faults of character at which I do
not even guess. Making some allowance for a figurative
expression, I will answer 'it may be so.' What then?
I have never called you an angel, and never desired you
to be perfect. The weaknesses which cling, tendril-like,
to a fine nature, not unfrequently bind us to it by ties
we do not seek to sever. I know you for a true-hearted
girl, but with the bitter lessons of life still unlearned ;
let it be my part to shield you from their sad knowledge,
— yet whatever sorrow or evil falls upon you, I must or
ought to share. Let us have no secrets ; and while the
Truth which gives its purest lustre to your eye, and its
richest rose to your cheek, still reigns in your soul, I
cannot dream of a fault grave enough to 'deserve harsher
rebuke than the kiss of forgiveness."
What lines to read at such a moment ! No wonder
their meaning reached her mind far differently than it
had done when they were first received. Then she coul J
have little heeded it ; witness how carelessly the letter
had been put away — how forgotten had been its contents
Her tears flowed in torrents, but Lucy Ferrars nc
longer strove to check them. And yet there gleamed
through them a brighter smile than had visited her coun
tenance for many a month. A resolve approved by all
her better nature was growing firm within her heart;
and that which an hour before would have seemed too
to contemplate was losing half its terrors. How
140 LADY LUCY'S SECRET.
often an ascent, which looks in the distance a bare pre
cipice, shows us, when we approach its face, the notches
by which we may climb ! — and not a few of the difficul
ties of life yield to our will when we bravely encounter
them.
"Why did I fear him so much?" murmured Lady
Lucy to herself. " I ought not to have needed such un
assurance as this to throw myself at his feet, and bear
even scorn and rebuke, rather than prolong the reign of
falsehood and deceit. Yes — yes," and gathering a heap
of papers in her hand with the "love-letter" beneath
them, she descended the stairs.
There is no denying that Lady Lucy paused at the
library door — no denying that her heart beat quickly,
and her breath seemed well-nigh spent ; but she was
right to act on the good impulse, and not wait until the
new-born courage should sink.
Mr. Ferrars had finished the newspaper, and was writ
ing an unimportant note; his back was to the door, and
hearing the rustle of his wife's dress, and knowing her
step, he did not turn his head sufficiently to observe her
countenance, but he said, good-humouredly,
"At last! What have you been about? I thought
we were to go out before luncheon to look at the brace
let I mentioned to you."
"No, Walter — no bracelet — you must never give mo
any jewels again ;" and_as Lady Lucy spoke she leaned
against a chair for support. At such words her husband
turned quickly round, started up, and exclaimed,
'" Lucy, my love ! — in tears — what has happened ?"
and finding that even when he wound his arm round her
LADY LUCY'S SECRET. Ill
she still was mute, he continued, " Speak — this silence
breaks my heart — what have I done to lose your confi
dence ?"
"Not you — I — "gasped the wife. " Your words at
breakfast — this letter — have rolled the stone from my
heart — I must confess — the truth — I am like Mrs. Beau
fort — in debt — frightfully in debt." And with a ges
ture, as if she would crush herself into the earth, she
slipped from his arms and sank literally on the floor.
Whatever pang Mr. Ferrars felt at the knowledge of
her fault, it seemed overpowered by the sense of her
present anguish — an anguish that proved how bitter had
been the expiation ; and he lifted his wife to a sofa, bent
over her with fondness, called her by all the dear pet
names to which her ear was accustomed, and nearer
twenty times than once gave her the " kiss of forgive
ness."
" And it is of you I have been afraid !" cried Lady
Lucy, clinging to his hand. "You who I thought
would never make any excuses" for faults you yourself
could not have committed !"
" I have never been tempted."
" Have I ? I dare not say so."
" Tell me how it all came about," said Mr. Ferrars,
Irawing her to him ; " tell me from the beginning."
But his gentleness unnerved her — she felt choking —
loosened the collar of her dress for breathing space — •
and gave him the knowledge he asked in broken excla
mations.
" Before I was married — it — began. They persuaded
me so many — oh, so many — unnecessary things were —
142 LADY LUCY'S SEClttJT.
needed Then they would not send the bills — and I —
for a long time — never knew — what I owed — and then
— and then — I thought I should have the power — but — "
"Your allowance was not sufficient?" asked Mr. Fer-
rars, pressing her hand as he spoke.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes! most generous, and yet it was
always forestalled to pay old bills ; and then — and then
my wants -were so many. I was so weak. Madame
Dalmas has had dresses I could have worn when I had
new ones on credit instead, and — and Harris has had
double wages to compensate for what a lady's maid
thinks her perquisites ; even articles I might have given
to poor gentlewomen I have been mean enough to sell.
Oh, Walter ! I have been very wrong ; but I have been
miserable for at least three years. I have felt as if an
iron cage were rising round me — from which you only
could free me — and yet, till to-day, I think I could have
died rather than confess to you."
" My poor girl ! Why should you have feared me ?
Have I ever been harsh ?"
" Oh, no ! — no — but you are so just — so strict in all
these things — "
"I hope I am; and yet not the less do I understand
how all this has come about. Now, Lucy — now that
you have ceased to fear me — tell me the amount."
She strove to speak, but could not.
•'Three figures or four? tell me."
"I am afraid — yes, I am afraid four," murmured
Lady Lucy, and hiding her face from his view ; " yes,
four figures, and my quarter received last week gono
every penny."
LADY LUCY'S SECRET. MS
" Lucy, every bill shall be paid this day ; but you
must reward me by being happy."
" Generous ! dearest ! But, Walter, if you had been
a poor man, what then ?"
"Ah, Lucy, that would have been a very different arid
an infinitely sadder story. Instead of the relinquish-
ment of some indulgence hardly to be missed, there
might have been ruin and poverty and disgrace; You
have one excuse, — at least you knew that I could pay at
last."
" Ah, but at what a price ! The price of your love
and confidence."
"No, Lucy — for your confession has been voluntary;
and I will not ask myself what I should have felt had
the knowledge come from another. After all, you have
fallen to a temptation which besets the wives of the rich
far more than those of poor or struggling gentlemen.
Tradespeople are shrewd enough in one respect : they
do not press their commodities and long credit in
quarters where ultimate payment seems doubtful —
though "
"They care not what domestic misery they create
among the rich," interrupted Lady Lucy, bitterly.
" Stay : there are faults on both sides, not the least
of them being that girls in your station are too rarely
taught the value of money, or that integrity in money
matters should be to them a point of honour second only
to one other. Now listen, my darling, before we dis
miss this painful subject for ever. You have the greatest
confidence in your maid, and entre nous she must be a .
good deal in the secret. We shall bribe her to discre-
144 A \VORD FOR WIVES.
tion, however, by dismissing Madame Dalmas at once
and for ever. As soon as you can spare Harris, I will
send her to change a check at Coutts's, and then, for
expedition and security, she shall take on the brougham
and make a round to these tradespeople. Meanwhile, I
will drive you in the phaeton to look at the bracelet."
"Oh, no — no, dear Walter, not the bracelet."
" Yes — yes — I say yes. Though not a quarrel, thia
is a sorrow which has come between us, and there must
be a peace-offering". Besides, I would not have you
think that you had reached the limits of my will, and of
my means to gratify you."
" To think that I could have doubted — that I could
have feared you!" sobbed Lady Lucy, as tears of joy
coursed down her cheeks. " But, Walter, it is not every
husband who would have shown such generosity."
" I think there are few husbands, Lucy, who do not
estimate truth and candour as among the chief of conju
gal virtues : — ah, had you confided in me when first you
felt the bondage of debt, how much anguish would have
been spared you !"
A WORD FOR WIVES.
WHAT is it ? A little pencil note, crumpled and worTi,
as if carried for a long time in one's pocket. I found it
in a box of precious things that Fanny's mother had
hoarded so choicely, because Fanny had been choice of
them. I must read it, for everything of Fanny's is cie<v
A WORD FOR WIVES. 145
to us now. All ! 'tis a note from a gentleman who "was
at school with us at F , whom Fanny esteemeJ so
much, whom we both esteemed for his sterling integrity,
and his gentleness. It is precious, too, as a reminder
of him. I love the remembrance of old schoolfellows, —
of frolicsome, foolish, frivolous, loving schooldays. But
let me read. 'Tis mostly rubbed out, but here is a
place.
" You know full well that long since, * that dear cou
sin permitted me to call her by the endearing name of
sister ; and may I not, when far away, thinking of by
gones, add your name to hers in the sisterly list ? You
asked me when I had heard from the dear one: she was
down here a short hour last week, but what was that
among so many who wished to see her ?"
Ah ! that means me ! If I had only known it then !
And just now I was wondering if he really loved me, and
perhaps felt almost in my secret heart to grieve a bit —
to murmur at him. I fear I spoke as he little dreamed
then the "dear one" would ever do. What shall I do ?
I remember him now, in all his young loveliness, in alJ
the excitability of a first love, and my heart kindles too
warmly to write what I wished.
What if one had told me then that my home would be
in his heart — that my beautiful Alrna would be his child !
My Alma, my beautiful babe ! how sweetly she nestles
her little face in his neck. She has stolen her mother's
place ; little thief! I wonder she does not steal his win le
heart to the clear shutting out of her mother !
Little wives ! if ever a half suppressed sigh finds place
with you, or a half unloving word escapes you to the
10
146 A WORD FOR AVIVES.
husband whom you love, let your heart go back to some
tender word in those first love-days ; remember how you
loved him then, how tenderly he wooed you, how timidly
you responded, and if you can feel that you have not
grown unworthy, trust him for the same fond love now.
If you do feel that through many cares and trials of life,
you have become less lovable and attractive than then,
turn — by all that you love on earth, or hope for in
Heaven, turn back, and be the pattern of loveliness that
•won him ; be the "dear one" your attractions made you
then. Be the gentle, loving, winning maiden still, and
doubt not, the lover you admired will live for ever in
your husband. Nestle by his side, cling to his love, and
let his confidence in you never fail, and, my word for it,
the husband will be dearer than the lover ever was.
Above all things, do not forget the love he gave you
first. Do not seek to " emancipate" yourself — do not
strive to unsex yourself and become a Lucy Stone, or a
Rev. Miss Brown, but love the higher honour ordained
by our Saviour, of old — that of a loving wife. A happy
wife, a blessed mother, can have no higher station, needs
no greater honour.
Little wives, remember your first love. As for me, I
see again the little crumpled note about the "dear one,"
and I must go to find love and forgiveness in his arms.
No JEWELED BEAUTY.
NO JEWELLED BEAUTY.
No jewelled Beauty is my Love,
Yet in her earnest face
There's such a world of tenderness,
She needs no other grace.
Her smiles, and voice, around my life
In light and music twine,
And dear, oh very dear to me,
Is this sweet Love of mine.
Oh, joy ! to know there's one fond heart
Beats ever true to me :
It sets mine leaping like a lyre,
In sweetest melody ;
My soul up-springs, a Deity 1
To hear her voice divine,
And dear, oh ! very dear to me,
Is this sweet Love of mine.
If ever I have sigh'd for wealth,
'Twas all for her, I trow ;
And if I win Fame's victor-wreath,
I'll twine it on her brow.
There may be forms more beautiful,
And souls of sunnier shine,
But none, oh ! none so dear to ma,
As this sweet Love of mine.
THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY.
" HOME !" How that little word strikes upon the
heart strings, awakening all the sweet memories that
had slept in memory's chamber ! Our home was a
" pearl of price" among homes ; not for its architectural
elegance — for it was only a four gahled, brown country
house, shaded by two antediluvian oak trees ; nor was
its interior crowded with luxuries that charm every sense
and come from every clime. Its furniture had grown
old with us, for we remembered no other ; and though
polished as highly as furniture could be, by daily scrub
bing, was somewhat the worse for wear, it must be
confessed.
But neither the house nor its furnishing makes the
home ; and the charm of ours lay in the sympathy that
linked the nine that called it "home" to one another.
Father, mother, and seven children — five of them gay-
hearted girls, and two boys, petted just enough to be
spoiled — not one link had ever dropped from the chain
of love, or one corroding drop fallen upon its brightness.
" One star differeth from another in glory," even
in the firmament of home. Thus — though we could not
have told a stranger which sister or brother was dearest
— from our gentlest "eldest," an invalid herself, but the
comforter and counsellor of all beside, to the curly-
haired boy, who romped and rejoiced in the appellation
of " baby," given five years before — still an observing eye
would soon have singled out sister Ellen as the sunbeam
THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY. 149
of our heaven, the "morning star" of our constellation.
She was the second in age, but the first in the inherit
ance of that load of responsibility, which in such a
household falls naturally upon the eldest daughter.
Eliza, as I have said, was ill from early girlhood ; and
Ellen had shouldered all her burden of care and kind
ness, with a light heart and a lighter step. Up stairs
and down cellar, in the parlour, nursery, or kitchen —
at the piano or the wash-tub — with pen, pencil, needle,
or ladle — sister Ellen was always busy, always with a
smile on her cheek, and a warble on her lip.
Quietly, happily, the months and years went by. We
never realized that change was to come over our band.
To be sure, when mother would look in upon us, seated
together with our books, paintings, and needle-work, and
say, in her gentle way, with only a half-sigh, " Ah,
girls, you are living your happiest days !" we would
glance into each other's eyes, and wonder who would go
first. But it was a wonder that passed away with the
hour, and ruffled not even the surface of our sisterly
hearts. It could not be always so — and the change
came at last !
Sister Ellen was to be married !
It was like the crash of a thunderbolt in a clear sum
mer sky ! Sister Ellen — the fairy of the hearthstone,
the darling of every heart — which of us could spare
her ? Who had been so presumptuous as to find out her
worth? For the first moment, this question burst from
»?ach surprised, half-angry sister of the blushing, tearful
Ellen ! It was only for a moment ; for our hearts told
us that nobody could help loving her, who had looked
150 THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY.
through hei loving blue eyes, into the clear well-spring
of the heart beneath. So we threw our arras around
her and sobbed without a word !
We knew very well that the young" clergyman, whoso
Sunday sermons and gentle admonitions had won all
hearts, had been for months a weekly visiter to our
fireside circle. With baby Georgie on his knee, and
Georgie's brothers and sisters clustered about him, he
had sat through many an evening charming the hours
away, until the clock startled us with its unwelcome nine
o'clock warning ; and jthe softly spoken reminder, " Girls,
it is bed-time !" woke more than one stifled sigh of
regret. Then sister Ellen must always go with us to
lay Georgie in his little bed ; to hear him and Annette
repeat the evening prayer and hymn her lips had taught
them ; to comb out the long brown braids of Emily's
head ; to rob Arthur of the story book, over which he
would have squandered the " midnight oil ;" and to
breathe a kiss and a blessing over the pillow of each
other sister, as she tucked the warm blankets tenderly
about them.
We do not know how often of late she had stolen
down again, from these sisterly duties, after our senses
were locked in sleep; or if our eyes and ears had ever
been open to the fact, we could never have suspected the
minister to be guilty of such a plot against our peace !
That name was associated, in our minds, with all that
was superhuman. The gray-haired pastor, who had
gone to his grave six months previous, had sat as fre-
4uently on that same oaken arm-chair, and talked with
us. We had loved him as a father and friend, and had
THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY. 151
almost worshipped him as the embodiment of all attain
able goodness. And when Mr. Neville came among us,
with his high, pale forehead, and soul-kindled eye, we
had thought his face also "the face of an angel" — too
glorious for the print of mortal passion ! Especially
after, in answer to an urgent call from the people among
whom he was labouring, he had frankly told them that
his purpose was not to remain among them, or anywhere
on his native shore ; that he only waited the guidance
of Providence to a home in a foreign clime. After this
much-bewailed disclosure of his plans, we placed our
favourite preacher on a higher pinnacle of saintship !
But sister Ellen was to be married — and married to
Mr. Neville. And then — " Oh, sister, you are not going
away, to India !" burst from our lips, with a fresh gush
of sobs.
I was the first to look up into Ellen's troubled face.
It was heaving with emotions that ruffled its calmness,
as the tide-waves ruffle the sea. Her lips were firmly
compressed ; her eyes were fixed on some distant dream,
glassed with two tears, that stood still in their chalices,
forbidden to fall. I almost trembled as I caught her
glance.
" Sister ! Agnes — Emily !" she exclaimed, in a husky
whisper. " Hush ! be calm ! Don't break my heart !
Do I love home less than — "
The effort was too much ; the words died on her lips.
We lifted her to bed, frightened into forgetfulness of her
own grief. We soothed her until she, too, wept freely
and passionately, and, in weeping, grew strong for tho
sacrifice, to which she had pledged her heart.
152 THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY.
We never spoke another word of remonstrance to her
tender heart, though often, in the few months that flitted
by us together, we used to choke with sobbing, in some
speech that hinted of the coming separation, and hurry
from her presence to cry alone.
Our mother has told us the tidings with white lips that
quivered tenderly and sadly. No love is so uniformly
unselfish as a mother's, surely ; for though she leaned
on Ellen as the strong staff of her declining years, she
sorrowed not as we did, that she was going. She, too,
was happy in the thought that her child had found that
" pearl of price" in a cold and evil world — a true, noble,
loving heart to guide and protect her.
Father sat silently in the chimney-corner, reading in
the family Bible. He was looking farther than any of
us — to the perils that would environ his dearest daugh
ter, and the privations that might come upon her young
life, in that unhealthy, uncivilized corner of the globe,
whither she was going. Both our parents had dedicated
their children to God ; and they would not cast even a
shadow on the path of self-sacrifice and duty their dar
ling had chosen.
To come down to the unromantic little details of wed
ding preparations ; how we stitched and trimmod, packed
and prepared — stoned raisins with tears in our eyes, and
seasoned the wedding cake with sighs. But there is
little use in thinking over these things. Ellen was first
<ind foremost in all, as she had always been in every
emergency, great or small. Nothing could be made
without her. Even the bride's cake was taken from the
oven by her own fair hands, because no one — servant,
THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY. 153
sister, or even mother — was willing to run the risk of
burning sister Ellen's bride's cake; and " she knew just
how to bake it."
We were not left alone in our labours : for Ellen had
been loved by more than the home-roof sheltered. Old
and young, poor and rich, united in bringing their gifts,
regrets, and blessings to the chosen companion of the
pastor they were soon to lose. There is something in
the idea of missionary life that touches the sympathy of
e^ery heart which mammon has not too long seared. To
see one, with sympathies and refinements like our own,
rend the strong ties that bind to country and home, com
fort and civilization, for the good of the lost and de
graded heathen, brings too strongly into relief, by con
trast, the selfishness of most human lives led among the
gayeties and luxuries of time.
The day, the hour came. The ship was to sail from
B. on the ensuing week ; and it must take away an idol.
She stood up in the village church, that all Avho loved
her, and longed for another sight of her sweet face,
might look upon her, and speak the simple words that
should link hearts for eternity. We sisters stood all
around her, but not too near ; for our hearts were over
flowing, and we could not wear the happy faces that
should grace a train of bridesmaids. She had cheered
us through the day with sunshine from her own heart,
and even while we are arraying her in her simple white
muslin, like a lamb for sacrifice, she had charmed our
thoughts into cheerfulness. It seemed like some dream
of fairy land, and she the embodiment of grace and
loveliness, acting the part of some Queen Titania for a
Ill THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY.
little while. The dream changed to a far different reality,
when, at the door of her mother's room, she put her
hand into that of Henry Neville, and lifted her eye with
a look that said, "Where thou goest will I go," even
from all beside!
Tears fell fast in that assembly ; though the good old
matrons tried to smile, as they passed around the bride,
to bless her, and bid her good-bye. A little girl, in a
patched but clean frock, pushed forward, with a bouquet
of violets and strawberry-blossoms in her hand.
" Here, Miss Nelly — please, Miss Nelly," she cried,
half-laughing, half-sobbing, " I picked them on purpose
for you !"
Ellen stooped and kissed the little eager face. The
child burst into tears, and caught the folds of her dress,
as though she would have buried her face there. But a
strong-armed woman, mindful of the bride's attire,
snatched the child away.
" And for what would ye be whimpering in that style,
JLA if you had any right to Miss Ellen ?"
" She was always good to me, and she's my Sunday-
school teacher," pleaded the little girl, in a subdued
undertone.
Agnes drew her to her side, and silently comforted
her.
'• Step aside — Father Herrick is here !" said one, just
then.
The crowd about the bridal pair opened, to admit a
Rhite-haircd, half-blind old man, who came leaning on
the arm of his rosy grand-daughter. Father Herrick
was a superannuated deacon, whose good words and
THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY. 155
works had won for him a place in every heart of that
assembly.
" They told me she was going," he murmured to him
self; "they say 'tis her wedding. I want to see rny
little girl again — bless her !"
Ellen sprang forward, and laid both her white trem
bling hands in the large hand of the good old man. He
dreAV her near his failing eyes ; and looked search ingly
into her young, soul-lit countenance.
" I can just see you, darling ; and they tell me I shall
never sec you again ! Well, well, if we go in God's way
we shall all get to Heaven, and it's all light there!" He
raised his hand over her head, and added, solemnly,
" The blessing of blessings be upon thee, my child.
Amen !"
" Amen !" echoed the voice of Henry Neville.
And Ellen looked up with the look of an angel.
So she went from us ! Oh ! the last moment of that
parting hour has burnt itself into my being for ever !
Could the human heart endure the agony of parting like
that, realized to be indeed the last — lighted by no ray
of hope for eternity ! Would not reason reel under the
pressure ?
It was hard to bear ; but I have no words to tell of
its bitterness. She went to her missionary life, and we
learned at last to live without her, though it was many
a month before the 'ittle ones could forget to call on
" Sister Ellen" in any impulse of joy, grief, or childish
want. Then the start and the sigh, "Oh, dear, she's
gone — sister is gone !'' And fresh tears would flow.
Gone, but not lost ; for that First Marriage in the
15ft ONLY A FEW WORDS.
family opened to us a fountain of happiness, pure as the
spring of self-sacrifice could make it. Our household
darling has linked us to a world of needy and perishing
spirits — a world that asks for the energy and the aid of
those who go from us, and those who remain in the dear
country of their birth. God bless her and her charge !
Dear sister Ellen ! there may be many another breach
in the family — we may all be scattered to the four winds
of heaven — but no change can come over ins like that
which marked the FIRST MARRIAGE.
ONLY A FEW WORDS.
MR. JAMES WINKLEMAN shut the door with a jar, as
he left the house, and moved down the street, in the
direction of his office, with a quick, firm step, and the
air of a man slightly disturbed in mind.
" Things are getting better fast," said he, with a touch
of irony in his voice, as he almost flung himself into his
leather-cushioned chair. " It's rather hard when a man
has to pick his words in his own house, as carefully as
if he were picking diamonds, and tread as softly as if
ne Avas stepping on eggs. I don't like it. Mary gets
weaker and more foolish every day, and puts a breadth
of meaning on my words that I never intended them to
have. I've not been used to this conning over of sen
tences and picking out of all doubtful expressions ere
venturing to speak, and I'm too old to begin now. Mary
ONLY A FEW WORDS. 157
took me for what I am, and she must make the most of
her bargain. I'm past the age for learning new tricks."
With these and many other justifying sentences, did
Mr. Winkleman seek to obtain a feeling of self-approval.
But, for all this, he could not shut out the image of a
tearful face, nor get rid of an annoying conviction that
he had acted thoughtlessly, to say the least of it, in
speaking to his wife as he had done.
But what was all this trouble about ? Clouds were in
the sky that bent over the home of Mr. Winkleman,
and it is plain that Mr. Winkleman himself had his own
share in the work of producing these clouds. Only a
few unguarded words had been spoken. Only words !
And was that all ?
Words are little things, but they sometimes strike
hard. We wield them so easily that we are apt to forget
their hidden power. Fitly spoken, they fall like the
sunshine, the dew, and the fertilizing rain ; but, when
unfitly, like the frost, the hail, and the desolating tem
pest. Some men speak as they feel or think, without
calculating the force of what they say ; and then seem
very much surprised if any one is hurt or offended. To
this class belonged Mr. Winkleman. His wife was a
loving, sincere woman, quick to feel. Words, to her,
were indeed things. They never fell upon her cars as
idle sounds. How often was her poor heart bruised by
them !
On this particular morning, Mrs. Winkleman, whose
health was feeble, found herself in a weak, nervous state.
It was only by an effort that she pould rise above the
morbid irritability that afflicted her. Earnestly did she
158 ONLY A FEW WOBDS.
strive to repress the disturbed beatings of her heart, but
she strove in vain. And it seemed to her, as it often
does in such cases, that everything went wrong. The
children were fretful, the cook dilatory and cross, and
Mr. Winkleman impatient, because sundry little matters
pertaining to his wardrobe were not just to his mind.
"Eight o'clock, and no breakfast yet," said Mr. A\riu-
kleman, as he drew out his watch, on completing his own
toilet. Mrs. Winkleman was in the act of dressing tho
last of five children, all of whom had passed under her
hands. Each had been captious, cross, or unruly, sorely
trying the mother's patience. Twice had she been in
the kitchen, to see how breakfast was progressing, and
to enjoin the careful preparation of a favourite dish with
which she had purposed to surprise her husband.
"It will be ready in a few minutes," said Mrs. Win
kleman. " The fire hasn't burned freely this morning."
" If it isn't one thing, it is another," growled the
husband. "I'm getting tired of this irregularity.
There'd soon be no breakfast to get, if I were always
behind time in business matters."
Mrs. Winkleman bent lower over the child she was
dressing, to conceal the expression of her face. What
a sharp pain now throbbed through her temples ! Mr.
Winkleman commenced walking the floor impatiently,
little imagining that every jarring footfall was like a
blow on the sensitive, aching brain of his wife.
"Too bad! too bad!" he had just ejaculated when
the bell rung.
"At last!" he muttered, and strode towards the
breakfast-room. The children followed in considerable
ONLY A FEW WORDS. 159
disorder, and Mrs. Winkleman, after hastily arranging
her hair, and putting on a morning cap, joined them at
the table. It took some moments to restore order among
the little ones.
The dish that Mrs. Winkleman had been at considcra
ble pains to provide for her husband, was set besido
his plate. It was his favourite among many, and hie
wife looked for a pleased recognition thereof, and a
lighting up of his clouded brow. But he did not seem
even to notice it. After supplying the children, Mr.
Winkleman helped himself in silence. At the first
mouthful he threw down his knife and fork, and pushed
his plate from him.
"What's the matter?" inquired his wife.
"You didn't trust Bridget to cook this, I hope?" was
the response.
"What ails it?" Mrs. Winkleman's eyes were filling
with tears.
" Oh ! it's of no consequence," answered Mr. Winkle
man, coldly; "anything will do for me."
"James!" There was a touching sadness blended
with rebuke in the tones of his wife ; and, as she uttered
his name, tears gushed over her cheeks.
Mr. Winkleman didn't like tears. They always
rtnnoyed him. At the present time, he was in no mood
to bear with them. So, on the impulse of the moment,
he arose from the table, and taking up his hat, left the
house.
Self-justification was tried, though not, as has been
Been, with complete success. The calmer grew the mind
of Mr. Winkleman, and the clearer his thoughts, the
160 ONLY A FEW WORDS.
less satisfied did he feel with the part he had taken in
the morning's drama. By an inversion of thought, not
usual among men of his temperament, he had been pre
sented with a vivid realization of his wife's side of the
question. The consequence was, that, by dinner-time,
he felt a good deal ashamed of himself, and grieved for
the pain he knew his hasty words had occasioned.
It was in this better state of mind that Mr. Winkle-
man returned home. The house seemed still as he
entered. As he proceeded up stairs, he heard the
children's voices, pitched to a low key, in the nursery.
He listened, but could not hear the tones of his wife.
So he passed into the front chamber, which was dark
ened. As soon as he could see clearly in the feeble
light, he perceived that his wife was lying on the bed.
Her eyes were closed, and her thin face looked so pale
and death-like, that Mr. Winkleman felt a cold shudder
creep through his heart. Coming to the bed-side, he
leaned over and gazed down upon her. At first, he was
in doubt whether she really breathed or not; and he
felt a heavy weight removed when he saw that her chest
rose and fell in feeble respiration.
"Mary !" He spoke in *». low, tender voice.
Instantly the fringed pyolids parted, and Mrs. Winkle
man gazed up into her husband's face in partial bewil
derment.
Obeying the moment's impulse, Mr. Winkleman bent
down and left a kiss upon her pale lips. As if moved
by an electric thrill, the wife's arms were flung around
the husband's neck.
ONLY A FEW WORDS. 161
"I am sorry to find you so ill," said Mr. Winkleman,
in a voice of sympathy. " W/iat is the matter ?"
" Only a sick-headache," replied Mrs. Winkleman.
"But I've had a good sleep, and feel better now. I
didn't know it was so late," she added, her tone changing
slightly, and a look of concern coming into her counte
nance. " I'm afraid your dinner is not ready ;" and she
attempted to rise. But her husband bore her gently
back with his hand, saying,
"Never mind about dinner. It will come in good
time. If yqu feel better, lie perfectly quiet. Have
you suffered much pain ?"
"Yes." The word did not part her lips sadly, but
came with a softly wreathing smile. Already the wan
hue of her cheeks was giving place to a warmer tint,
and the dull eyes brightening. What a healing power
was in his tender tones and considerate words ! And
that kiss — it had thrilled along every nerve — it had been
as nectar to the drooping spirit. " But I feel so much
better, that I will get up," she added, now rising from
her pillow.
And Mrs. Winkleman was entirely free from pain.
As she stepped upon the carpet, and moved across the
room, it was with a firm tread. Every muscle was elas
tic, and the blood leaped along her veins with a new an4
healthier impulse.
Ho trial of Mr. Winkleman's patience, in a late din
ner, was in store for him. In a few minutes the bell
summoned the family; and he took his place at the table
eo tranquil in mind, that he almost wondered at the
n
162 ONLY A FEW WCRDS.
change in his feelings. How different was the scene
from that presented at the morning meal !
And was there power in a few simple words to effect
BO great a change as this ! Yes, in simple words, fra
grant with the odours of kindness.
A few gleams of light shone into the mind of Mr.
Winkleman, as he returned musing to his office, and ho
saw that he was often to blame for the clouds that
darkened so often over the sky of home.
" Mary is foolish," he said, in partial self-justification,
" to take my hasty words so much to heart. I speak
often without meaning half what I say. She ought to
know me better. And yet," he added, as his step
became slower, for he was thinking closer than usual,
" it may be easier for me to choose my words more care
fully, and to repress the unkindness of tone that gives
them a double force, than for her to help feeling pain at
their utterance."
Right, Mr. Winkleman ! That is the common sense
of the whole matter. It is easier to strike, than to help
feeling or showing signs of pain, under the infliction of
a blow. Look well to your words, all ye members of a
home circle. And especially look well to your words,
ye whose words have the most weight, and fall, if dealt
in passion, with the heaviest force.
THE TWO HOMES.
Two men, on their way home, met at a street crossing,
and then walked on together. They were neighbours,
and friends.
" This has heen a very hard day," said Mr. Freeman,
in a gloomy voice.
"A very hard day," echoed, almost sepulchrally, Mr.
Walcott. "Little or no cash coming in — payments
heavy — money scarce, and at ruinous rates. What is
to become of us?"
" Heaven only knows," answered Mr. Freeman. "For
my part, I see no light ahead. Every day come new
reports of failures ; every day confidence diminishes ;
every day some prop that we leaned upon is taken
away."
" Many think we are at the worst," said Mr. Walcott.
" And others, that we have scarcely seen the begin
ning of the end," returned the neighbour.
And so, as they walked homeward, they discouraged
each other, and made darker the clouds that obscured
their whole horizon.
" Good evening," was at last said, hurriedly; and the
two men passed into their homes.
Mr. Walcott entered the room, where his wife and
children were gathered, and without speaking to any
one, seated himself in a chair, and leaning his head
Lack, closed his eyes. His countenance wore a sad,
weary, exhausted look. He had been seated thus for
164 THE TWO HOMES.
only a few minutes, when his wife said, in a fretful
voice,
" More trouble again."
" What's the matter now?" asked Mr. Walcott, almost
Starting.
" John has been sent home from school."
"What!" Mr. Walcott partly arose from his chair.
" He's been suspended for bad conduct."
" 0 dear !" groaned Mr. Walcott— "Where is he ?"
" Up in his room, f sent him there as soon as he
came home. You'll have to do something with him.
He'll be ruined if he goes on in this way. I'm out of
all heart Avith him."
Mr. Walcott, excited as much by the manner in which
his wife conveyed unpleasant information, as by the in
formation itself, started up, under the blind impulse of
the moment, and going to the room where John had
been sent on coming home from school, punished the
boy severely, and this without listening to the explana
tions which the poor child tried to make him hear.
"Father," said the boy, with forced calmness, after
the cruel stripes had ceased — " I wasn't to blame ; and
if you will go with me to the teacher, I can prove my
self innocent."
Mr. Walcott had never known his son to tell an un
truth ; and the words smote with rebuke upon his heart.
" Very well — we will see about that," he answered,
with forced sternness, and leaving the room he went
down stairs, feeling much worse than when he went up.
Again he seated himself in his large chair, and again
leaned back his weary head, and closed his heavy eye-
THE TWO HOMES. 165
lids. Sadder was his face than before. As be sat thus,
his oldest daughter, in her sixteenth year, came and
stood by him. She held a paper in her hand —
" Father, — " he opened his eyes.
" Here's my quarter bill. It's twenty dollars. Can't
I have the money to take to school with me in the
morning ?"
" I'm afraid not," answered Mr. Walcott, half sadly.
"Nearly all the girls will bring in their money to
morrow ; and it mortifies me to be behind the others."
The daughter spoke fretfully. Mr. Walcott waved her
aside with his hand, and she went off muttering and
pouting.
" It is mortifying," spoke up Mrs. Walcott, a little
sharply; "and I don't wonder that Helen feels unplea
santly about it. The bill has to be paid, and I don't
see why it may not be done as well first as last."
To this Mr. Walcott made no answer. The words
but added another pressure to the heavy burden under
which he was already staggering. After a silence of
some moments, Mrs. Walcott said,
"The coal is all gone."
" Impossible !" Mr. Walcott raised his head, and
looked incredulous. " I laid in sixteen tons."
" I can't help it, if there were sixty tons instead of
sixteen ; it's all gone. The girls had a time of it to-day,
to scrape up enough to keep the nre going."
" There's been a shameful waste somewhere," said
Mr. Walcott with strong emphasis, starting up, and
moving about the room with a very disturbed manner.
" So you always say, when anything is out," answered
THE TWO HOMES.
Mrs. Walcott rather tartly. " The barrel of flour 13
gone also ; but I suppose you have done your part, with
the rest, in using it up."
Mr. Walcott returned to his chair, and again seating
himself, leaned back his head and closed his eyes, as at
frst. How sad, arid weary, and hopeless he felt! The
burdens of the day had seemed almost too heavy for him ;
but he had borne up bravely. To gather strength for a
renewed struggle with adverse circumstances^- he had
come home. Alas ! that the process of exhaustion
should still go on. That where only strength could be
looked for, no strength was given.
When the tea bell rung, Mr. Walcott made no move
mcnt to obey the summons.
" Come to supper," said his wife, coldly.
But he did not stir.
<k Ain't you coming to supper?" she called to him, as
she was leaving the room.
" I don't wish anything this evening. My head aches
badly," he answered.
" In the dumps again," muttered Mrs. Walcott to
herself. " It's as much as one's life is worth to ask for
money, or to say that anything is wanted." And she
kept on her way tc the dining-room. When she re
turned, her husband was still sitting where she had left
Lira.
" Shall I bring you a cup of tea ?" she asked.
" No ; I don't wish anything."
"What's the matter, Mr. Walcott? What do you
look so troubled about, as if you hadn't a friend in the
world? What have I done to you?"
THE TWO HOMES. 167
There was no answer, for there was not a shade of
real sympathy in the voice that made the queries — but
rather a querulous dissatisfaction. A few moments
Mrs. Walcott stood near her husband ; but as he did
not seem inclined to answer her questions, she turned
off from him, and resumed the employment which had
been interrupted by the ringing of the tea bell.
The whole evening passed without the occurrence of a
single incident that gave a healthful pulsation to the
sick heart of Mr. Walcott. No thoughtful kindness
was manifested by any member of the family ; but, on
the contrary, a narrow regard for self, and a looking to
him only to supply the means of self-gratification.
No wonder, from the pressure which was on him, that
Mr. Walcott felt utterly discouraged. He retired early,
and sought to find that relief from mental disquietude,
in sleep, which he had vainly hoped for in the bosom of
his family. But the whole night passed in broken slum
ber, and disturbing dreams. From the cheerless morn
ing meal, at which he was reminded of the quarter bill
that must be paid, of the coal and flour that were out,
and of the necessity of supplying Mrs. Walcott's empty
purse, he went forth to meet the difficulties of another
day, faint at heart, and almost hopeless of success. A
confident spirit, sustained by home affections, would have
carried him through ; but, unsupported as he was, the
burden was too heavy for him, and he sunk under it.
The day that opened so unpropitiously, closed upon
him, a ruined man !
Let us look in, for a few moments, upon Mr. Freeman,
168 THE TWO HOMES.
the friend and neighbour of Mr. Walcott. He, also,
had come home, weary, 'dispirited, and almost sick. The
trials of the day had been unusually severe ; and when
he looked anxiously forward to scan the future, not even
a gleam of light was seen along the black horizon.
As he stepped across the threshold of his dwelling, a
pang shot through his heart ; for the thought came,
" How slight the present hold upon all these comforts !"
Not for himself, but for his wife and children, was the
pain.
"Father's come!" cried a glad little voice on the
stairs, the moment his foot-fall sounded in the passage ;
then quick, pattering feet were heard — and then a tiny
form was springing into his arms. Before reaching the
sitting-room above, Alice, the oldest daughter, was by
his side, her arm drawn fondly within his, and her loving
eyes lifted to his face.
"Are you not late, dear?" It was the gentle voice
of Mrs. Freeman.
Mr. Freeman could not trust himself to answer. He
was too deeply troubled in spirit to Assume at the mo
ment a cheerful tone, and he had no wish to sadden the
hearts that loved him, by letting the depression from
which he was suffering, become too clearly apparent.
But the eyes of Mrs. Freeman saw quickly below the
surface.
"Are you not well, Robert?" she inquired, tenderly,
as she drew his large arm-chair towards the centre of
the room.
"A little headache," he answered, with slight
evasion.
THE TWO HOMES 169
Scarcely "Was Mr. Freeman seat 3, ere a pair of little
hands were busy with each foot, removing gaiter and
shoe, and supplying their place with a soft slipper.
There was not one in the household who did not feel
happier for his return, nor one who did not seek to ren
der him some kind office.
It was impossible under such a I urst of heart-sunshine,
for the spirit of Mr. Freeman lor, g to remain shrouded.
Almost imperceptibly to himself, gloomy thoughts gave
place to more cheerful ones, and by the time tea was
ready, he had half forgotten the fears which had so
haunted him through the day. But they could not be
held back altogether, and their existence was marked,
during the evening, by an unusual silence and abstrac
tion of mind. This was observed by Mrs. Freeman,
who, more than half suspecting the cause, kept back
from her husband the knowledge of certain matters
about which she had intended to speak with hi^a — for
she feared they would add to his mental disquietude.
During the evening, she gleaned from something he
said, the real cause of his changed aspect. At once her
thoughts commenced running in a new channel. By a
few leading remarks, she drew her husband into conver
eation on the subject of home expenses, and the propriety
of restriction at various points. Many things were mu
tually pronounced superfluous, and easily to be dispensed
with ; and before sleep fell soothingly on the heavy
eyelids of Mr. Freeman that night, an entire change in
their style of living had been determined upon — a
change that would reduce their expenses at least one-
half.
170 LOVE'S FAIRY RING.
" 1 see light ahead," were the hopeful words of Mr.
Freeman, as he resigned himself to slumber.
With renewed strength of mind and body, and a con
fident spirit, he went forth on the next day — a day that
he had looked forward co with fear and trembling. And
it was only through this renewed strength and confident
spirit, that he was able to overcome the difficulties that
loomed up, mountain h gh, before him. Weak despon
dency would have ruined all. Home had proved his
tower of strength — his walled city. It had been to him
as the shadow of a great rock in a ^veary land. Strength
ened for the conflict, he had gone forth again into the
world, and conquered in the struggle.
"I see light ahead" gave place to "The morning
brcaketh."
LOVE'S FAIRY RING.
WHILE Titans war with social Jove,
My own sweet wife and I
We make Elysium in our love,
And let the world go l>y !
Oh ! never hearts beat half so light
With crowned Queen or King; !
Oh ! never Avorld was half so bright
As is our fairy ring,
Dear love 1
Our hallowed fairy ring.
Our world of empire is not large,
But priceless wealth it holds ;
A little heaven links marge to marge,
But what rich realms it folds 1
COVE'S FAIRY RINO. 171
And clasping all from outer strife
Sits love with folded wins,
A-brood o'er dearer life in life,
Within our fairy ring,
Dear love !
Our hallowed fairy ring.
Thou leanest thy true heart on mine,
And bravely bearest up !
Aye mingling love's most precious wine
In life'8 most bitter cup 1
And evermore the circling hours
New gifts of glory bring ;
We" live and love like happy flowers
All in our fairy ring,
Dear lore 1
Our hallowed fairy ring.
We've known a many sorrows, sweet!
We've wept a many tears,
And often trod with trembling feet
Our pilgrimage of years.
But when our sky grew dark and wild
All closelier did we cling;
Clouds broke to beauty as you smiled,
Peace crowned our fairy ring,
Dear love 1
Our hallowed fairy ring.
Away, grim lords of murderdom;
Away, oh ! Hate and Strife!
Hence, revellers, reeling drunken from
• Your feast of human life!
Heaven shield our little Goshen round
From ills that with them spring,
And never be their footsteps found
Within our fairy ring,
Dear love I
Our hallowed fairy ring.
FANNIE'S BRIDAL.
PART I.
IT was to be a quiet wedding. Fannie would have it
BO ; only his relations. She, poor thing, was an orphan,
and only spirit-parents could hover around her on this
great era of her life.
The bride entered the large, sunny parlour, leaning
upon the arm of her stately husband. Her white lace
robe, and the fleecy veil upon her head, floated cloud-
like around her fragile, almost child-like form. Peace
hovered like a white dove over her pure brow, and a
truthful earnestness dwelt in the meek brown eyes.
On one side of the room nearest the bay-windows,
Where the sunset kept shining and shining between
The old hawthorn blossoms and branches so green,
Btood the eight brothers of the groom. All tall, dark,
stately men, pride in every black glancing eye ; the same
curl upon every finely formed lip, harsh upon some,
softer upon others, yet still there, tracing the same blood
through all ; the same in.herent qualities of the father
transmitted to the sons. One brother was a type of all,
differing only as pictures and copies — in the shade and
touch.
Upon the opposite side were seated the five sisters of
the groom, not so like one another. One had blue eyes,
another auburn curls, one a nose retrouss^, a fourth
FANNIE'S BRIDAL. 173
fresh and rosy, a fifth round-faced ; still the same pride
had found a resting-place on some fine feature of each
face, and stamped it with the seal of sisterhood. The
same sap ran in all the branches, and each branch put
forth the same leaves.
The thirteen faces had been stern and cold, but when
their youngest brother and his fair bride came in, affec
tion and curiosity softened their eyes, as for the first
time she appeared before them. Some thought her too
delicate, others too young; the sisters, that Harwood
could have looked higher ; but all felt drawn to that
shrinking form and pale countenance ; each hand had a
warm grasp for hers, each curling lip a sweet smile, and
the manly voices softened to welcome her into their proud
family. Gracefully she received all, happy and joyful
as a child. But the first shadow fell with the sunlight.
" Brothers and sisters," said Harwood pleadingly,
" upon this my wedding day cast aside your bitterness
of spirit for ever, and become as one "
"Harwood!" replied quickly the elder sister, "upon
this — this happy day, we hide all feelings called forth
by the malice and unbrother-like conduct of oi?r brothers,
but only for the present ; we can never become recon
ciled."
A silence fell upon all ; strange as it may seem, the
sisters were colder and sterner than the brothers. A
frown settled upon every brow ; the lips curled with
contempt. A storm was tossing the waves, but peace
breathed upon the waters and all was calm. The pre
sence of the bride restrained angry expressions of
feeling.
174 FANNIE'S BRIDAL.
This was the first knowledge that Fannie had of the
family feud ; tears stood in her soft eyes, and the rosy
lips trembled; but her husband's bright glance, and
gentle pressure of her hand, reassured her. There was no
more warmth that day — during the ceremony and the brief
stay of the newly married. The sisters gathered around
the young wife, and the brothers around Harwood.
Occasional words were interchanged ; but there reigned
an invisible barrier, that seemed to say "so far shalt
thou come, but no farther."
When the carriage stood at the door and Fannie and
Harwood stepped in, she stretched out her pretty hand
and beckoned to the elder brother and sister; they
approached; she took a hand of each, saying in a
trembling voice :
" You both breathe the same air ; the same beautiful
sunlight shines upon you ; you pray to the same God,
both say ' forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them
that trespass against us.' Be examples for those
younger — let me join your hands — " But the sister,
with a frown, threw aside the little hand rudely, the
brother pressed the one he held, but laughed maliciously.
The carriage drove on, and the fair head rested sobbing
upon the shoulder of her husband. Sadly did he relate
to her the family feud, a quarrel of ten years' standing ;
sisters against brothers, resting on a belief of unfairness
in the disposition of the will of a relation. The sisters
passed the brothers upon the street without speaking,
refused them admittance to their house. Harwood being
the youngest, was too young to take part in the quarrel,
and had never been expected to do so.
FANNIE'S BRIDAL. 175
Poor Fannie wept bitterly ; but tears more bitter yet
were in store for her.
PART II.
Upon her return from the bridal tour, no sooner was
Fannie settled in her new home, than the family feud
endeavoured to draw her from her quiet course, to take
part for or against. Numberless were the grievances
related to her. All that could be said or done, to con
vince her that the sisters were "sinned against instead-
of sinning," were brought forward.
" Well, Fannie," said the elder brother, one day, " I
met my immaculate elder sister, just coming out of your
door. "Has she been giving you a catalogue of fraternal
sins ? She would not speak to me. She carries her
head high. It maddens me to think how contemptuously
we are treated, and being food for talk beside."
Fannie hesitated ; she could not reply, for Jessie had
been venting a fit of ill humour upon him, and it was
only adding fuel to the fire, to repeat.
" Say, Fannie, what did the old maid say ? That it
was a pity we were not all dead ?''
"Oh! hush," she replied, holding up her hand re
provingly. " I am very unhappy at your continued dis
agreements. If," she continued, timidly, "you would
but take a little advice — I know I am yoang, but "
"Let us have it," he returned, quickly, turning away
from the pleading eyes.
" You will not be angry with me ?"
" No, no ; let me hear !"
176 FANNIE'S BRIDAL.}
"You are the eldest; your example is followed by
the seven brothers ; your influence with them is great ;
you give an ' eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'
Jessie and the others may have a foundation for their
ill-will. You have never endeavoured to discover what
this is. Your pride took offence, and you say to your
self that can never bend. Was this right?"
Her voice trembled, her head drooped, and in spite
of her self-command, she burst into tears.
" Fannie ! sister Fannie !"
" Don't mind me ; I am weak, nervous, foolish. I
shall soon be better ; but it makes me so very unhappy
to see you all at enmity. I had hoped, when I came
among you, to have been the olive branch, but "
"Fannie! dear sister Fannie!" he exclaimed, walk
ing up and down the room, "you have been — we are
fire-brands plucked from the burning. You have said
all that any one could have said ; yes, and done all
that could be done ; never repeated any malicious
speech, selected all the wheat that could be culled from
the chaff. You have softened my obdurate heart. I
have done wrong ; you have shown me to the way of
return. If Jessie will come forward and forgive and
forget, then will I."
But Fannie knew that it was not so easy to make
Jessie be the first to own her errors and forgive. The
brothers had done much to make the division wider, in
the way of hints and malicious whisperings ; and she
continued weeping so wildly and hysterically, that the
eld( r brother endeavoured to console her, and was glad
FANNIE'S BRIDAL. 177
when Harwood came, and lifting her in his arms, carried
her up to her room.
When he returned, the elder brother-still stood by the
fire-place. He turned and spoke.
" Fannie is very fragile and pale. Is she not well ?"
" Not very. This family feud troubles her. She has
taken it to heart. When we were first married, she told
me a dozen plans she had made for your reunion, and
made me a party to them, but now "
He sighed ; the elder brother sighed more deeply ;
both were silent ; the fire-light leaped up, lighting the
room — a fierce, avenging blaze ; then died out, and all
was gloom. Where were the thoughts of that elder
brother ? They were wandering among the graves of
the past. In his imagination, new ones were there ; the
names on the tomb-stones were familiar; the thirteen
were all there ; twelve sleeping ; his the only restless,
wandering spirit. Fannie stood before him, her face
pale and tearful. She pointed to the graves, and said,
sadly, " This is the end of all earthly things." That
night he knocked at the door of his sister's mansion ;
but gained no admittance.
PART III.
The anniversary of Fannie's bridal was the counter
part of the original. Sunny and genial, with here and
there a white cloud floating near the horizon, denoting
a long and happy married life, with but threatening
troubles. How was the prophecy realized ? Like all
riddles of earthly solution, to the contrary ?
12
178 FANNIE'S BRIDAL.
The eight brothers, with faces of stern grief in the
same old corner, side by side; the five sisters sobbing,
tearful and quite overwhelmed with sorrow, sat opposite.
Their eyes were fixed upon the same pair. Harwood
knelt beside a couch in the middle of the room, and
there lay Fannie ; but how changed ! They had all
been summoned there, to see that new sister depart for
another world; to see the. young breath grow fainter
and fainter ; the bright eyes close for ever on them and
their love. Oh ! mystery of Life ! thee we can know
and understand ; but, mystery of Death, dark and fear
ful, only thy chosen ones can comprehend thee. We
•walk to the verge of the valley of the shadow of death
with those we love ; but there our steps are stayed, and
we look into the black void with wonder and despair.
Oh ! faith ! if ye come not then to the rescue, that death
is eternal.
Thus felt the thirteen ; all older, care-worn, world-
weary, standing beside the mere child-sister of the
family, whose star of life was setting from their view
behind an impassable mountain.
The sweet face was calm, but a hectic flush lay upon
the cheek, as though some life-chord still bound her to
earth.
"My child," said the old white-haired physician, "if
you have aught to say, speak now ; when you will
awaken from the sleep this draught will produce, it
may then be too late."
" My darling Fannie," said the kneeling Harwooi,
" for my sake let no thoughts of earth disturb you \ all
will be well if "
FANNIE'S BRIDAL. 179
Hig voice was broken. He bowed his head upon the
wasted hand he held, and wept.
"All will be well," she said, smiling faintly. "I
feel it now. Jessie, and you, elder brother, come near ;
nearer yet. I love you both, love you all. Having no
relatives of my own, my husband's are doubly mine.
My heart, since our marriage-day, has been living in
the hope of your reconciliation. I was too young ; I
undertook too much. I wept when my health began to
fail ; I did not then know that God was giving me my
wish. I would have died to have seen you all happy.
He has heard my prayer ; the sacrifice is made ; I go
happy. Jessie, my dying wish is to see you once more
the forgiving girl you were, when you knelt with your
brothers at your mother's knee. Oh ! the chain of
family love is never so rudely broken but it can be
renewed. Jessie, the young lover, who died in his
youth, would counsel you to forgive. The beloved
parent would whisper, 'love thy brother as thyself;'
He who bore the cross said ' Father forgive them .'
Jessie, a weak, dying girl begs you, for her sake, to be
true to yourself."
Jessie fell upon her brother's neck, and wept. One
universal sob arose from lip to lip. Brothers and sisters,
so long estranged, rushed into each other's arms. Some
cried aloud, others' tears flowed silently : some there
were, whose calm joys betrayed the disquietude of long
years of disunion. They were all recalled by Harwood'a
voice.
" Fannie ! Fannie ! This excitement will kill her."
Half raised in the bed, her cheeks scarlet and eyes
180 FANNIE'S BRIDAL.
glowing with perfect delight, the sunlight making a halo
around her head, was the young wife. She drank the
draught the old physician gave her, with her eyes fixed
on her husband. She murmured,
" ' Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.' "
With a sigh she dropped back upon the pillow ; the
eyes closed, the face became waxen white. Soon, those
who watched could not tell her slumber from the sleep
of death. Silence stole on tiptoe through the room,
with her finger on her lip —
While the sunset kept shining and shining between
The old hawthorn blossoms and branches so green.
PART IV.
Day was dawning in the watch room ; the lamp was
dying away, the thirteen with pale expectant faces, now
shadowed by fear, now lighted with hope, were motion
less. With his face bowed upon his arms, Harwood had
neither looked up nor spoken since Fannie slept. The
old clock had struck each hour from the dial of time
into the abyss of the past. Never before had time
seemed to them so precious, worth so much.
The physician with his fingers upon the patient's pulse
had sat all night ; once he placed his hand over her
mouth, and rising with a puzzled look, walked to the
window and thrust his head into the vines ; then draw
ing his hand over his eyes, he resumed his place, and
all was silent again, save the clock with its monotonous
tick, tick, heating as calmly as though human passions
FANNIE'S BRIDAL. 181
were trifles, and the passing away of a soul from earth,
only the filling of the niches of eternity.
The sun arose, and a little bird alighting on a spray
near the window, poured a flood of melody into the
room. The sleeper smiled ; the doctor could have
sworn it was so. Her hreath comes more quickly, you
could see it now, fluttering between her lips ; she opened
her eyes and fixed them on Harwood ; he took her hand
and gave her the cordial prepared by the physician.
" She is saved," was telegraphed through the apart
ment. The brothers prepared to go to their duties.
The sisters divided, part to go home, the rest to stay
and watch Fannie. Harwood, with a radiant yet anxious
face, could not be persuaded to lie down, but still held
the little hand and counted the life beats of her heart.
" Ah ! well !" said the old doctor to the elder brother,
as he buttoned his coat and pressed his hat down upon
his head. " Well ; there was one great doubt upon my
mind — in spite of all favourable symptoms — she was too
good for earth; — it says somewhere — and it kept com
ing into my mind all the night long — * Blessed are the
peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of
God.' "
THE LOVER AND THE HUSBAND.
IN his " Dream Life," Ik Marvel thus pleasantly
sketches the lover and the husband : —
You grow unusually amiable and kind ; you are earnest
in your search of friends ; you shake hands with your
office boy, as if he were your second cousin. You joke
cheerfully with the stout washerwoman ; and give her a
shilling overchange, and insist upon her keeping it ; and
grow quite merry at the recollection of it. You tap
your hackman on the shoulder very familiarly, and tell
him he is a capital fellow ; and don't allow him to whip
his horses, except when driving to the post-office. You
even ask him to take a glass of beer with you upon some
chilly evening. You drink to the health of his wife.
He says he has no wife — whereupon you think him a
rery miserable man ; and give him a dollar, by way of
jonsolation.
You think all the editorials in the morning papers are
remarkably well-written, — whether upon your side or
upon another. You think the stock-market has a very
cheerful look, — with Erie — of which you are a large
holder — down to seventy-five. You wonder why you
never admired Mrs. Hemans before, * Stoddart, or any
of the rest.
You give a pleasant twirl to your fingers, as you
saunter along the street ; and say — but not so loud as
to be overheard — " She is mine — she is mine !"
You wonder if Frank ever loved Nelly one-half as
THE LOVER?
THE LOVER AND THE HUSBAND. 183
well as you love Madge ? You feel quite sure he never
did. You can hardly conceive how it is, that Madge
has not been seized before now by scores of enamoured
men, and borne off, like the Sabine women in Romish
history. You chuckle over your future, like a boy who
has found a guinea in groping for sixpences. You read
over the marriage service, — thinking of the time when
you will take Tier hand, and slip the ring upon her finger ;
and repeat after the clergyman — " for richer — for poorer,
for better — for worse !" A great deal of " worse" there
will be about it, you think !
Through all, your heart cleaves to that sweet image
of the beloved Madge, as light cleaves to day. The
weeks leap with a bound; and the months only grow
long when you approach that day which is to make her
yours. There are no flowers rare enough to make bou
quets for her ; diamonds are too dim for her to wear ;
pearls are tame.
And after marriage, the weeks are even shorter
than before ; you wonder why on earth all the single
men in the world do not rush tumultuously to the altar ;
you look upon them all, as a travelled man will look
upon some conceited Dutch boor, who has never been
beyond the limits of his cabbage-garden. Married men,
on the contrary, you regard as fellow-voyagers; and
look upon their wives — ugly as they may be — as better
than none.
You blush a little at first telling your butcher whr.t
"your wife" would like; you bargain with the grocer
for sugars and teas, and wonder if he knotvs that you
are a married man? You practise your new way. of
184 THE LOVER AND THE HUSBAND.
talk upon your office boy : you tell him that " your wife"
expects you home to dinner ; and are astonished that he
-does not stare to hear you say it !
You wonder if the people in the omnibus know that
Madge and you are just married ; and if the driver
knows that the shilling you hand to him is for " self and
wife ?" You wonder if anybody was ever so happy
before, or ever will be so happy again ?
You enter your name upon the hotel books as " Cla
rence and Lady ;" and come back to look at it, —
wondering if anybody else has noticed it, — and thinking
that it looks remarkably well. You cannot help thinking
that every third man you meet in the hall, wishes he
possessed your wife ; nor do you think it very sinful in
him to wish it. You fear it is placing temptation in the
way of covetous men, to put Madge's little gaiters out
side the chamber-door at night.
Your home, when it is entered, is just what it should
be — quiet, small, — with everything she wishes, and
nothing more than she wishes. The sun strikes it in
the happiest possible way; the piano is the sweetest
toned in the world ; the library is stocked to a charm ;
and Madge, that blessed wife, is there — adorning and
giving life to it all. To think, even, of her possible
death, is a suffering you class with the infernal tortures
of the Inquisition. You grow twain of heart and of
purpose. Smiles seem made for marriage; and you
wonder how you ever wore them before !
NELLIE.
THERE she sat, with both little handa covering her
face. It was twilight, and beyond the little finger
glanced a watchful eye towards the door, to see if Theo
dore would go. She didn't think he would. He came
back.
"Is the little child crying?" he asked, relentingly, as
he took the pretty fingers, one by one, away from the
youthful face, hard as she tried to keep them there. At
last she gave up, and broke into a merry laugh.
" You little hypocrite !" said her husband, in rather
an incensed tone of voice — men do hate to be gulled
into soothing a laughing wife.
"Well! can't I go?" pleaded the enchanting little
creature, looking up into his eyes so beseechingly.
" Why, Nellie, it isn't becoming for you to go without
me."
" Yes, it is !" she answered, in a very low way, as if
she hardly dared say it, and at the same time running
her forefinger through the hem of her silk apron " May
I go?" and she lifted up her eyes in the same beseech
ing way again.
" Why are you so anxious to go, to-night?"
"0, because!"
" But that is not a good reason !"
" Well, I want to dance a little!"
" Nellie, I can't possibly go with you, to-night You
186 NELLIE.
are very young — you know nothing of the world and its
malice — "
" But I can go with Mr. and Mrs. Williams, next
door."
" I can't consent to your going without me, little pet."
Nellie put her apron up to her face, and actually did
succeed in squeezing two tears into her eyes. She in
stantly dropped her apron after this was ace -mplished,
and looked reproachfully into her husband's face. Sud
denly a thought darted into her head. " When will you
come home?" she asked, with quiet melancholy of man
ner.
" I fear not before ten or eleven, dear. Good-bye ! I
am late, now !" He went away, and Nellie sat down
and soliloquized.
" Business ! old business ! If there is anything I hate,
beyond all human expression, it is this business. I know
it was never intended there should be such a thing.
Adam and Eve were put right in a garden, and that
shows that it was meant we should play around, and
have fun, and live in the country, and cultivate flowers
and vegetables to live on. I have always felt so, and I
always shall. I don't know that I'd be so particular
about living in the country ; but the playing part, that's
what I'm particular about. If we lived on a farm, I
suppose Theodore would wear cowhide boots, and pants
too tight and short for him, and a swallow-tailed coat.
I declare ! I'm afraid I never should have loved him, if
I had seen him in such gear, although I have said forty
times that I should have known we were created for each
other, if we had met under any circumstances ; but I
NELLIE. 18V
didn't think what a difference clothes make ! Isn't he a
magnificent-looking man ! Wouldn't anybody have been
glad to have got him ? 1 think it's the most wonderful
thing in the world how he ever thought of such a little
giddy thing as I am ! Such a great man, and so much
older than I am ! Thirty-two years old ! No wonder
he knows so much ! Well, I must stop thinking of this !
* To be, or not to be, that is the question !' Shall I go,
or shall I not ? Would he be very mad about it, or would
he not ? Let me see ! He won't be home before ten or
eleven. I can dress and go with Mrs. Williams, and
then Fred shall bring me home before ten o'clock ; and
after a few-days, some time when Theodore is in a most
delicious humour, and perfectly carried away with my
bewitchments, I'll gradually disclose the matter to him,
and say I'll never do the like again, and it's among the
things of the past, an error which repentance or tears
cannot efface ; but the painful results will never be for
gotten, namely, his look of disapprobation. I wonder
if that will do !" Nellie broke into a low, gay laugh.
She was a spoilt child ; from her cradle she had been
idolized, and taught that she could not be blamed for
anything. But she buried her face in her hands, and
reflected. That day she had received a note from a
young gentleman, saying,
" DEAR ELLEN : — Will you come to the ball to-night ?
I have not seen Alice yet. I am on the rack, in excru
ciating torture. Your family and your husband don't
fancy me, but you have known me from childhood. You
ought to show mercy, rather than cruelty. Will you
come? FREDERICK ORTON."
188 NELLIE.
Nellie had read the letter, drowned in tears. How
would she have felt, if her family had been so unjustly
prejudiced against Theodore ? Wouldn't she have ex
pected some help from dear sister Alice ? And shouldn't
she help Alice in her extremity, even if Theodore should
be vexed a little about it ? Why did Theodore hate Fred
Orton ? He never said so ; but she knew he didn't like
him. Nellie wrote to Mr. Orton :
" POOR, DEAR FRED : — I'll come to the ball and
speak with you, if I can. I'll always be your friend,
even if my own flesh and blood don't do you justice. If
you only knew hew good father and mother really are,
and that they have heard wrong stories about you, you
wouldn't mind it. Your devoted sister
ELLEN."
Nellie, dressed in white, looked like a veritable little
angel, and went to the ball with Mr. and Mrs. Williams.
She spoke with Fred, danced with him, took a letter for
Alice, and told him how her precious sister was almost
dying of a broken . heart. Then, thinking she had
spoken rather strongly, she added : " You know she
feels so some of the time." When Fred came the
second time to ask Nellie to dance, she thought his
motion was slightly wavering. She attributed it to the
agitation of his heart on hearing about Alice, and he
led her out on the floor. His breath was tinctured with
brandy. Nellie grew white, and begged him to take her
back to her seat. He laughingly, but positively refused.
"Good gracious !" she mentally ejaculated, "I shall d e
with shame to be dancing with a drunken man, an I
Theodore not here ! I never should have believed ti *
NELLIE. 1 89
stories about Fred, if I hadn't been convinced with my
own eyes and nose. Oh ! what will Theodore say to
me ? Oh ! if I had only done as he advised. If I had
stayed at home — oh ! I am so sorry I came ! Shall I
ever be able to tell Theodore ? Suppose it should make
trouble between us. Oh ! I know now that I am such a
miserable, wilful, perverse mortal. I was born to
trouble, as the sparks fly upward I" Nellie besought Mr.
Williams to convey her home, the instant her agonizing
dance was over. He did so. She entered the parlour
with beating heart, with green veil on her head, with
crape shawl thrown around her pretty figure. Theodore
sat there.
" Oh !" she exclaimed, clasping her hands with a
start, and then standing as motionless as if she had been
shot. Theodore glared at her with a pale face, set lips,
and flashing eyes. She said, with quivering lip, " I
shall die, if you are going to look at me that way long !
Oh, dear ! I'm so miserable ! I'm always getting my
own head snapt off to accommodate other people."
" You have not injured yourself by accommodating
me !" responded a deep, ferocious voice.
" It wasn't for my own gratification that I went,
Theodore."
" For whose gratification was it, madam ?" — There
was a shade less of ferocity in the tone.
" For my sister's !"
"Why didn't you tell me why you wanted to go,
madam ?"
"It was a secret between Alice and me; and I rather
thought you liked me, and I might impose on you, as I
190 NELLIE.
used to do on the girls at school that liked me. I don't
mean impose" — (Mr. Grenly fairly banged at the fire,)
— " I mean—"
"What do you mean, Ellen Grenly?"
" I thought I could do just as I wished, and you'd
make up, just as the girls used to do."
" You thought your husband was like a girl, did you
—did you ?"
"Yes! I hoped so!"
" Well, madam, you will soon find out that you are
married to a man who is not to be trifled with in this
way."
" Oh, gracious Peter ! what'll you do with me ?"
" I'll send you back to your father's — to your pina
fores — to your nursery — and I'll leave the country for
two or three years, until a divorce can be obtained for
separation. You may obtain the divorce, madam. I
shall never want to hold one of your perfidious sex in
my arms again. Women are one vast bundle of folly."
"I am a vast bundle of folly," sobbed Nellie, spasmod
ically, " but all of them are not — they're not — I can
prove it."
" I desire no proof from a woman of your — of your—
of your calibre."
" I never was so sorry for anything in my life,
Theodore. If you'll forgive me this time, I'll try and
make you such a good wife. I won't disregard your
advice, nor anything — nor — "
Mrs. Grenly wiped her tears on the corner of her
shawl, and took occasion to look at her husband as she
did so.
NELLIE. 191
" You may come here, madam !"
Madam went, knowing the victory was won ; her tears
frere dry in a moment.
" Nellie Grenly, look me right in the eyes !"
"Yes! there!"
And she concentrated her glorious laughing eyes upon
him, trying very hard not to make a display of rebellious
dimples. He began to doubt whether he had made a
judicious request.
"Now, promise me," he said, "that as long as you
live, you never will do anything I disapprove of;
because it's clear you are a perfect baby."
" Oh ! I can see myself in your eyes, just as plain as
day!"
" Promise me."
" Did you know that your eyes were not all blue, but
streaked — and streaked. What's the nature of the eye,
tell me ? What are its functions ? You are always
talking about duty, and functions, and all that."
"Ellen!" sternly.
"What?" very sweetly. "Oh! I guess I'll go and
get a drink."
" No ! you won't stir a step, until you solemnly assure
me that you never will go to any place that I advise you
against."
" Oh ! I hate to make such a promise."
" The reason I ask it, is because thousands of innocent
women have been misjudged for innocent actions ; and I
would not have my little Nellie misjudged, when she ia
pure as an angel."
" I promise !"
192 A HOME IN THE HEART
" How did you feel, Nellie, when I threatened a
separation ?"
" I felt as if you couldn't be coaxed into it."
" Get down, this instant !"
And down went Nellie, with a little delicious peal of
laughter. A profound silence of four minuses continu
ance.
" I don't know that I care if you come back."
And back went Nellie, keeping her bewitching little
mouth closed, until she could drop her face upon her
husband's shoulder, and laugh to her heart's content.
" Do you know, Nellie, that some men would have
Bulked a month over your conduct to-night ? Haven't
you got an indulgent husband ?"
" That I have ! You don't thrust wrong constructions
on my folly ; and that is the very reason I am going to
try and be as good and innocent as you think me. I
feel as if I have been acting so wrongly."
A HOME IN THE HEART.
On ! ask not a home in the mansions of pride,
Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls ;
Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold,
And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls.
But seek for a bosom all honest and true,
Where love once awakened will never depart ;
Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest,
And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart.
A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL. 193
Oh 1 link but one spirit that's warmly sincere,
That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care;
Tind a soul you may trust as the kind and the just,
And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare.
Then the frowns of misfortune may shadow our lot,
The cheek-searing tear-drops of sorrow may start,
But a star never dim sheds a halo for him
Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart.
A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL.
OUR married life had commenced, and this was HOME.
As I opened my eyes in our new abode, the rays of the
morning sun were penetrating the muslin curtains, the
air was filled with the fragrance of mignionette, and in
the adjoining room I heard a loved voice warbling my
favourite air.
On the different articles of furniture lay a hundred
thi/igs to remind me of the change which had taken
place in my mode of life. There lay the bouquet of
orange flowers worn by Marcelle on our wedding day;
here stood her work basket ; a little further on, and my
eye fell on her small bookcase, ornamented with her
school prizes and several other volumes, recent offerings
from myself. Thus all my surroundings indicated that
I was no longer alone. Till then in my independence 1
had merely skirted the great army of humanity, measur
ing all things Avith regard to my own strength only. I
had now entered its ranks, accompanied by a fellow tra
veller, whose powers and feelings must be consulted, and
13
194 A LEAF FROM A FAiMILY JOURNAL.
whose tenderness must be equalled by the protecting
love shed around her. A few weeks ago I should have
fallen unnoticed and left no void, henceforward my lot
lay bound in that of others. I had taken root in life,
and fo) the future must fortify and strengthen myself
for the protection of the nests which would in time be
formed beneath my shade.
Sweet sense of responsibility, which elevated without
alarming me ! What had Marcelle and I to fear ? Was
not our departure on the voyage of life like that of
Athenian Theori for the island of Delos, sailing to the
sound of harps and songs while crowned with flowers ?
Did not our hearts beat responsive to the chorus of
youth's protecting genii ?
Strength said, "What matters the task? Feel you
not that to you it will all be easy? It is the weak alone
who weigh the burden. Atlas smiled, though he bore
the world on his shoulders."
Faith added, " Have confidence, and the mountains
which obstruct your path shall vanish like clouds ; the
sea shall bear you up, and the rainbow shall become a
bridge for your feet."
Hope whispered, " Behold, before you lies repose after
fatigue; plenty will follow after scarcity. On, on, for
the desert leads to the promised land."
And lastly, a voice more fascinating than any, added,
u Love one another ; there is not on earth a surer talis
man ; it is the ' Open Sesame' which will put you in the
possession of all the treasures of creation."
Why not listen to these sweet assurances ? '• Cherished
companions of our opening career, my faith in you is
A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL. 195
strong; you, who, like unto the military music which
animates the soldier's courage, lead us, intoxicated by
your melody, on to the battle field of life." What can
I fear from a life through which I shall pass with Mar-
cclle's arm entwined in mine ? The sun shines on the
commencement of our journey ; forward over flowery
fields, by hedges alive with song, through ever-verdant
forests ! Let one horizon succeed another ! The day
is so lovely, and the night yet so distant !
While thus occupied with my newborn happiness, I
had risen and joined Marcelle, who had already taken
possession of her domestic kingdom.
Everything must be visited with her ; her precocious
housewifery must be admired ; her arrangements must
be applauded. First she showed me the little isalle d
manger,' dedicated to the meals which would unite us in
the intervals of business : to this cause it owed the air
of opulence and brightness which Marcelle had carefully
strive.n to impart to it. China, silver, and glass, sparkled
on the shelves. Here lay rich fruits half hidden in
moss ; there, stood freshly-gathered flowers — everything
spoke of the reign of grace and plenty. From thence
we passed into the salon, the closed curtains of which
admitted only a soft and subdued light, which fell on
statuettes ornamenting the consoles, and the gilt frames
on the walls : on the tables lay scattered in graceful
negligence, albums, elegancies of papier mache, and
carved ivory ; precious nothings which had constituted
the young girl's treasures. At the farther end, the folds
of a heavy curtain concealed the bower, sacred to the
lady of the castle. Here admittance was at first denied
196 A LEAP FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL.
me, and I was obliged to have recourse to entreaty be
fore the drapery was raised for our entrance.
The cabinet was lighted by a small window, ovei
which hung a blind, representing a gothic casement of
painted glass, the bright colours of which were now ren
dered more brilliant by the sunlight which streamed
through. The principal furniture consisted of a pretty
lounging chair and the work table, near which I had so
often seen Marcclle seated with her embroidery when I
passed under her aunt's window. Her pretty flower-
stand, gay with her favourite flowers, occupied the win
dow in which hung a gilt-wire cage, the melodious
prison-house of her pet bird ; and lastly, there stood
fronting the window, the bureau, consecrated since her
school-days, to her intimate correspondence.
She showed it to me with an almost tearful gravity.
Everything it contained was a relic, or souvenir. That
agate inkstand had belonged to her elder sister, who
died just when Marcelle was old enough to know and
love her; this mother-of-pearl paper-cutter was a pre
sent to her from her aunt, before she became her adopted
child ; this seal had belonged to her father ! She half-
opened the different drawers, for me to peep at the trea
sures they contained. In one were the letters of her
dearest school-friend, now married, gone abroad, and
therefore lost to her ; in another, were family papers ;
lower down, her certificates for the performance of reli
gious obligations, prizes obtained, and examinations
passed — the young girl's humble patent of nobility ' —
and last of all, in the most secret corner, lay some
faded flowers, and the correspondence which, with the
A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL. 197
consent of her Aunt Roubert, we had interchanged when
absent from each other.
In the contents of this bureau, were united all the
touching and pleasing reminiscences of her former life ;
they formed Marcelle's poetic archives, whither she
often retired in her hours of solitude. Often, on my
return from business, I found her here, smiling, and
seemingly perfumed by memories of the past.
Ah ! thought I, why have not men also some spot
thus consecrated to like holy and sweet remembrances,
a sanctuary replete with tokens of family affection, and
relics of youth's enthusiasm ? Our ancestors, in their
pride, cut out of the granite rock safe depositories for
the proofs of their empty titles and long pedigrees ; is it
impossible for us to devote some obscure corner to the
annals of the heart, to all that recalls to us our former
noble aspirations, and generous hopes?
Time has torn from the walls the genealogical trees
of noble families, but he has left space for those of the
soul. Let us seek the origin of our decisions, our sym
pathies, our repugnances, and our hopes, and we shall
ever find that they spring from some circumstance of
by-gone days. The present is rooted in the past. Who
has met by chance with some relic of earlier years, and
has not been touched by the remembrances called forth?
It is by looking back to the starting-point, that we can
best calculate the distance traversed ; it is in so doing
that we feel either pleasure or alarm. Truly happy ia
the man who, after gazing on the portrait of his youth,
can turn towards the original and find it unimpaired by
age!
198 A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL.
Those reflections were interrupted, by the sound of
my father's voice, which brought us out of Marcelle's
retreat to welcome him. He came to see our new abode,
and add his satisfaction to our happiness. He was a
gentle stoic, whose courage had ever served as a bulwark
to the weak, and whose inflexibility was but another
name for entire self-abnegation ; he was indulgent to
all, because he never forgave himself, and ever veiled
severity in gentleness. His wisdom partook neither of
arrogance nor passion ; it descended to the level of your
comprehension, and while pointing upwards, led you by
the hand, and guided the ascent. It was a mother who
instructed, never a judge who condemned.
Though pleased with my choice, and happy at seeing
us united, he had nevertheless refused a place at our
fireside. " These first hours of youth are especially
your own," he had said to me with a paternal embrace ;
" an old man would throw a shadow over the meridian
sunshine of your joy. It is better that you should
regret my absence, than for one moment feel my pre
sence a restraint. Besides, solitude is necessary to you,
as well as to me — for you to talk of your hopes for the
future, for me to recall remembrances of the past.
Some time hence, when my strength is failing, I will
come to you, and close my eyes in the shadow of your
prosperity."
And all my entreaties had been unavailing: the sepa
ration was unavoidable. Now, however, Marcelle sprang
forward to meet him, and. led him triumphantly across
the room, to begin a re-examination of its treasures.
My father listened to all, replied to all, and smiled at
A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL. 199
all. He lent himself to our dreams of happiness, paus
ing before each new phase, to point out a hope over
looked before, or a joy forgotten. While thus pleasantly
occupied, time slipped away unnoticed, until Marcelle's
aunt arrived.
Who was there in our native town who did not know
Aunt Roubert? The very mention of her name was
sufficient to make one gay. Left a widow in early life,
and in involved circumstances, she had, by dint of
activity, order, and economy, entirely extricated herself
from pecuniary difficulty. Of her might be said with
truth, that " sa part d' esprit lui avait ete donnSe en lor,
sens." Taking reality for her guide, she had followed
in the beaten track of life, carefully avoiding the many
sharp flints which caprice scatters in the way. Always
on the move, alternately setting people to rights, and
grumbling at either them or herself, she yet found time
to manage well her own affairs, and to improve those of
others — a faculty which had obtained for her the name
of "La Femme de menage de la Providence." Vulgar
in appearance, she was practical in the extreme, and
results generally proved her in the right. Her nature
was made up of the prose of life, but prose so clear, so
consistent, that, but for its simplicity, it would have
been profound.
Aunt Roubert arrived, according to custom, a large
umbrella in hand, while her arm was loaded with an
immense horsehair bag. She entered the little cabinet,
where we were seated, like a shower of hail: — "Here
you are at last," she exclaimed, "I have been into
200 A LEAP FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL.
every room in search of you. Do you know, my dear,
that the chests of linen have arrived ?"
" Very well, I will go and see after it," said Marcelle,
who, with one hand in my father's, and the other in mine,
seemed in no hurry to stir.
"You will go and see after it," repeated Aunt Rou
bert, "that will be very useless, for you will find no
place to put it in ; I have been over your abode, my
poor child, and instead of a home I find a ' salon de
theatre:"
"Why, aunt," exclaimed Marcelle, "how can you say
so ? Remi and his father have just been through the
rooms, and are delighted with them !"
" Don't talk of men and housekeeping in the same
breath," replied Madame, in her most peremptory tone ;
"see that they are provided with a pair of snuffers and
a bootjack, and they will not discover the want of any
thing else ; but I, dear friend, know what a house should
be. In entering the lobby just now, I looked about for
a hook, on which to hang my cloak, and could find no
thing but flowering stocks ! My dear, flowers form the
principal part of your furniture !"
Marcelle endeavoured to protest against the assertion
by enumerating our stock of valuables, but she was in
terrupted by her aunt.
" I am not talking of what you have, but of what you
have not," she said; "I certainly saw in your salon
some little bronze marmozettes."
" Marmozettes !" I cried, "you mean statuettes of
Schiller and Rousseau."
" Possibly," Aunt Roubert quietly replied, " they
A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL. 201
may at a push serve as match holders ; but, dear friend,
in the fire-place of your office below, I could see neither
tongs nor shovel. On opening the sideboard, I found a
charming little silver-gilt service, but no soup ladle, so
one can only suppose that you mean to live on sweet
meats ; and lastly, though the ' salle a manger' is orna
mented with beautifully gilt porcelain, the kitchen
unfortunately is minus both roasting-jack and frying-
pan ! Good heavens, these are most unromantic details,
are they not ?" added she, noticing the gesture of annoy
ance which we were unable altogether to repress ; " but
as you will be obliged to descend to them whenever you
want a roast or an omelette, it would perhaps be as well
to provide for them."
" You are right !" I replied, a little Qut of humour,
for I had noticed Marcelle's confusion, " but such omis
sioris are easily rectified when their need is felt."
"^That is to say, you will wait until bed-time to order
the mattrass," replied Aunt Roubert; "well, well, my
children, as you will, but now your attendance is required
on your linen, which awaits you in the lobby ; I suppose
my niece does not propose to arrange it in her birdcage,
or flower-stand ; can she show me the place destined
for it ?"
Marcelle had coloured to the roots of her hair, and
stood twisting and untwisting her apron-string.
" Ah well ! I see you have not thought of that," said
the old aunt ; " but never mind, we will find some place
to put it in after breakfast ; you know we are to break
fast together."
202 A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL.
This was a point Marcello had not forgotten, and she
forthwith led the way to her breakfast-table.
At the sight of it my father gave a start of pleased
surprise. In the centre stood a basket of fruit, flowers,
and moss, round which were arranged all our favourite
dainties ;. each could recognise the dish prepared to suit
his taste. After having given a rapid glance round,
Madame Roubert cried out,
" And the bread, my child ?"
Marcelle uttered a cry of consternation.
" You have none," said her aunt, quietly ; " send your
servant for some." Then lowering her voice, she added,
" As she will pass by my door, she can at the same time
tell Baptiste to bring the large easy-chair for your father,
and I hope you will keep it. Your gothic chairs are
very pretty to look at, but when one is old or invalided,
what one likes best in a chair, is a comfortable seat."
While awaiting the servant's return, Madame Roubert
accompanied Marcelle in a tour round our abode. She
pointed out what had been forgotten, remedied the
inconvenience of several arrangements, or superseded
them with better, doing it all with the utmost cheerful
simplicity. Her hints never bordered on criticisms ;
<he showed the error without astonishment at its having
been committed, and without priding herself on its dis
covery.
When she had completed 'her examination, she took
her niece aside with her accounts. Marcelle fetched
the little rosewood case which served her as a cash box,
and sat down to calculate the expenses of the past week.
But her efforts to produce a satisfactory balance, seemed
A LEAP FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL. 203
useless. It was in vain that she added and subtracted,
and counted piece by piece her remaining money, the
deficit never varied. Astounded at such a result, and
at the amount spent, she began to examine the lock of
her box, and to ask herself how its contents' could have
so rapidly disappeared, when Aunt Roubert interrupted
her.
" Take care," she said in one of her most serious
tones. " See, how from want of careful account-keep
ing you aheady suspect others ; before this evening is
here you will be ready to accuse them. It always is so.
The want of order engenders suspicion, and it is easier
to doubt the probity of others than one's own memory.
No lock can prevent that, my child, because none can
shelter you from the results of your own miscalculations.
There is no safeguard for the woman at the head of a
household, like a housekeeping-book which serves to
warn her day by day, and bears faithful witness at the
end of the month. I have brought you such a one as
your uncle used to give me."
She drew it from her bag, and presented it to Marcelle.
It was an account-book bound in parchment, the cover
of which was separated like a portfolio into three pockets,
destined for receipts, bills, and memoranda. The book
itself was divided into several parts, distinguished one
from the other by markers corresponding to the different
species of expenditure, so that a glance was sufficient to
Form an estimate, not only of the sum total, but also of
:he amount of expenditure, in each separate branch,
the whole formed a domestic budget as clear as it was
;'>mplete, in which each portion of the government sen-
204 A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL.
vice bad its open account regulated by tbe supreme
comptroller.
M. Roubert, who had been during his life a species
of unknown Franklin, solely occupied in the endeavour
to make business and opinions agree with good sense,
had written above each chapter a borrowed or unpub
lished maxirn to serve as warning to its possessor. At
the beginning of the book the following words were
traced in red ink : —
" Economy is the true source of independence and
liberality."
Farther on, at the head of the division destined to
expenses of the table : —
" A wise man has always three cooks, who season the
simplest food: Sobriety , Exercise, and Content."
Above the chapter devoted to benevolence: —
" Give as tJiou hast received."
And lastly, on the page destined to receive the amount
of each month's savings, he had copied this saying of a
Chinese philosopher : —
" Time and patience convert the mulberry leaf into
satin."
After having given us time to look over the book, and
read its wise counsels, Aunt Roubert explained to Mar-
celle the particulars of its use, and endeavoured to
initiate her in domestic book-keeping.
TRIFLES.
TRULY hath the poet said that, " Trifles swell the sum
of human happiness arid woe." Our highest and holiest
aspirations, our purest and warmest affections, are fre
quently called forth by what in itself may be deemed of
trivial importance. The fragrant breath of a flower,
the passing song of the merry milk-maid, a soothing
word from one we love, will often change the whole cur
rent of our thoughts and feelings, and, by carrying us
back to the days of childhood, or bringing to our re
membrance some innocent and happy state which steals
over us like a long-forgotten dream, will dissipate the
clouds of sorrow, and even the still deeper shades of fal
sity and evil.
How many of the great events of life have their ori
gin in trifles ; how many deep, heart-felt sorrows spring
from neglect of what seemed to us a duty of little or no
account — something that could be done or left undone
as we pleased !
Alas ! this is a dangerous doctrine. Let us endeavour
to impress upon the minds of our children that no duty
is trifling ; that nothing which can in any way affect the
comfort and happiness of others is unimportant.
The happiness of domestic life, particularly of married
life, depends almost wholly upon strict attention to tri
fles. Between those who are united by the sacred tie
of marriage, nothing should be deemed trivial. A word,
a glance, a smile, a gentle touch, all speak volumes ;
206 TRIFLES.
and the human heart is so constituted that there is no
joy so great, no sorrow so intense, that it may i.ot be
increased or mitigated by these trifling acts of sympathy
from one we love.
Nearly three months had elapsed since the papers
had duly announced to the public that Mary, daughter
of Theodore Melville, had become the bride of Arthur
Hartwell ; and the young couple had returned from
a short bridal tour, and were now quietly settled in a
pleasant little spot which was endeared to Arthur by
having been the home of his youthful days. He had
been left an orphan at an early age, and the property
had passed into the hands of strangers, but he continued
to cherish a strong attachment for the "old place," aa
he termed it, and he heard with joy, some few montha
before his marriage, that it was for sale ; and without
even waiting to consult his intended bride, he purchased
it for their future home. This was a sad disappointment
to Mary, for she had fixed her affections upon a pretty
romantic little cottage, half hid by trees and shrubbery,
which was situated v/ithin two minutes' walk of her
father's house ; and which, owing to the death of the
owner, was offered for sale upon very favourable terms.
In her eyes it possessed every advantage, and as she
mentally compared it with the old-fashioned dwelling of
which Arthur had become the possessor, she secretly
conceived a strong prejudice against the spot where the
duties and pleasures of the new sphere which she was
about to enter were to commence ; particularly as it was
five miles distant from her parents, and not very near to
any of her early friends.
TRIFLES. 207
Some faint attempts were made to induce Arthur to
endeavour to get released from his bargain, and to be
come the purchaser of the pretty cottage, but in vain.
Ha was delighted to have become the owner of what
appeared to him one of the loveliest spots on the earth,
and assured Mary that the house was vastly superior to
any cottage, advancing so many good reasons for this
assertion, and describing in such glowing terms the
beauty of the surrounding scenery, and the happiness
they should enjoy, that she could not help sympathizing
with him, although her dislike to her future home re
mained unabated.
The first few weeks of her residence there passed
pleasantly enough, however. All was new and delight
ful. The grounds about the house, although little culti
vated, were beautiful in the wild luxuriance of nature ;
the trees were loaded with rich autumnal fruita ; and
even the old-fashioned mansion, now that it was new
painted, and the interior fitted up in modern style,
assumed a more favourable aspect. It was a leisure
time with Arthur, and he was ever ready to accompany
Mary to her father's ; so that she became quite reconciled
to the distance, and even thought it rather an advantage,
as it was such a pleasant little ride.
But as the season advanced, Arthur became more
engrossed with business. The rides became less fie-
quent, and Mary, accustomed to the society of her
mother and sister, often passed lonely days in her new
home, and her dislike to it in some degree returned.
Her affection for her husband, however, prevented the
expression of these feelings, and she endeavoured to
208 TRIFLES.
forget her loneliness in attention to household duties,
reading, and music ; but these resources would sometimes
fail.
It was one of those bright afternoons in the latter
part of autumn, when the sun shines forth with almost
summer-like warmth, and the heart is gladdened with
the departing beauty of nature. Mary was seated alone
in her pleasant parlour, with her books and her work by
her side.
" How I wish Arthur would return early !" she said,
aloud, as she gazed from the open window. •' It will be
such a lovely evening. We could have an early tea,
and ride over to father's and return by moonlight; it
would be delightful ;" and filled with this idea, she really
expected her husband, although it still wanted two hours
of the usual time of his return ; and laying aside her
•work, began to make some preparations for the evening
meal. She was interrupted by a call from an old friend
who lived nearly two miles distant, and, intending to
pass the afternoon at Mr. Melville's, had called to re
quest Mary to accompany her.
The young wife was in considerable perplexity. She
had a great desire to go to her father's, but she was
unwilling to have Arthur return home and find her
absent ; and moreover, she felt a strong impression that
he would himself enjoy the ride in the evening, and
would, perhaps, be disappointed if she were not at home
to go with him. So, with many thanks the invitation
was declined, the visiter departed, and Mary returned
with a light heart to the employment which the visit had
interrupted.
TRIFLES. 209
Janet, the assistant in the kitchen, entered into the
feelings of her mistress, and hastened to assist her with
cheerful alacrity, declaring that she knew " Mr. Hart-
well would be home directly, — it was just the ever: ing
for a ride," &c., &c., — this ebullition of her feelings leing
partly caused by sympathy with the wishes of her young
mistress, and partly by her own desire to have the house
to herself for the reception of some particular friends,
who had promised to favour her with their company that
evening.
But alas ! the hopes of both mistress and maid were
destined to be disappointed. The usual time for Arthur's
return passed by, and still he did not appear ; and it was
not until the deepening twilight had almost given place
to the deeper shades of evening, that Mary heard his
well known step, and springing from the sofa where she
had thrown herself after a weary hour of watching, she
flew to the door to greet him.
" Oh, Arthur !" she exclaimed, forgetful that he was
quite ignorant of all that had been passing in her mind
for the last few hours, " how could you stay so late ? I
have waited for you so long, and watched so anxiously.
It is quite too late for us to go now."
" Go where, Mary ?" was the surprised reply. " I did
not recollect that we were to go anywhere this evening.
1 know I am rather late home, but business must be at
tended to. I meant to have told you not to expect me
at the usual hour."
This was too bad. To think that she had refused
Mrs. Elmore's kind invitation, and had passed the time
in gazing anxiously from the window, when she might
14
210 TRIFLES.
have enjoyed the society of father, mothei, and all the
dear ones at home ; and now to find that Arthur actually
knew that he should not return till late, and might have
saved her this disappointment, it was really very hard;
and Mary turned away to hide the starting tears, as she
replied,
" You might have remembered to have told me that
you should not he home till dark, Arthur, and then I
could have gone with Mrs. Elmore. She called to ask
me to ride over to father's with her, but I would not go,
because I felt so sure that you would coine home early
and take me to ride yourself this pleasant evening."
"You had no reason to expect it," said Arthur, rather
shortly, for he felt irritated at the implied reproach of
Mary's words and manner, and for the first time since
their marriage, the husband and wife seated themselves
at the table with unkind feelings busy in their hearts.
Mary remained quite silent, while Arthur vented hia
irritation by giving the table an impatient jerk, ex
claiming,
"I really wish Janet could learn to set a table straight !
I believe her eyes are crooked."
This was an unfortunate speech, for Mary, in her de
sire to expedite Janet's preparations for tea, had herself
arranged the table ; at another time she would have
made a laughing reply, but just now she did not feel like
joking, and the remark only increased the weight at her
heart.
These grievances may seem very trifling, and indeed
they are so ; but our subject is trifles, and if the reader
will examine his own heart, he will find that even little
TRIFLES. 211
troubles sometimes produce a state which even the addi
tion of a feather's weight renders insupportable.
Thus it was with Mary. She made an ineffectual
attempt to eat, but the food seemed to choke her ; and
"rising abruptly, she seated herself at the piano and
commenced a lively tune in order to hide her real
feelings.
There was nothing strange in this. Arthur frequently
asked her to play to him when he felt disposed to remain
at the table longer than she did, and he had often said
that he liked the ancient custom of having music at
meals ; but this evening music had lost its charm ; the
lively tune was not in unison with his state of feeling,
and he hastily finished his supper and left the room.
This was another trial, and the ready tears gushed from
Mary's eyes as she left the piano, and summoning Janet
to remove the tea things, she bade her tell Mr. Hartwell
when he came in, that she had a bad headache and had
gone to her own room.
Arthur returned from his short walk in less than half
an hour, quite restored to good^ humour by the soothing
effects of the lovely evening, and somewhat ashamed
that he had been disturbed by so trifling a cause.
"Perhaps Mary would like to take a walk," he said
to himself, as he entered the house. " It is not too late
for that, and to-morrow I will endeavour to take the
wished-for ride."
He was disappointed when Janet delivered the mes
sage, and going up stairs opened the door of their sleep
ing apartment ; but Mary's eyes were closed, and fearful
of disturbing her, he quietly returned to the parlour a -id
212 TRIFLES.
endeavoured to amuse himself with a book until his usual
hour of going to rest.
The next morning all seemed as usual ; for sleep has
a renovating power on the mind as well as the body,
and in little troubles as well as in great.
Husband and wife spoke affectionately to each other,
and secretly wondered how such trifles could have dis
turbed them ; but no allusion was made to the subject,
for the very reason that the unpleasant feeling which
had arisen between them had sprung from so trifling a
cause. The trouble could scarcely be defined, and there
fore they judged it better to say nothing about it. In
some cases this is well, but, generally, it is better to
speak openly even of little difficulties ; especially those
which may arise in the first part of married life, as this
frankness enables husband and wife to gain an insight
into all those trifling peculiarities of character which
each may possess, and on attention to which, much of
their future happiness may depend.
Weeks and months passed on, and, apparently, all
was going happily with our young friends. Mary had
become more accustomed to passing some hours of each
day alone, and her solitude was frequently enlivened by
a visit from her mother, sister, or some young friend of
her school-girl days. Arthur still appeared devotedly
attached to her, and she certainly returned his affection
most sincerely, and yet both felt that there was a change.
It could scarcely be defined, and no cause could be
assigned for it. They would have indignantly rejected
the idea that they loved each other less than formerly,
but there was certainly less sympathy between them ;
TRIFLES. 213
they were not so closely united in every thought and
feeling as they once had been. No unkind words had
passed on either side, at least none which could really
be regarded as such, for the trifles which had gradually
produced this feeling of separation were almost too
insignificant to call forth absolute unkindness ; yet still
they did their work slowly but surely.
Mary was the petted child of indulgent parents
Arthur had early lost both father and mother, and his
childhood had passed with but little of the genial effects
of female influence. He had spent most of his time at
a school for boys, where, although his intellect was well
cultivated, and his morals strictly attended to, there was
little done to call forth those warm affections of which
every young heart is susceptible. And as he grew to
manhood, although his principles were excellent, and
his feelings warm and tender, there was a want of that
kindliness and gentleness of manner, and above all, of
that peculiar faculty of adapting himself to the wants
of a female heart, which would not have existed had he
been blessed with the care of a mother, or the affection
ate sympathy of a sister.
His acquaintance with Mary before their marriage
had been of short duration, and these traits in his cha
racter had passed unobserved during the excitement of
feeling which generally marks the days of courtship ;
but as this state passed away, and his usual habits
returned, Mary's sensitive heart was often wounded by
trifling inattentions, although never by wilful neglect.
Arthur was fond of study, and in his leisure hours he
would sometimes become so entirely absorbed in some
214 TRIFLES.
favourite author, that even Mary's presence was forgotten,
and the evening passed away without any effort on his
part to cheer her evidently drooping spirits. Not that
lie was really selfish : it was mere thoughtlessness, and
ignorance of those attentions which a woman's heart
demands. If Mary had requested him to lay aside his
graver studies and read aloud in some work interesting
to her, or pass an hour in cheerful conversation, or
listening to music, he would have complied without hesi
tation, and, indeed, with pleasure ; hut she remained
silent, secretly yearning for little acts of kindness, which
never entered the mind of her husband. Another pecu
liarity which gave the young wife much pain, was that
Arthur never or very rarely uttered words of commen
dation or approval. If anything was wrong he noticed
it at once, and requested a change ; but if right, he
never praised. This is a common error, and it is a great
one. Approval from those we love is as refreshing to
the human heart as the dew to the fading flower; and
to a woman's heart it is essential: without it all kindly
affections wither away ; the softest, most delicate feelings
become blunted and hard ; the heart no longer beats
with warm, generous emotions — it is cold, palsied, and
dead.
Even in the most trifling details of domestic life, ap
proval is encouraging and sweet. The weary wife and
mother who has passed through a day of innumerable
little vexations and difficulties, is cheered by the plea-
Bant smile with which her husband takes his seat at the
tea-table, and feels new life as she listens to his com-
TRIFLES. , 215
mcndations of some favourite dish which she has placed
before him.
True, it is but a trifle, but it speaks to the heart.
We will give our readers a short specimen of the habit
to which we allude. Breakfast was on the table, and a
part of the hot cakes and smoking ham had been duly
transferred to Arthur's plate. He ate sparingly, and
his looks plainly showed that something was wrong.
Presently he said — " Mary, dear, I think you must look
a little more strictly after Janet. She grows very
careless ; this bread is decidedly sour, the ham is half
cooked, and worse than all, breakfast is ten minutes too
late."
Mary's quiet reply, that she would "endeavour to
have it right another time," was quite satisfactory; plea
sant remarks followed, and Arthur left home with a
cheerful good morning. .
Another breakfast time arrived. Mary's own personal
attention had secured sweet bread, and she had risen
half an hour earlier than usual to insure that all was
done properly and in season.
Punctually the well prepared dishes were placed upon
the table, again Arthur's plate was well filled, and, to
do him justice, its contents were eaten with keen relish ;
but no look or word of approval was given to show that
he understood and appreciated the effort which had been
made to meet his wishes.
All was right, and therefore there was nothing to say.
Co some this might have been satisfactory, but not to
Mary. She longed for a word or smile to show that she
had given pleasure,
2 16 TRIFLES.
But it is not to be supposed that all these petty cau^e*
of complaint were on one side. Arthur often felt grieved
and somewhat irritated by Mary's altered manner or
moody silence, showing that he had offended in ways
unknown to himself; and there were also times when
her ridicule of his somewhat uncultivated taste grated
harshly on his feelings. Her continued dislike to the
"dear old place" was another source of regret; and
before the first year of married life had expired, feelings
had sometimes been busy in both their hearts which they
would have shuddered to have confessed even to them
selves.
Winter and spring had passed away, and summer was
again present with its birds and flowers. Mary was in
her garden one lovely afternoon arranging some favour
ite plants, when her attention was attracted to a small
cart laden with some strange old-fashioned-looking fur
niture, "which had stopped at their gate. She at first
supposed that the driver wished to inquire the way, but
to her surprise he carefully lifted a large easy-chair, co
vered with leather and thickly studded with brass nails,
from the wagon, and brought it toward the house, bow
ing respectfully as he approached her, and inquiring
where she wished to have it put.
"There is some mistake," said Mary; "these things
are not for us."
" Mr. Hartwcll sent them here, ma'am," was the re
ply ; "and here is a bit of a note for your leddyship."
Mary received the proffered slip of paper, and hastily
read the following lines : —
" You will be pleased, dear Mary, to find that I have
TRIFLES. 217
at length discovered the purchaser of ray mother's easy-
chair, and the old clock which formerly stood in our
family sitting-room, and have bought them of him for a
moderate price. They are valuable to me as mementos
of my boyish days, and you will value them for my
sake."
But Mary had a great dislike to old clocks, and
leather-bottomed chairs, and she was little disposed to
value them even for Arthur's sake. She, however,
directed the man where to place them, and returned to
the employment which he had interrupted. Arthur's
business demanded his attention until a late hour that
evening, and he had said when he left home that he
should take tea in the city. Mary retired to rest before
his return, and nothing was said concerning the old fur
niture until the following morning.
Indeed, it seemed so perfectly worthless to Mary,
that the recollection of it had passed from her mind ;
but it was recalled by the sudden inquiry of her husband
as he finished dressing and prepared to go down stairs.
" Oh, Mary, dear, where did you have the old chair
and clock placed ? Was I not fortunate to find them ?"
" Very," replied Mary, with forced interest ; " although
I hardly know what you will do with them. I had them
put in the shed for the present."
*;ln the shed!" exclaimed Arthur; "but you are
right, Mary, they need a little rubbing off; please to
let Janet attend to them this morning, and I will show
you the very places where they used to stand in the
parlour. How delighted I shall be to see the did clock
218 TRIFLES
in its accustomed corner, and to seat myself in the very
chain where I have so often sat Avith my dear mother!"
Mary uttered an involuntary exclamation of horror.
" Why, Arthur, you do not really intend to place
those hideous old things in our parlour?"
" Certainly I do. I see nothing hideous in them.
They are worth all our fashionable furniture put
together. What is your objection to them, Mary ?"
" I have every objection to them," was her almost
indignant reply. " They would form the most ludicrous
contrast to the rest of our furniture."
" I see nothing ludicrous or improper in putting them
in their old places," said Arthur, warmly. " They are
dear to me as having belonged to my parents, and I
cannot see why you should wish to deny me the pleasure
of having them where I can enjoy the recollections which
they recall."
" Put them in the garret, or in your own little room
•where you keep your books, if you like," answered Mary;
" but if you have any regard to my feelings, you will
keep them out of my sight. I think the sacrifice which
I make in living in this old-fashioned place is enough,
without requiring me to ornament my parlour with
furniture which was in use before I was born. However,
I do not expect much consideration for my opinions and
tastes ;" and, overpowered with a mixed feeling of
indignation and regret for the warmth with which she
had spoken, Mary burst into tears.
" You have certainly showed little regard for my
feelings," was Arthur's irritated reply ; " and perhaps,
I may also say with truth, what your words imply; 1
TRIFLES. 219
have little reason to expect regard and consideration ;"
and hastily leaving the room, he was on his way to hia
office before Mary had composed herself sufficiently to
descend to the breakfast room.
" Has Mr. Hartwell breakfasted ?" she inquired, with
surprise, as she saw the solitary cup and plate 'which
Janet had placed for her.
" He took no breakfast, ma'am. I think he was in
great haste to reach the office."
" He has a great deal to attend to, just now," replied
her mistress, unwilling that Janet should suspect the
truth ; but as soon as the girl left the room, her excited
feelings again found vent in tears.
Bitterly did she regret what had passed. It was the
first time that harsh words had been uttered by either,
and they seemed to have lifted the veil which had long
been drawn over thoughts and feelings which had tended
to dissimilarity and separation.
The year passed in rapid review before her, and she
felt that there was a great and fearful change, the cause
of which she could not define, for she had no distinct
charges to bring against Arthur, and as yet, she attached
little blame to herself. The unkind manner in which
she had spoken that morning, was indeed regretted ; but
this seemed the only error. It was certainly unreason
able in Arthur to expect her to yield willingly to such a
strange whim.
But he no longer loved her, she was sure of this ; and
proof after proof of his inattention to her wishes, and
neglect of her feelings, came to her mind, until she was
220 TRIFLES.
almost overwhelmed with the view of her own misery,
which imagination thus placed before her.
And this was the anniversary of their marriage ! One
ahort year before and they had exchanged those mutual
vows which then appeared unchangeable. How soon
happiness had fled ! And to think that this climax of
their troubles should happen upon this very day, which
ought to have been consecrated to tender remembrances !
— this was the hardest thought of all ; but probably,
Arthur did not even remember the day. As these and
similar thoughts passed through Mary's mind, her tears
redoubled, and fearful that Janet would surprise her in
this situation, she rose hastily to go to her own room.
In doing this her eye suddenly rested upon a small par
cel addressed to herself, which lay upon her little work-
table, and taking it in her hand she passed quickly up
the stairs, just in time to avoid the scrutinizing eye of
Janet, who, shrewdly suspecting that something waa
wrong, had resolved to be uncommonly attentive to her
young mistress, in the hope of discovering the cause of
the trouble.
Mary locked the door of her own apartment, and ob
serving that the address on the package was in Arthur's
handwriting, she hastily tore off the envelope, discover
ing a beautiful edition of a volume of poems for which
she had expressed a wish — unheeded and unheard, as
she deemed it — some days before. Her own name and
that of her husband were written upon the blank leaf,
and the date showed that it was designed as a gift for
this very day ; a proof that he remembered the anni«
versary which she had supposed so entirely forgotten.
THIFLES. 221
It was but a trifling attention — one of those ].1easani
little patches of blue sky which we sometimes see when
the remainder of the heavens is covered with clouds —
but it produced an entire revulsion of feeling. A flood
of gentle and tender emotions filled the heart of the
young wife ; the faults of her husband now appeared to
her as nothing, while his many virtues stood out in bold
relief; she, alone, had been to blame in the little diffi
culties which had sprung up between them, for a playful
remonstrance on her part would, no doubt, have dispelled
the coldness of manner which had sometimes troubled
her, and induced him to pay those little attentions which
her heart craved. He had always, in every important
matter, been very, very kind to her, and how often she
had opposed his wishes and laughed at his opinions !
But it was not yet too late ; she would regain the place
in his affections which she still feared she had forfeited ;
and with the childish, impulsive eagerness which marked
her character, Mary hastened to the shed, and summon
ing Janet to her assistance, was soon busily at work on
the old furniture, which, an hour ago, she had so much
despised. The old clock-case soon shone with an un
equalled polish, and the chair seeemed to have renewed
its youth. But where should they be placed ? for Arthur
had left the house without designating the spot where
they had formerly stood.
"It would be so delightful to have them just where he
wished, before he comes home !" thought Mary, and it waa
with real joy that she turned to receive the greeting of
a worthy old lady, who was one of the nearest neigh
bours, and having lived on the same place for the last
222 TRIFLES.
forty years, had undoubtedly been well acquainted with
the old chair and clock, and could tell the very place
•where they ought to stand.
This proved to be the case. The lady was quite de«
lighted to meet such old friends, and assisted Mary in
arranging them with the utmost pleasure.
" There, dear," she exclaimed, when all was com
pleted, " that is exactly right. It seems to me I can
almost see my old friend, Mrs. Hart-well, in her favour
ite chair, with her pretty little boy, your husband that
is now, by her side. Poor child ! it was a sad loss to
him when she died ; I am glad he has found such a good
wife ; it is not every one who thinks so much of their
husband's feelings as you do, my dear.''
Mary blushed a little at this somewhat ill-deserved
praise, but thanked her worthy visitor for her kindness,
and exerted herself so successfully to make her long call
agreeable, that the good lady went home with the firm
impression that " Arthur Hartwell had got one of the
best wives in the country."
The hours seemed long until the usual time for Ar
thur's arrival ; and with almost trembling eagerness
Mary heard his step in the entry. Her tremulous but
pleasant "good evening," met with rather a cold return,
but she was prepared for this, and was not discouraged.
Tea was on the table, and they sat down. Arthur's
taste had been scrupulously consulted, and the effort to
please did not, as was too often the case, pass unnoticed.
From a desire to break the somewhat awkward silence,
or from some other motive, he praised each favourite
dish, and declared he had seldom eaten so good a supper.
TRIFLES, 223
Rising from table, they proceeded as usual to the par-
iOur ; and now Mary was amply rewarded for the sacri
fice of her own taste, if sacrifice it could he called, hy
the surprise and pleasure visible in her husband's coun
tenance as he looked around, and by the affectionate kiss
which he imprinted upon her cheek.
" And you will forgive my hasty words, will you not ?"
Mary whispered softly, as he bent his head to hers.
" They will never again be remembered," was the
reply ; " and I have also much to ask your forgiveness
for, Mary, for I have thought much and deeply, to-day,
dearest, and I find that I have been very deficient in
many of the most essential qualities of a husband. But
let us sit down together in this old chair, which with me
is so strongly associated with the memory of my dear
mother, that it seems as if her spirit must be near to
bless us ; and we will review the past year a little, and
you will let me peep into your heart, and give me a
clearer insight into its feelings and wants."
A long and free conversation followed, in which the
husband and wife gained more real knowledge of each
other's characters than they had obtained in the whole
of their previous acquaintance. All coldness and doubt
was dispelled, and they felt that they loved more ten
derly and truly than ever before.
" And now, dearest, we will sum up -the lesson which
we are to remember," said Arthur, playfully, as the late
ness of the hour reminded them that the evening had
passed unheeded away. "Jam to think more of trifles,
and you are — "
"To think less," added Mary, smilingly. "Let us
see who will remember their lesson the best."
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.
THERE are certain pairs of old-fashioned-looking pic
tures, in black frames generally, and most commonly
glazed with greenish and crooked crown glass, to be
occasionally met with in brokers' shops, or more often,
perhaps, on cottage walls, and sometimes in the dingy,
smoky parlour of a village tavern or ale-house, which
said pictures contain and exhibit a lively and impressive
moral. Some of our readers, doubtless, have seen and
been edified by these ancient engravings ; and, for the
benefit of those who have not, we will describe them.
The first picture of the pair represents a blooming
and blushing damsel, well bedecked in frock of pure
white muslin, if memory serves us faithfully, very
scanty and very short-waisted, as was the fashion fifty
years ago, and may again be the fashion in less than
fifty years hence, for aught we can tell. Over this
frock is worn a gay spencer, trimmed with lace and
ornamented with an unexceptionable frill, while the
damsel's auburn curls are surmounted with a gipsy hat
of straw, fluttering with broad, true blue ribbons, which
fasten it in a true love knot, under the dimpled chin.
Her companion (for she has a companion) is a young
countryman in glossy boots, tight buckskins, gay flapped
waistcoat, blue or brown long-waisted and broad-skirted
coat, frilled shirt, and white kerchief, innocent of starch,
who smiles most lovingly, as with fond devotion [here,
gentle reader, is the moral of the picture], he bends
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 225
lowlily, and chivalrously places at the disposal of the
fair lady, hand, arm, and manly strength, as she pauses
before a high-backed stile which crosses the path, lead
ing, if we mistake not, to the village church. Beneath
this picture, reader, in Roman capitals, are the w )rds ;
— " BEFORE MARRIAGE."
We turn to the second picture ; and there may be seen
the same high-backed stile, the same path, and the samo
passengers. Painfully and awkwardly is the lady repre
sented as endeavouring, unaided, to climb the rails, while
beyond her is the companion of her former walk — her
companion still, but not her helper — slowly sauntering
on, and looking back with an ominous frown, as though
chiding the delay. Beneath this picture are the signifi
cant words : — " AFTER MARRIAGE."
One couiJl Trish these pictures were only pictures ; but,
in sober earnest, they are allegories, and too truthfully
portray what passes continually before our eyes : the
difference, to wit, between the two states there presented.
Truly, indeed, has it been said, " Time and possession
too frequently lessen our attachment to objects that were
rnce most valued, to enjoy which no difficulties were
thought insurmountable, no trials too great, and no pain
too severe. Such, also, is the tenure by which we hold
all terrestrial happiness, and such the instability of all
human estimation ! And though the ties of conjugal
affection are calculated to promote, as well as to secure
permanent felicity, yet many, it is to be feared, have
just reason to exclaim,
" ' Once to prevent my wishes Philo flew ;
But time, that alters all, has altered you.'
15
226 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.
" It ip, perhaps, not to be expected that a man cnn
retain through life that assiduity by which he pleases
for a day or a month. Care, however, should be taken
that he do not so far relax his vigilance as to induce a
belief that his affection is diminished. Few disquietudes
occur in domestic life which might not have been pre
vented ; and those so frequently witnessed, generally
arise from a want of attention to those mutual endear
ments which all have in their power to perform, and
which, as they are essential to the preservation of hap
piness, should never be intentionally omitted."
This witness, dear reader, is true. The neglect of
those little attentions which every married couple have
it in their power to shoAV to each other, daily, hourly, is
a sure method of undermining domestic happiness. Let
every married reader bear this in mind, and reflect
upon it ; for it is an undeniable truth.
It was a full quarter of a century ago that the writer
first saw the pair of engravings which he has described.
They were hanging over the fire-place of a newly-married
cottager. " There," said she, laughing, as she pointed
to the second picture; "you see what I have to ex
pect."
She did not expect it, though ! Such an attentive,
kind, and self-denying lover, as her "old man," as she
called him in sport, had been, would never change into
a morose brute, who could suffer his wife to climb over
an awkward stile without help, and scold her for her
clumsiness.
Reader, not many months since we saw poor Mary,
prematurely gray ap4 t|me-stricken. for years she has
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 2*J7
been living apart from her husband, her children scat
tered abroad in the world, and she is sad and solitary.
And thus it was : — He, the trusted one, tired of being
the fond lover of the picture, soon began to show him
self the husband. She, the confiding one, stung by
some instances of neglect, reproached and taunted. Ho
resented these reproaches as unjust, and to prove them
so, redoubled his inattentiveness to her, absented him
self from home, and bestowed his attentions elsewhere.
She copied his example, and by way of punishment in
kind, lavished her smiles and kindnesses in other quar
ters. He — but why go on ? years — sad years of crimi
nation and recrimination, of provocation, and bitter
reproaches, and suspicion, and mutual jealousy, and
dislike, and hatred, wore away. At length they parted.
What became of the pair of pictures, we often wonder.
"For about two years after I was married," says
Cobbett, in his Advice to a Husband, " I retained some
of my military manners, and used to romp most famously
with the girls that came in my way ; till one day, at
Philadelphia, my wife said to me, in a very gentle man
ner, ' Don't ,do that, I do not like it.' That was quite
enough ; I had never thought on the subject before; ono
hair of her head was more dear to me than all the other
women in the world, and this I knew that she knew ;
but I now saw that this was not all that she had a right
to from me ; I saw that she had the further claim upon
me that I should abstain from everything that might
induce others to believe that there was any other woman
for whom, even if I were at liberty, I had any affection."
"I beseech young married men," continues he, "to
228 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.
bear this in mind ; for, on some trifle of this sort the
happiness or misery of a long life frequently turns. If
the mind of a wife be disturbed on this score, every pos
sible means ought to be used to restore it to peace ; and
though her suspicions be perfectly groundless — though
they be wild .as the dreams of madmen — though they
may present a mixture of the furious and the ridiculous,
still they are to be treated with the greatest lenity and
tenderness ; and if, after all, you fail, the frailty is to .be
lamented as a misfortune, and not punished as a fault,
seeing that it must have its foundation in a feeling
towards you, which it would be the basest of ingratitude,
and the most ferocious of cruelty, to repay by harshness
of any description."
" The truth is," adds the same writer, " that the
greatest security of all against jealousy in a wife is to
show, to prove by your acts, by your words also, but
more especially by your acts, that you prefer her to all
the world ; and I know of no act that is, in this respect,
equal to spending in her company every moment of your
leisure time. Everybody knows, and young wives better
than anybody else, that people, who can choose, will be
where they like best to be, and that they will be along
with those whose company they like best. The matter
is very plain ; and I do beseech you to bear it in mind.
Nor do I see the use, or sense, of keeping a great deal
of company as it is called. What company can a man
and woman want more than their two selves, and their
children, if they have any ? If here be not company
enough, it is but a sad affair. This hankering after
company proves, clearly proves, that you want some-
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 229
thing beyond the society of your wife ; and that she is
sure to feel most acutely; the bare fact contains an
imputation against her, and it is pretty sure to lay the
foundation of'jealousy, or of something still worse."
Addressed, as these sentiments are, to the husband,
they are equally applicable to the wife ; and on the part
of domestic happiness, »ve urge upon our readers, all, to
prove their constancy of attachment by mutual kind
cffices and delicate attentions, in health and in sickness,
in joy and in sorrow ; by abstinence from all that may
wound ; and by an honest preference of home enjoy
ments above all other enjoyments.
But to keep alive this honest preference, there must
be, — in addition to other good qualifications which have
heretofore passed under review,
1. Constant cheerfulness and good humour. A wife
and mother who is perpetually fretful and peevish ; who
has nothing to utter to her husband when he returns
from his daily occupation, whatever it may be, or to her
children when they are assembled around her, but com
plaints of her hard lot and miserable destiny ; who is
always brooding over past sorrows, or anticipating future
evils ; does all she can, unconsciously it may be, to make
her hearth desolate, and to mar for ever domestic happi
ness. And the husband and father who brings to that
hearth a morose frown, or a gloomy brow ; who silences
the prattling tongue of infancy by a stern command ;
who suffers the annoyances and cares of life to cut into
his heart's core, and refuses to be comforted or charmed
by the thousand endearments of her whom he has sworn
230 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.
to love and cherish ; such a one does not deserve domestic
happiness.
Young reader, and expectant of future domestic bless,
take a word of advice: -Be good-tempered. You have
not much to try your patience now ; by-and-by your
trials will come on. Now, then, is the time to practise
good-temper in the little vexations of life, so as to pre
pare you for future days. No doubt there are many
little rubs and jars to fret and shake even you ; many
small things, not over and above agreeable, to put up
with. Bear them you must ; but do try and bear them
without losing your temper. If a man have a stubborn
or a skittish horse to manage, he knows that the best
way to deal with it is by gentle, good-humoured coaxing.
Just so it is in other things : kindness, gentleness, and
downright good-humour will do what all the blustering
and anger in the world cannot accomplish. If a wagon
wheel creaks and works stiff, or if it skids instead of
turning round, you know well enough that it wants oiling.
Well, always carry a good supply of the oil of good
temper about with you, and use it well on every needful
occasion ; no fear then of creaking wheels as you move
along the great highway of life.
Then, on the part, still, of domestic happiness, would
we earnestly advise a decent, nay, a strict regard to per
sonal habits, so far, at least, as the feelings of othora
are concerned. " It is seldom," writes a traveller, " that
I find associates in inns who come up to my ideas of
what is right and proper in personal habits. The most
of them indulge, more or less, in devil's tattooing, in
snapping of fingers, in puffing and blowing, and other
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 231
noises, anomalous and indescribable, often apparently
merely to let the other people in the room know that
they are there, and not thinking of anything in particu
lar. Few seem to be under any sense of the propriety
of subduing as much as possible all sounds connected
with the animal functions, though even breathing might,
and ought to be managed in perfect silence." Now, if
it were only in inns that disagreeable personal habits
are practised, it would not much interfere with the
happiness of nine-tenths of the people in the world ; but
the misfortune is that home is the place where they are
to be noticed in full swing — to use a common expression.
Indeed, perhaps there are few persons who do not, in a
degree at least, mar domestic happiness by persisting in
personal peculiarities which they know are unpleasant
to those around them. Harmless these habits may be
in themselves, perhaps ; but inasmuch as they are teasing,
annoying, and irritating to others, they are not harmless.
Nay, they are criminal, because they are accompanied
by a most unamiable disregard to the feelings of others.
To make home truly happy, the mind must be culti
vated. It is all very well to say that a man and his
wife, and tieir children, if they have any, ought to bo
company enough for each other, without seeking society
elsewhere ; and it is quite right that it should be so :
but what if they have nothing tc say to each other, as
reasonable and thinking beings? — nothing to communi
cate beyond the veriest common-places — nothing to learn
from each other ? — nothing but mere animal enjoyments
in common ? Imagine such a case, reader, where father,
mother, and children are sunk in grossest ignorance,
232 A SYLVAN MORALITY.
without knowledge, without intellectual resources, or
even intellectual powers, without books, or any acquaint
ance with books, or any desire for such acquaintance !
What domestic happiness can there be in such a case ?
As well might we talk of the domestic happiness of a
dog-kennel or sheep-pen, a stable or a pig-stye. And
just in proportion as ignorance predominates, so are the
chances of domestic happiness diminished. Where there
is great ignorance, and contentment with ignorance,
there is vice ; and vice is not happiness — it cannot be.
Therefore, all other things equal, that family will have
the greatest chance of the greatest share of domestic
happiness, where each member of it has the mind to
take in, and the heart to give out, a constant succession
of fresh ideas, gained from observation, experience, and
books. Reader, think of these things.
A SYLVAN MORALITY; OR, A WORD TO WIVES
"These summer wings
Have borne me in my days of idle pleasure ;
I do discard them."
" And, Benedick, love on ; I will requite thee,
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand."
WE have a young relative, about whom we are going
to relate a little anecdote connected with insect history,
which requires, however, a few prefatory words.
At the age of seventeen Emily S. " came out," gilt
A SYLVAN MORALITY. 283
and lettered, from the Minerva Press of a fashionable
boarding-school, and was two years afterwards bound (in
white satin) as a bride. In the short period intervening
between these two important epochs, she had had a pro
digious run of admiration. Sonnets had been penned
on her pencilled brow, and the brows of rival beauties
had contracted at the homage paid to hers. All this
Emily had liked well enough — perhaps a little better
than she ought ; but where was the wonder ? for besides
excuses general (such as early youth and early training)
for loving the world and the world's vanities, she had an
excuse of her own, in the fact that she had nothing else
to love — no mother, no sister, no home — no home at
least in its largest and loving sense. She was the orphan
but not wealthy ward of a fashionable aunt, in whom the
selfish regrets of age had entirely frozen the few sym
pathies left open by the selfish enjoyments of youth.
When Emily married, and for a few months previous,
it was of course to be presumed that she had found
something better than the world whereon to fix the
affection of her warm young heart. At all events, she
had found a somebody to love her, and one who was
worthy to be loved in return. Indeed, a better fellow
than our friend F does not live ; but though fairly
good-looking, and the perfect gentleman, he was not per
haps exactly the description of gentleman to excite any
rapid growth of romantic attachment in the bosom of an
aclr;iired girl of nineteen.
Why did she marry him ? Simply because amongst
her admirers she liked nobody better, and because her
aunt, who was anxious to be relieved of her charge, liked
234 A SYLVAN MORALITY.
nobody so well ; — not because he had much to offer, but
because it was little he required.
Soon after their marriage the happy pair set out for
Paris. F , though his means were slender and tasteg
retired, made every effort (as far as bridegroom could so
feel it) to gratify his lively young wife by a stay at the
capital of pleasure. After a subsequent excursion, they
returned within a year to England, and settled at a
pretty cottage in Berkshire, to which we speedily re
ceived a cordial invitation. It was no less readily ac
cepted ; for we were anxious to behold the " rural
felicity," of which we little doubted our friends were in
full possession.
The result, however, of a week's sojourn at their quiet
ab )de, was the reluctant opinion that, somehow or an
other, the marriage garments of the young couple did
not sit quite easy ; though to point out the defect in their
make, or to discover where they girted, were matters on
which it required more time to form a decided judgment.
One thing, however, was pretty obvious. "With her ma
tronly title, Emily had not assumed an atom of that
seriousness — not sad, but sober — which became her new
estate ; nor did she, as we shrewdly suspected, pay quite
as much attention to the cares of her little menage as
was rendered incumbent by the limited amount of her
husband's income. She seemed, in short, the same
thoughtless pleasure-loving, pleasure-seeking girl as ever;
now that she was captured, the same volatile butterfly
as when surrounded and chased by butterflies like her
self. But her captor ? asks some modern Petruchio —
had he not, or could he not contrive to clip her pinions ?
A SYLVAN MORALITY. 2?£
Poor F — — ! not he ! he w^uld have feared to " brush
the dujt" from cfF thon; and, from something of this
over-tei:Jorness, had bsen feeding, with the honeyed
pleasures of the French capital, those tastes which (with
out them) .tag-lit have been reconciled already to the
more spare .vnd simple sociabilities of a retired English
neighbourhood- He was only now trying the experi
ment which shoald have been made a year ago, and that
with a reluctant and undecided hand.
Poor Emily ! htr love of gayety had now, it is true,
but little scope for its display ; but it was still strongly
apparent, in the rapturous regret with which she refer
red to pleasures past, and the rapturous delight with
which she greeted certain occasional breaks in the mo
notony of a country life. An approaching dinner-party-
would raise her tide of spirits, and a distant ball or bow-
meeting make them swell into a flood. On one or two
of such occasions, we fancied that F , though never
stern, looked grave — grave enough to have been set
down as an unreasonable fellow ; if not by every one,
at least by that complex "everybody," who declared
that his wife was " one of the prettiest and sweetest
little women in the world," and, as everybody must be
right, so of course it was.
Rarely, indeed, had our gentle Benedick beheld the
face of his " Young May Moon" absolutely obscured ;
but then it had always been his care to chase away from
it every passing or even approaching cloud ; and he
would certainly have liked, in return, that its very
brightest rays should have shone on him direct, instead
U36 A SYLVAN MORALITY.
of reaching him only, as it were, reflected from what in
his eyes, certainly, were very inferior objects.
We had passed some weeks at our entertainer's cot
tage when rumours got afloat, such as had not disturbed
for many a year the standing and sometimes stagnant
pool of Goslington society. The son of Lord W
was about to come of age, and the event was to be cele
brated by grand doings ; a varied string of entertain
ments, to be wound up, so it was whispered, by a great
parti-coloured or fancy ball. Rumours were soon silenced
by certainty, and our friends were amongst those who
received an invitation to meet all the world of Gosliug-
ton and a fragment of the world of London, about to be
brought into strange conjunction at W Castle. What
shapes ! grotesque, and gay, arid gorgeous — ghosts of
things departed — started up before the sparkling eyes
of Emily, as she put the reviving talisman into F 's
hand. No wonder that her charmed sight failed to dis
cover what was, however, sufficiently apparent, that her
husband's delight at the honour done them by no means
equalled hers. Indeed we were pretty certain that not
merely dissatisfaction, but even dissent, was to be read
in his compressed lip, and, for once, forbidding eye.
Nothing was said then upon the subject ; but we saw
the next morning something very like coolness on the
part of F towards his wife, which was returned on
hers by something very like petulance. Ah ! thought
we, it all comes of this unlucky fancy ball ! We had
often heard it declared by our friend that he hated every
species of masquerade, and would never allow (though
this was certainly before his marriage) either sister,
A SYLVAN MORALITY. 237
wife, or daughter of his to attend one. But, besides
this aversion for such entertainments in general, he had
reasons, as we afterwards gathered, for disliking, in par
ticular, this fancy ball of Lord W 's. Amongst the
"London World" Emily would be sure to meet several
of her quondam acquaintances, perhaps admirers ; and
though he was no jealous husband, he preferred, on many
accounts, that such meetings should be avoided.
The slight estrangement spoken of did not wholly
pass away, though so trifling were its tokens that no eye
less interested than our own might have noticed their
existence. Indeed, neither of the parties seemed really
angry with the other, appearing rather to think it incum
bent on them to keep up a certain show of coolness ; but
whenever the sunny smile of Emily broke even partially
through the half-transparent cloud, it dissolved in an
instant the half-formed ice of her husband's manner.
By mutual consent the subject of the fancy ball seemed
left in abeyance, and while in every circle, for miles
round, it formed the central topic, in ours it was the
theme forbid. Thence we tried to infer that it was a
matter abandoned, and that Emily's better judgment, if
not her good feeling, had determined her to give up hef
own liking, on this the very first occasion on which, wo
believe, her husband had ever thwarted it.
Well — whether, as with us, awaited in silence, or, as
with the many, harbirigered by the music of many voices
• — the grand event marched on ; arid a day was only
wanted of its expected arrival when business called
F to London, from whence he was not to return till
late at night. Soon after his departure, which followed
238 A SYLVAN MORALITY.
an early oreakfast, we left Emily, as we supposed, tc
the business of her little household, and repaired, as was
our wont, to the library, — a small apartment which our
friend F had made the very bijou of his pretty cot
tage. It was tastefully fitted up in the gothic style,
with a window of painted glass, — a window, by the way,
especially suited to a book-room, not merely as pleasing
to the eye but for a correspondence which has often
struck us. The many-coloured panes, through which the
light of day finds entrance, form no unfitting symbol of
a library's contents, whereby the light of intelligence is
poured upon the mind through as many varied mediums,
from the deep, cold, black and blue of learned arid sci
entific lore, to the glowing flame colour and crimson of
poetry and romance. Having taken down a choice copy
of the Faery Queen, we committed our person to an
ebony arm-chair, and our spirit to the magic guidance of
our author's fancy. Obedient to its leading, we were
careering somewhere betwixt earth and heaven, when a
slight noise brought us down for a moment to our pro
per sphere ; yet hardly, — for on looking up we beheld,
standing in the wake of a coloured sun-beam, from which,
on wings of gossamer, she seemed to have just descend
ed, an unexpected apparition of surpassing grace and
beauty. Titania's self, just stepped upon the moonlit
earth, could scarcely have stood poised on an unbroken
flower-stalk, in form more airy, in attitude more grace
ful, with countenance more radiant than those of Emily
F , as, arrayed in likeness of the Faery Queen, she
thus burst upon our view, and with an air half-archly
playful, half-proudly triumphant, enjoyed our bewildered
A SYLVAN MORALITY. 239
surprise, and received the involuntary homage of our
admiration.
We saw in a moment how the matter stood ; En.ily
was really going to the fancy ball ; and this, of the
Queen of Fays, was the fantastic and too bewitching
costume she had chosen to assume. Knowing her kind
heart, and having believed that its best affections haJ
been gained by her estimable husband, if not bestowed
on him at first, we were vexed and disappointed in our
young relation, and felt it only right to give, if we could,
a check to her buoyant vanity, by letting her feel the
weight of our disapproval, — shown, if not expressed.
"So I see, Emily," said I, in the coldest tone, "I see,
after all, that you are going to this foolish ball."
The beaming countenance of the beautiful sylph dark
ened in a moment, like a cosmoramic landscape. " And
why not?" returned she, pettishly; "I suppose, then,
you don't approve."
" My approbation can be of very little import, if you
possess that of your own heart, and that of your hus
band. Under what character, pray, does he attand you ?
I suppose he plays Oberon to your Titania?"
Emily's face reddened. Some strong emotion heaved
her bosom, and I saw that pride alone kept the starting
tears from overflowing. " Charles," said she, with an
attempt at assumed indifference, " will not be there at
all ; I am to go with Lady Forrester."
We felt more vexed than ever, and wished to s;iy
something which might yet hinder the young wife's in
tention ; but while considering what that something
should be, or whether, indeed, our age and slight rela-
240 A SYLVAN MORALITY.
tionship gave a sufficient right to say anything, we looted
down for a moment on our still open book. Of that
moment Emily availed herself to effect an escape, and
on raising our eyes we only caught a glimpse of her
glittering wings as she glided through the doorway. Our
first impulse was to recall her ; our next thought, to leave
her to herself. If her better nature still struggled, re
monstrance of ours, we considered, might only serve to
set wounded pride against it ; and wounded passions,
like wounded bravoes, fight most desperately. We saw
no more of our young hostess till the hour of dinner, to
which we sat down tete-a-tete. Emily's sweet face had
regained all its usual expression of good humour, and
by almost an excess of attention, and an effort at more
than ordinary liveliness, she strove to make amends for
the slight ebullition of temper stirred up by the morn
ing's incident ; but her sociability seemed forced, and we
felt that our own was much of the same description.
Our after-dinner sitting was soon ended for an even
ing stroll. It had been a sultry day towards the end
of August ; the lazy zephyrs had been all asleep since
noontide ; so, with a view to meet the first of them which
should happen to be stirring, we directed our steps to
wards a high open heath, or common. Its summit was
crowned by a magnificent beech, towards which we slowly
ascended, under a shower of darts levelled by the de
clining sun ; and, on arriving at the tree, were right glad
to seat ourselves on the circular bench which surrounded
its smooth and bulky bole.
Here, in addition to the welcome boons of rest an-1
shade, we were presented gratis with the exhibition of a
A SUMMER STROLL.
A SYLVAN MORALITY. 241
finer panorama than the Messrs. Barker ever yet pro
duced.
What a scene of tranquil splendour lay before us !
one of those glowing pictures of the declining day and
declining year, whereon, like a pair of dying painters,
they seem to have combined their utmost skill and rich
est colours in order to exceed, in a last effort, all the
productions of their meridian prime.
After a few moments of silent admiration, we were on
the point of exclaiming to our young companion, " Oh !
who could prefer the most brilliant ball-room to a scene
like this ?" but we checked the impulse ; for perhaps,
thought we, the " still small voice," which speaks from
all around us, is even now whispering to her heart. But
never, -we believe, was adder more deaf to the accents of
the " charmer" than was Emily at that moment to those
of nature. Her mind, we are pretty sure, was still run
ning, and all the faster as she approached it, on that
fancy ball. Perhaps she suspected that ours was follow
ing the same turn, and knowing of old our habit of
making observations upon insects, she, by a little wo
manly artifice, availed herself of it to divert their course.
Pointing with her parasol to a long procession of brown
ants, which were crossing the foot-worn area beneath
the tree, — "Look," said she, "I suppose they are going
home to bed."
"Or perhaps to a ball," rejoined we, quite unable to
resist the pleasure of taking our fair cousin in her own
ruse; "but let us follow them, and see."
Emily was delighted at having, as she thought, so in
geniom-ly set us on our hobby, and attended us to the
16
242 A SYLVAN MORALITY.
spot ^hither we had traced the little labourers. Their
populous settlement bore no appearance of evening repose.
Other trains were approaching in various directions, to
meet that which we had followed, and a multitude was
covering the conical surface of the ant-hill, as if taking
a farewell bask in the glowing sunset. Amidst the con
gregated many, and distinguished from the common herd
by very superior bulk and four resplendent wings, were
several individual ants, which Emily (as well she might)
mistook for flies, and inquired accordingly what could
be their business in such incongruous society. " They
are no flies," said we, "but ants themselves — female
ants, — though with somewhat of the air, certainly, of
being in masquerade or fancy costume. But say what
•we will of their attire, we must needs confess that they
are in their proper places ; for they are the matrons of
the community, and, as we see, they are at home."
Our young companion made no reply ; but stooping
down, seemed wholly engrossed by examination of the
ant-hill. " Look," exclaimed she, presently ; " there is
one of these portly dames without any wings at all. I
suppose some of her neighbours have taken up a spite
against her, and combined to strip her of her glittering
appendages."
"By no means," we answered, "she has laid them
aside by her oivn voluntary act. Only see, my dear
Emily, here is one of her sisters even now employed in
the business of disrobing."
We both stooped, and watched narrowly the curious
operation to which we had directed our young friend's
attention. One of the larger insects in question was
A SYLVAN MORALITY. 243
actively employed in agitating her wings, bringing them
before her head, crossing them in every direction, throw
ing them from side to side, and producing so many sin
gular contortions as to cause them all four to fall off at
the same moment, leaving her reduced to the same con
dition as her wingless sister. Fatigued, apparently, by
her late efforts, she reposed awhile, after the accomplish
ment of her purpose, brushed her denuded corselet with
her feet, and then proceeding to burrow in the soft earth
of the hillock, was speedily lost to our observation.
" How very odd !" said Emily ; " what can possibly be
the meaning of such a strange, unnatural proceeding ?"
" I will tell you," replied we, " that which has been
thought fully to explain its intention. This insect fe
male, in common with her sisters, has hitherto been
privileged to lead a life of entire indolence and pleasure.
A few days since, having risen from her lowly birth
place on those discarded pinions, we might have seen
her disporting in the air with some gay and gallant com
panions, of inferior size, but winged like herself. But
now her career of pleasure, though not of happiness,
being at an end, her life of usefulness is about to begin,
and, in character of a matron, she is called to the per
formance of such domestic duties as will henceforth con
fine her to the precincts of her home.
" Of what use now, therefore, are the glittering wings
which adorned and became her in her earlier youth?
Their possession might only, perchance, have tempted
her to desert the post which Nature, under Divine
guidance, has instructed her to fill. Obedient to its
teaching, she has thus despoiled herself of the showy
244 A SYLVAN MORALITY.
pinions which (essential to her enjoyment in the fields of
air) would only have encumbered her in the narrower
but more important sphere of home."
Emily listened in silence to our lecture on Entomology,
which must have been delivered, we suppose, with pecu
liar clearness, as she did not, according to her usual
custom, follow it up by any further inquiry or comment.
We soon afterwards bid adieu to the insect community,
and wended our way homewards.
F returned from London the same evening ; but
availing ourselves of an old friend's freedom, we had
retired to bed before his arrival.
Next morning ushered in the day, " the great, the
important day" of the fancy ball — neither " heavily"
nor " in clouds ;" yet greatly did we fear that the plea
sant sunshine which greeted our opening eyes would be
met with no answering beams at the breakfast-table of
our friends.
How agreeably, therefore, were we surprised, when,
on entering the parlour, we at once perceived an expres
sion of more perfect serenity on the countenances both
of F and his pretty wife, than had been worn by
either since the day of that confounded invitation.
" Ah !" thought we, " it's pretty plain how'the matter
is ended ; that wicked little fairy has wrought her charms
for something — has carried her point — and will carry
HIM, her willing captive, to the ball. What poor weak
fools fond husbands are ! Thank heaven that Well !
perhaps better so than worse."
Breakfast proceeded ; chat in plenty ; but not a syl
lable about the fancy ball ; till, bursting to know how
PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY. 245
the case, so long pending, had really ended, we ventured
on a pumping query — " At what hour, Emily," said we,
" does Lady Forrester come to take you to the ball ?"
" I have written to prevent her calling."
" Oh, then, you are going under other escort ?" and
we looked slyly at F .
" I am not going at all," said Emily.
Here she put in ours her little white hand, and looked
up archly in our face, — '•'•lam not going, for I have
laid aside my wings!"
" My good fellow !" said F , as he took our other
hand ; " you deserve to be made President of the Ento
mological Society."
PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY.
THE following passages from the diary of a young
English wife may be read with profit here. The lesson
taught is well worth treasuring in the memory.
May 1. — Just three months to-day since William and
I were married. What a happy time it has been, and
how quickly it has passed ! I am determined to begin
and keep a journal again as I used to do before I mar
ried, if it be only to mark how the days go by — one
happier than the other. How different from the days of
our long courtship, \vhen there was always something to
be anxious about ; whilst now, nothing but death can
ever part us, and it seems to me as if all the trials of
243 PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFF/S DIARY.
life must be easy to bear when borne together Dear
William ! How kind he has been to me, and how
cheerful and good-tempered he always is. He was say
ing only this morning that he did not think we had had
a single tiff since we married ; and I am sure it would
have been my fault if we had. Gratitude alone ought to
keep me from quarrelling with William, if nothing else
would, considering all he has done for me. How nice
ho made this place ready for me when we married ! I
cannot think how he ever contrived to save enough out
of his salary to buy such handsome furniture. To be
sure he always says that it is my setting it off so well
that makes it look better than it is ; and yet, except
the muslin curtains to the window, and the table-cover,
and my work-box, and the flowers, I have not done
much. I almost wish he had left me more to do, for
time does hang heavy on my hands sometimes when he
is away. I wish that some of my neighbours would
make acquaintance with me ; for I know no one here
abouts. That Mrs. Smith who lives next door, looked
towards the window as she passed this morning, and
seemed inclined to stop — I only wish she would ; it
would be so pleasant to have a neighbour occasionally
coming in for a chat, and I should pick up a bit of newa
perhaps to tell William in the evening. Now I think
of it, I will just go up stairs and take a look at his
shirts ; it is just possible that there may be a button off,
though they were all new when he married ; or perhaps
h:s stockings want running at the heels. I wonder I
Old not think of that before. There is nothing like pre
venting holes from coming.
PASSAGES FROM A YOU:«G WIFE'S DIARY. 247
May 2. — Told William last night of my plan of keep
ing a diary, and he thinks it a good one, and has given
me the old ledger, in which he says I can scribble away
as much as I like. And really, after writing so much
as. I used for Aunt Morris, it is easier I believe for me
than for most people to write down what happens each
day and what passes in my mind. To my great sur
prise, who should come in this morning but Mrs. Smith,
from next door ! One would think she had peeped over
my shoulder, and seen what I wrote about her yester
day — but she says that she has long been thinking of
coming in, only she did not know whether I should be
inclined to be sociable. She seems a most respectable
and pleasant kind of person, and really quite superior
to the other people in the lane. She said she felt sure
by my looks as she had seen me going to church on
Sunday with William, that I was not a common sort of
person, and said moreover that William was a very
genteel-looking young man, and remarkably like a
nephew of hers who is in quite a large way of business
in Manchester. Mrs. Smith admires my room very
much, only she says her house has an advantage over
ours, in having a passage, instead of the front door
opening into the room. She had, in fact, a partition
put up after she came, to divide one off, and says it is
astonishing how much more comfortable it makes the
place, besides looking more genteel. I have often
wondered myself that William did not choose a houso
that had this convenience, and I am sure it will be cold
in winter to have the door opening right into one's room
in this way, besides making the chimney smoke. Mrs.
248 PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY.
Smith has asked me to look in, as often as I can, and
Bays it will be quite a charity to sit with her now and
then, she is so lonely.
May 3. — I think William is glad that I am at liberty
to have a friendly neighbour — only he says he is afraid
that Mrs. Smith is rather above us in the world, and
might not suit our humble ways. I do not think this,
however ; but if it were so, I would rather associate
with those who are above me than below me. I men
tioned to William what she told me about the altera
tion she had made in her house, but he did not seem a?
/•it: he thought it would be so great an improvement
After breakfast I put on my bonnet and shawl, and went
in to Mrs. Smith's. She keeps a little maid-servant, I
find, which I had no idea of before. I found her sitting
at work quite in style, and really it is quite astonishing
how snug her house seems in consequence of the altera
tion she has made. The sitting-room is of course so
much smaller, but that is nothing compared to the com
fort of the passage ; I should not have thought that the
houses could ever have been built alike, hers is so supe
rior to ours. To be sure the style of her furniture is
perhaps better than ours, and the papering handsomer,
and her carpet goes all over her room, and she has a
very handsome hearth-rug. Altogether I could not help
fancying our place looked quite mean and shabby after
I came back. But then I said to myself, that William
and I were after all only beginning the world, and who
knows what we may not be able to do by-and-by. No
thing is more likely than that William should have hia
PASSAGES FROM A YOUNQ WIFE'S DIARY. 249
salary raised in a year or two, and perhaps some day go
into business himself.
May 4. — William got home nice and early last night,
and read aloud to me for more than an hour. It was
very kind of him, and the book was very interesting,
but somehow or other I think I would rather have
talked to him. I wanted to tell him several things that
Mrs. Smith had said to me — especially about the put
ting up of that partition being such a trifling expense.
I did get it said at last ; but it is astonishing how little
he seems to care about what would be such a great im
provement to our place. Of course he cannot under
stand as well as I do how disagreeable it is for people
to be coming to the door, and lifting the latch and look
ing straight in at me as I sit at work — just the same aa
in any cottage in the country. I think William rathei
forgets that I never was accustomed to this kind of
thing at home. Last night even, when the postman
came ; if he had not been so anxious to read his letter,
he might have noticed how the draught from the open
door made the candle flare, and the tallow ran down all
over my nice bright candlestick. The letter was from
his father, asking him to give a couple of pounds to
wards fitting out his brother George for Australia.
William means to send it, I see, and really I am very
glad that he can assist his relations, and should never
think of saying a word against it — only it shows that he
has plenty of spare money, and that it is not so much
the expense of the thing that makes him seem to dislike
the idea of altering our place. He keeps saying, " My
dear, I think it is very well as it is," and "My dear, it
250 PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY.
eecms very comfortable to me ;" but that is no re;ison
why it should not be better, as I tell him.
May 5. — Mrs. Smith came in this morning and
brought her work, to have, as she said, a friendly gossip
with me. She is really a most pleasant and sociable
person, and says she is sure we shall suit each ether un
commonly well. I told her that I had mentioned to
William about the passage she had contrived to her
house, but that he did not seem to think it would be so
great an improvement. "I dare say not," said she,
laughing ; " husbands very often don't like new plans,
unless they are themselves the first to propose them ;
but such a young wife as you ought to have your way
in such a matter." I took care to tell her that William
was the kindest and most good-natured creature in the
world, and that no husband could be more anxious to
please a wife. " Then," said she, " if that be the case,
take my word for it he will end by making the alteration
you want." This quite emboldens me to say a little
more to William about our having this partition put up ;
because I should not like Mrs. Smith to fancy that my
wishes have no weight with him. I will see what I can
do to-night when he comes liome.
May 6. — I am afraid I vexed William last night, and
only wish I could unsay two or three things that I said
about the making of this passage. I begin to think 1
was foolish to get such a fancy into my head. After
tea, just as he was going to open out his book, I ventured
to say, " I wish you would talk to-night, dear William,
instead of read, for I have so little of your company."
In a minute he had shut his book, and drawn his cHan*
PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY. 251
up to mine, and said so good-naturedly, "Well, little
Fanny, and what shall we talk about ?" that I felt quite
afraid of beginning upon the subject I had in my mind.
By-and-by, however, I broached it, and said I really had
set my heart upon having our room altered like Mrs.
Smith's, and that I was sure it would be done for very
little expense, even supposing our landlord would not do
it for us. William said he could not think of even ask
ing him to do it, after having put the house into such
complete repair when we came here-; and he added, that
he had fancied that I was pleased with the place, and
thought it comfortable. " So I was, dear William," said
I ; " but I had no idea till I tried, how uncomfortable it
is to sit in a room with a front door opening into it in
this way — it is like sitting in the street." William looked
so vexed as I said this, I did not speak for some time.
Then all at once he said, " Well, Fanny, as I wish you
to be happy and comfortable, I suppose you must have
your way in this matter. I cannot exactly say that I
cannot afford it, because you know I do not spend all
my salary upon housekeeping; but there were some
books that I thought of buying, that, after all, I can
wait for very well : — So if you like to speak to John
Wilson, I dare say he would do the job as cheaply as
any one — he can make an estimate of what it would cost,
and let me know." I thanked William, most heartily,
for his consent, and I am sure that when the passage is
once made, he will be as pleased as any one with the
improvement. And yet I do not feel quite satisfied at
the idea of his going without his books, and only wish he
had the money for them as well.
252 PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY.
May 7. — Happening to see John Wilson passing down
the lane on the way to his work, I called him in to con
sult him about putting up the partition. He made a
very careful measurement, and then after calculating
•wood-work, and paint, and time, he said he thought he
could do it for two pounds ten. 1 thought it would not
have been more than two pounds at most ; but I had for
gotten about the inner door, with its handle and hinges,
&c. It seems a great deal of money, I must say. Wil
liam's books I know would only have cost thirty shillings,
for I have a list of them that he made one evening.
May 8. — Somehow or other I could hardly make up
my mind after all, last night, to tell William about John
Wilson's estimate ; but when I did get it said, he made
me feel quite at ease by the open way in which he talked
about it with me, and planned it all just as if he thought
it as desirable as I do. This is particularly kind of him,
because I know he thinks all the time that we could do
very well without it. Before we went to bed, too, he
took out the- little purse in which he keeps his savings
(the very purse I made him before we married), and
taking out the .£2 10s., told me to keep the money
myself ready to pay John Wilson, as he said he might
be spending it perhaps if it was not out of his way.
"You know," said he, laughing, "I pass the book-shop
every evening on my way home, and I cannot answer
for myself." I could not help feeling very much thia
kindness of William's in giving up his wishes so readily
to mine in the matter, and I told him so — and really it quite
kept me awake half the night thinking about it. I think
the very sight of that purse brought back to my reinem-
PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY. 253
brance how I used to say to myself that when once I
was William's Avife t would try so hard to make him
happy, and sacrifice all my wishes to his. I began to
feel that after all it would not make me half as happy
to have my own way as for him to be pleased with rne ;
and in spite of his trying not to let me see it, I cannot
help fancying that he was a little hurt at my being dis
contented with my little home, that had given me such
satisfaction at first and in which we have been so happy.
I begin to think that I was foolish in being persuaded
by Mrs. Smith that my snug little house wanted any
thing to complete my happiness. Happiness ! How
ridiculous it seems to write that word in connexion with
such a trifle as this. As if William and I were not too
happy to care about whether our house is as good as our
neighbour's ! I am determined after all to give up this
affair of the passage altogether. I have half a mind —
nay, I am quite resolved, to spend the money instead
upon those books for William. How surprised ho
will be !
Afternoon of the same day. — After coming to the de
cision I did this morning, I put on my things, and set
off into the town. I don't think I ever walked faster
than I did to that bookseller's shop. Luckily they had
all the books I wanted, or if they are not quite right
William has only to change them afterwards. They did
not cost as much as I had calculated, too, and with the
discount that they gave me I had enough left for the
little hanging bookshelves that William took such a fancy
to at the cabinet-maker's the other day. I got them all
home this afternoon — books as well as shelves — and in
254 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
less than an hour after their arrival, the nail was knocked
into the wall opposite -the fire-place ; the shelves hung,
and all the books arranged upon them. How nice they
look, and how pleased will dear William be when he
returns ! I declare I would not exchange the happiness
I now feel in giving him pleasure for the finest house,
with the grandest entrance to it too, that ever was built.
Six o'clock : and William will be home at seven !
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
AND first, let us speak to the young husband, in the
words of the author of that excellent little volume, " A
Whisper to a Newly-Married Pair."
'Earnestly endeavour to obtain among your acquaint
ance the character of a good husband ; and abhor that
would-be wit, which I have sometimes seen practised
among men of the world — a kind of coarse jesting on the
bondage of the married state, and a laugh at the shackles
which a wife imposes. On the contrary, be it your pride
to exhibit to the world that sight on which the wise man
passes such an encomium : Beautiful before God and
n*en are a man and his wife ihat agree together.
(Ecclus. xxv. 1.)
Make it an established rule to consult your wife on
all occasions. Your interest is hers: and undertake no
plan contrary to her advice and approbation. Independ
ent of better motives, what a responsibility does it free
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 255
you from ! for, if the affair turn out ill, you are spared
reproaches both from her and from your own feelings.
But the fact is, she who ought to have most influence on
her husband's mind, is often precisely the person who
aas least ; and a man will frequently take the advice of
a stranger who cares not for him nor his interest, in
preference to the cordial and sensible opinion of his
wife. A due consideration of the domestic evils such a
line of conduct is calculated to produce, might, one
would think, of itself be sufficient to prevent its adop;
tion ; but, independent of these, policy should influence
you ; for there is in woman an intuitive quickness, a
sagacity, a penetration, and a foresight into the probable
consequences of an event, that make her peculiarly
calculated to give her opinion and advice. — " If I was
making up a plan of consequences," said the great Lord
Bolingbroke, " I should like first to consult with a
sensible woman."
Have you any male acquaintance, whom, on reasonable
grounds, your wife wishes you to resign ? Why should
you hesitate? Of what consequence can be the civilities,
or even the friendship, of any one, compared with the
wishes of her with whom you have to spend your life —
whose comfort you have sworn to attend to ; and who
has a right to demand, not only such a trifling compli
ance, but great sacrifices, if necessary ?
Never witness a tear from your wife with apathy or
indifference. Words, looks, actions — all may be artifi
cial ; but a tear is unequivocal ; it comes direct from tho
heart, and speaks at once the language of truth, nature,
and sincerity ! Be assured, when you see a tear on her
256 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIFD PARTNERS.
cheek, her heart is touched ; and do not, I again repeat
it, do not behold it with coldness or insensibility !
It is very unnecessary to' say that contradiction is to
be avoided at all times : but when in the presence of
others, be most particularly watchful. A look, or word,
that perhaps, in reality, conveys no angry meaning, may
at once lead people to think that their presence alone
restrains the eruption of a discord, which probably has
no existence whatsoever.
Some men, who are married to women of inferior
fortune or connexion, will frequently have the meanness
to upbraid them with the disparity. My good sir, allow
me to ask what was your motive in marrying ? Was it
to oblige or please your wife ? No, truly ; it was to
oblige and please yourself, your own dear self. Had
she refused to marry you, you would have been (in
lover's phrase) a very miserable man. Did you never
tell her so ? Therefore, really, instead of upbraiding
her, you should be very grateful to her fcr rescuing you
from such an unhappy fate.
It is particularly painful to a woman, whenever her
husband is unkind enough to say a lessening or harsh
word of any member of her family : invectives against
herself are not half so wounding.
Should illness, or suffering of any kind, assail your
wife, your tenderness and attention are then peculiarly
called for ; and if she be a woman of sensibility, believe
me. a look of love, a word of pity or sympathy, will, at
times, have a better effect than the prescriptions of hei
physicians.
Perhaps some calamity, peculiarly her own, may
HINTS AND HELPS FOB MARRIED PARTNERS. 257
befall her. She may weep over the death of some dear
relative or friend ; or her spirits and feelings may bo
affected by various circumstances. Remember that your
sympathy, tenderness, and attention, on such occasions,
are particularly required.
A man would not, on any account, take up a whip,
or a stick, and beat his wife ; but he will, without re
morse, use to her language which strikes much deeper
to her heart than the lash of any whip he could make
use of. " He would not, for the world," says an ingeni
ous writer, " cut her with a knife, but he will, without
the least hesitation, cut her with his tongue."
I have known some unfeeling husbands, who have
treated their luckless wives with unvaried and unremit
ting unkindness, till perhaps the arrival of their last
illness, and who then became all assiduity and attention.
But when that period approaches, their remorse, like the
remorse of a murderer, is felt too late ; the die is cast ;
and kindness or unkindness can be of little consequence
to the poor victim, who only waits to have her eyes
closed m the long sleep of death !
Perhaps your wife may be destitute of youth and
beauty, or other superficial attractions which distinguish
many of her sex : should this be the case, remember
many a plain face conceals a heart of exquisite sensi
bility and merit ; and her consciousness of the defect
makes her peculiarly awake to the slightest attention cr
inattention from you : and just for a moment reflect —
" "What is the blooming tincture of the skin,
To peace of mind and harmony within?
17
258 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
What the bright sparkling of the finest eye,
To the soft soothing of a calm reply ?
Can loveliness of form, or look, or air.
With loveliness of words or deeds compare?
No : those at first the unwary heart may gain ;
But these, these only, can the heart retain."
Your wife, though a gentle, amiable creature, may V«
deficient in mental endowments, and destitute of fancy
or sentiment; and you, perhaps a man of taste and
talents, are inclined to think lightly of her. This is
unjust, unkind, and unwise. It is not, believe me, the
•woman most gifted by nature, or most stored with literary
knowledge, who always makes the most comfortable wife ;
by no means : your gentle, amiable helpmate may con
tribute much more to your happiness, more to the regu
larity, economy, and discipline of your house, and may
make your children a much better mother, than many a
brilliant dame who could trace, with Moore, Scott, and
Byron, every line on the map of taste and sentiment,
and descant on the merits and demerits of poetry, as if
she had just arrived fresh from the neighbourhood of
Parnassus.
Should your wife be a woman of sense, worth, and
cultivation, yet not very expert at cutting out a shirt,
or making paste, pies, and puddings (though I would
not by any means undervalue this necessary part of
female knowledge, or tolerate ignorance in my sex re
specting them), yet pray, my good sir, do not, on this
account only, show discontent and ill-humour towards
her. If she is qualified to be your bosom friend, to
advise, to comfort, and tp soothe you ; — if she can
HINTS AND HELl'S FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 259
instruct your children, enliven your fireside by her con
versation, and receive and entertain your friends in a
manner which pleases and gratifies you; — be satisfied:
we cannot expect to meet in a wife, or indeed in any
one, exactly all we could wish. "I can easily," says a
sensible friend of mine, " hire a woman to make my
linen and dress my dinner, but I cannot so readily pro
cure & friend and companion for myself, and a precep
tress for my children." The remark was called forth
by his mentioning that he had heard a gentleman, the
day before, finding fault with his wife, an amiable, sen
sible, well-informed woman, because she was not clever
at pies, puddings, and needle-work ! On the other hand,
should she be sensible, affectionate, amiable, domestic,
yet prevented by circumstances in early life from
obtaining much knowledge of books, or mental cultiva
tion, do not therefore think lightly of her ; still remem
ber she is your companion, the friend in whom you may
confide at all times, and from whom you may obtain
counsel and comfort.
Few wromen are insensible of tender treatment; and
I believe the number of those is small indeed who would
not recompense it with the most grateful returns. They
are naturally frank and affectionate ; and, in general,
there is nothing but austerity of look and distance of
behaviour, that can prevent those amiable qualities from
being evinced on every occasion. There are, probably,
but few men who have not experienced, during the
intervals of leisure and reflection, a conviction of this
truth. In the hour of absence and of solitude, who has
not felt his heart cleaving to the wife of his bosom ? wli<-
260 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
Las not been, at some seasons, deeply impressed with a
sense of her amiable disposition and demeanour, of her
unwearied endeavours to promote and perpetuate his
happiness, and of its being his indispensable duty to
show, by the most unequivocal expressions of attachment
and of tenderness, his full approbation of her assiduity
and faithfulness ? But lives not he that has often re
turned to his habitation fully determined to requite the
kindness he has constantly experienced, yet, notwith
standing, has beheld the woman of his heart joyful at
his approach without even attempting to execute his
purpose ? — who has still withheld the rewards of esteem
and affection ; and, from some motive, the cause of which
I never could develop, shrunk from the task of duty,
and repressed those soft emotions which might have
gladdened the breast of her that was ever anxious to
please, always prompt to anticipate his desires, and eager
to contribute everything that affection could suggest, or
diligence perform, in order to promote and perpetuate
his felicity?
When absent, let your letters to your wife be warm
and affectionate. A woman's heart is peculiarly formed
for tenderness ; and every expression of endearment
from the man she loves is flattering and pleasing to her.
With pride and pleasure does she dwell on each assur
ance of his affection : and, surely, it is a cold, unmanly
thing, to deprive her virtuous heart of such a cheap and
easy mode of gratifying it. But, really, a man should
endeavour not only for an affectionate, but an agreeable
manner of writing to his wife. I remember hearing a
lady say, " When my husband writes to me, if he can
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 261
at all glean out any little piece of good news, or pleasing
intelligence, he is sure to mention it." Another lady
used to remark, " My husband does not intend to give
me pain, or to say anything unpleasant when he writes ;
and yet, I don't know how it is, but I never received a
letter from him, that I did not, when I finished it, feel
comfortless and dissatisfied."
I really think a husband, whenever he goes from home,
should always endeavour, if possible, to bring back some
little present to his wife. If ever so trifling or value
less, still the attention gratifies her ; and to call forth a
smile of good-humour should be always a matter of
importance.
Every one who knows anything of the human mind,
agrees in acknowledging the power of trifles, in impart
ing either pain or pleasure. One of our best writers,
speaking on this subject, introduces the following sweet
lines : —
" Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from those trifles springs,
0 ! let the ungentle spirit learn from thence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
To give rich gifts perhaps we wish in vsyn,
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain."'
So much of happiness and comfort in the wedded life
depends upon the wife, that we cannot too often nor too
earnestly engnge her thoughts on the subject of her du
ties. Duty, to some, is a cold, repulsive word, but only
in the discharge of duties that appertain to each con
dition in life, is happiness ever secured. From the
*' Whisper" we copy again : —
262 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
* Endeavour to make your husband's haV.tation allur
ing and delightful to him. Let it be to him a sanctuary
to which his heart may always turn from the ills and
anxieties of life. Make it a repose from his cares, a
shelter from the world, a home not for his person only,
but for his heart. He may meet with pleasure in other
houses, but let him find happiness in his own. Should
he be dejected, soothe him ; should he be silent and
thoughtful, or even peevish, make allowances for the
defects of human nature, and, by your sweetness, gen
tleness, and good humour, urge him continually to think,
though he may not say it, " This woman is indeed a
comfort to me. I cannot but love her, and requite such
gentleness and affection as they deserve."
I know not two female attractions so captivating to
men as delicacy and modesty. Let not the familiar
intercourse which marriage produces, banish such power
ful charms. On the contrary, this very familiarity
should be your strongest incitement in endeavouring to
preserve them ; and, believe me, the modesty so pleasing
in the bride, may always, in a great degree, be supported
by the wife.
" If possible, let your husband suppose you think
him a good -husband, and it will be a strong stimulus
to his being so. As long as he thinks he possesses the
character, he will take some pains to deserve it : but
when he has once lost the name, he will be very apt to
abandon the reality altogether." I remember at one
time being acquainted with a lady who was married to a
very worthy man. Attentive to all her comforts and
wishes, he was just what the world calls a very good
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 205
husband ; and yet his manner to his wife was cold and
comfortless, and he was constantly giving her heart,
though never her reason, cause to complain of him. But
she was a woman of excellent sense, and never upbraided
him. On the contrary, he had every cause for supposing
she thought him the best husband in the world ; and the
consequence was, that instead of the jarring and discord
which would have been inevitably produced had she been
in the habit of finding fault with him, their lives passed
on in uninterrupted peace.
I know not any attraction which renders a woman at
all times so agreeable to her husband, as cheerfulness
or good humour. It possesses the powers ascribed to
magic : it gives charms where charms are not ; and im
parts beauty to the plainest face. Men are naturally
more thoughtful and more difficult to amuse and please
than women. Full of cares and business, what a relax
ation to a man is the cheerful countenance and pleasant
voice of the gentle mistress of his home ! On the con
trary, a gloomy, dissatisfied manner is a poison of
affection ; and though a man may not seem to notice it,
it is chilling and repulsive to his feelings, and he will be
very apt to seek elsewhere for those smiles and that
cheerfulness which he finds not in his own house.
In the article of dress, study your husband's taste,
and endeavour to wear what he thinks becomes you best.
The opinion of others on this subject is of very little
consequence, if he approves.
Make yourself as useful to him as you can, and let
him see you employed as much as possible in economical
avocations.
264 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
At dinner, endeavour to have his favourite dish dressed
and served up in the manner he likes best. In observing
8uel> trifles as these, believe me, gentle lady, you study
your own comfort just as much as his.
Perhaps your husband may occasionally bring home
an unexpected guest to dinner. This is not at all times
convenient. But beware, gentle lady, beware of frowns.
Your fare at dinner may be scanty, but make up for the
deficiency by smiles and good humour. It is an old re
mark, " Cheerfulness in the host is always the surest and
most agreeable mode of welcome to the guest." Per
haps, too, unseasonable visiters may intrude, or some
one not particularly welcome may come to spend a few
days with you. Trifling as these circumstances may be,
they require a command of feeling and temper : but re
member, as you journey on, inclination must be conti
nually sacrificed ; and recollect also, that the true spirit
of hospitality lies (as an old writer remarks), not in
giving great dinners and sumptuous entertainments, but
in receiving with kindness and cheerfulness those who
come to you, and those who want your assistance.
Endeavour to feel pleased Avith your husband's bache
lor friends. It always vexes and disappoints a man
when his wife finds fault with his favourites — the favour
ites and companions of his youth, and probably those to
whom he is bound not only by the ties of friendship, but
by the cords of gratitude.
Encourage in your husband a desire for reading aloud
at night. When the window curtains are drawn, the
candles lighted, and you are all seated after tea round
the fire, how can his time be better employed ? You
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
have your work to occupy you : he has nothing to do
but to sit and to think ; and perhaps to think too that
this family scene is extremely stupid. Give interest to
tin monotonous hour, by placing in his hand some enter
taining but useful work. The pleasure which you derive
from it will encourage him to proceed ; while remarks
on the pages will afford improving and animating topics
for conversation.
Is he fond of music ? When an appropriate moment
occurs, sit down with cheerfulness to your piano or harp;
recollect the airs that are wont to please him most, and
indulge him by playing those favourite tunes. Tell me,
gentle lady, when was your time at this accomplishment
so well devoted ? While he was your lover, with what
readiness, and in your very best manner, would you
touch the chords; and on every occasion what pains did
you take to captivate ! And now that he is become
your husband (methinks at this moment I see a blush
mantling in your cheek), now that he is your husband,
has pleasing him become a matter of indifference to
you?
Particularly shun what the world calls in ridicule,
"Curtain lectures." When you both enter your room
at night, and shut to your door, endeavour to shut out
at the same moment all discord and contention, and look
on your chamber as a retreat from the vexations of the
world, a shelter sacred to peace and affection.
I canr.Dt say I much approve of man and wife at all
times opening each other's letters. There is more, I
think, of vulgar familiarity in this than of delicacy or
confidence. Besides, a sealed letter is sacred ; and
266 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
every one likes to have the first reading of his or her
own letters.
Perhaps your husband may be fond of absenting him
self from home, and giving to others that society which
you have a right to expect : clubs, taverns, &c.. &*.,
may be his favourite resort. In this case it may per
haps be necessary to have recourse to mild reasoning;
but never — I again repeat — never to clamorous dispute.
And the fonder he seems of quitting his home, the
greater should be your effort to make yourself and your
fireside agreeable to him. This may appear a difficult
task ; but I recommend nothing that I have not myself
seen successfully practised. I once knew a lady who
particularly studied her husband's character and dispo
sition ; and I have seen her, when he appeared sullen,
fretful, and inclined to go out, invite a friend, or per
haps a few friends, to spend the evening, prepare for
him at dinner the dish she knew he liked best, and thus,
by her kind, cheerful manner, make him forget the
peevishness which had taken possession of him. Believe
it from me, and let it take deep root, gentle lady, in your
mind, that a good-humoured deportment, a comfortable
fireside, and a smiling countenance, will do more towards
keeping your husband at home than a week's logic on
the subject.
Is he fond of fishing, fowling, &c. ? When those
amusements do not interfere with business or matters
of consequence, what harm can result from them ?
Strive then to enter into his feelings with regard to the
pleasure which they seem to afford him, and endeavour
to feel interested in his harmless accounts and chat re
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 207
spelling them. Let his favourite dog be jour favourite
also ; and do not with a surly look, as I have seen some
wives put on, say, in his hearing, " That Cato, or Rover,
or Rangnr, is the most troublesome dog and the greatest
pest in the world."
If the day he goes out on these rural expeditions be
cold or wet, do not omit having his shirt and stockings
aired for him at the fireside. Such little attentions
never fail to please ; and it is well worth your while to
obtain good humour by such easy efforts.
Should he be obliged to go to some distant place or
foreign land, at once and without indecision, if circum
stances render it at all practicable, let your determina
tion be made in the beautiful and expressive language
of Scripture : JEntreat me not to leave thee, nor to return
from following after thee : for whither tJiou goest, I will
go ; and where thou lodgest, 1 will lodge : thy people
shall be my people, and thy G-od my Grod. Where thou
diest will I die, and there will I be buried ; the Lord
do so to me^ and more also, if aught but death part thee
and me. (Ruth i. 16, 17.) If his lot be comfortless,
why not lessen those discomforts by your society ? and
if pleasure and gayety await him, why leave him exposed
to the temptations which pleasure and gayety produce ?
A woman never appears in so respectable a light, never
to so much advantage, as when under the protection of
her husband.
Even occasional separations between man and wife I
am no friend to, when they can be avoided. It is not
to your advantage, believe me, gentle lady, to let him
set Ii •;•>,' well he can do without you. You may pro-
268 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
bably say, "Absence is at times unavoidable." Granted:
I only contend such intervals of absence should be short,
and occur as seldom as possible.
Perhaps it may be your luckless lot to be united to
an unkind husband — a man who cares not whether he
pleases or displeases, whether you are happy or unhappy.
If this be the case, hard is your fate, gentle lady, very
hard ! But the die is cast ; and you must carefully
remember that no neglect of duty on his part can give
a legitimate sanction to a failure of duty on yours. The
sacredness of those ties which Hnd you as a wife remain
equally strong and heavy, whatever be the conduct of
your husband ; and galling as the chain may be, you
must only endeavour for resignation to bear it, till the
Almighty, by lightening it, pleases to crown your gentle
ness and efforts with success.
When at the Throne of Grace (I address you as a
religious woman), be fervent and persevering in your
prayers for your husband ; and by your example endea
vour to allure him to that heaven towards which you are
yourself aspiring : that, if your husband obey not the
word, as the sacred writer says, he may, without the word,
be won by the conversation (or conduct) of the wife.
Your husband, perhaps, may be addicted to gambling,
horse-racing, drinking, &c. These are serious circum
stances ; and mild remonstrances must be occasionally
used to oppose them ; but do not let your argument rise
to loud or clamorous disputing. Manage your opponent
lik^ a skilful general, and constantly watching the appro
priate moment for retreat. To convince without irritat
ing, is one of the most difficult as well as most desirable
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 209
points of argument. Perhaps this may not be in your
power: at all events, make the attempt, first praying to
God for direction, and then leaving to him the result.
Or, gentle lady, you may, perhaps, be united to a man
of a must uncongenial mind, who, though a very good
sort of husband, differs from you in every sentiment.
What of this ? You must only make the best of it.
Look around. Numbers have the same and infinitely
worse complaints to make ; and, truly, when we consider
what real misery there is in the world, it seems the
height of folly fastidiously and foolishly to refine away
our happiness, by allowing such worthless trifles to
interfere with our comfort.
There are very few husbands so bad as to be destitute
of good qualities, and probably very decided ones. Let
the wife search out and accustom herself to dwell on
those good qualities, and let her treat her own errors,
not her husband's, with severity. I have seldom known
a dispute between man and wife in which faults on both
sides were not conspicuous ; and really it is no wonder ;
for we are so quick-sighted to the imperfections of others,
so blind and lenient to our own, that in cases of discord
and contention, we throw all the blame on the opposite
party, and never think of accusing ourselves. In gene
ral, at least, this is the case.
I was lately acquainted with a lady, whose manner to
her husband often attracted my admiration. Without
appearing to do so, she would contrive to lead to those
subjects in which he appeared to most advantage. When
ever he spoke, she seemed to. listen as if what he was
Baying was of importance. And if at any time she dif
270 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
fered from him in opinion, it was done so gently as
scarcely to be perceived even by himself. She was quite
as well informed (perhaps more so) and as sensible as
himself, and yet she always appeared to think him supe
rior in every point. On all occasions she would refer to
him, asking his opinion, and appearing to receive infor
mation at the very moment, perhaps, she was herself
imparting it. The consequence was, there never was a
happier couple, and I am certain he thought her the
most superior woman in the world.
I repeat, it is amazing how trifles — the most insig
nificant trifles — even a word, even a look, — yes, truly, a
look, a glance — completely possess the power, at times,
of either pleasing, or displeasing. Let this sink deep
into your mind : remember, that to endeavour to keep a
husband in constant good humour is one of the first
duties of a wife.
Perhaps, on some occasion or other, in the frolic of
the moment, without in the least degree intending to
annoy you, your husband may toy, and laugh, and flirt,
while in company, with some pretty girl present. This
generally makes a wife look foolish ; and it would be as
well, nay, much better, if he did not do so. But let not
a shade of ill humour cross your brow, nor even by a
glance give him or any one present, reason to think his
behaviour annoys you. Join in the laugh and chat, and
be not outdone in cheerfulness and good humour by any
of the party. But remember, gentle lady, there must
be no acting in this affair : the effort must extend to
your mind as well as your manner; and a moment's
reasoning on the subject will at once restore the banished
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 27 1
sunshine. The incomparable Leighton says, " The
human heart is like a reservoir of clear water, at the
bottom of which lies a portion of mud' stir the mud,
and the water gets all sullied. In like manner does
some strong passion or peevish feeling rise in the heart,
and stain and darken it as the mud does the water."
But should there be a prospect of your husband often
meeting with this lady in question, endeavour at once to
break off the intimacy by bringing forward some pretext
consistent with truth (for to truth everything must be
sacrificed), such as, You do not like her; The intimacy
is not what you would wish, &c. Never, however, avow
the real reason : it will only produce discord, and make
your husband think you prone to jealousy — a suspicion
a woman cannot too carefully guard against. And there
is often in men an obstinacy which refuses to be con
quered of all beings in the world by a wife. A jealous
wife (such is the erroneous opinion of the ill-judging
world) is generally considered a proper subject for ridi
cule ; and a woman ought assiduously to. conceal from
her husband, more than from any one else, any feeling
of the kind. Besides, after all, gentle lady, your sus
picions may be totally groundless; and you may possibly
be tormenting yourself with a whole train of imaginary
evils. As you value your peace, then, keep from you,
if possible, all such vexatious apprehensions, and remem
ber, a man can very ill bear the idea of being suspected
of inconstancy even when guilty ; but when innocent, it
is intolerable to him.'
Dr. Boardman, in his excellent " Hints Dn Domestic
272 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
Happiness," has uttered a timely warning against the
depraving influence of Clubs, to which some young mar
ried men resort, to their own injury and the destruction
of domestic peace.
* I have to do, at present,' he says, ' with certain " avoca
tions and habits which contravene the true idea of home,
and are prejudicial to domestic happiness." I have
spoken at some length, in this view, of a life of fashion
able dissipation, particularly in its influence upon the
female sex. The whole range of public amusements
might fairly be considered as within the sweep of my
subject ; but there is one topic which it will not do to
pass by. Equal justice ought, in a series of lectures
like this, to be meted out to both sexes ; and I feel
bound to say a few words in respect to CLUBS.
One reason why I do this has been given. A second
is, that in so far as large cities are concerned, one can
hardly sever the mental association which links together
Clubs and domestic happiness — or unhappiness. I bring
against these institutions no wholesale ienunciation. I
neither say nor believe that all who belong to them are
men of profligate character. I cannot doubt that they
comprise individuals not only of high social standing,
but of great personal worth. But in dealing with the
institutions themselves, I must be permitted to express
the conviction that they are unfavourable to the culture
of the domestic affections, and hurtful to the morals and
manners of society. That this is the common opinion
respecting them is beyond a question. Of the respect
able people who pass by any fashionable Club-IIouse in
an evening, the thoughts of a very large proportion are
I
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 273
pobably directed, for the moment, with the most inten
sity, to the homes of its tenantry, with the feeling,
" Those would be happier homes if this establishment
were out of the way."
The mildest conception of these associations which
any one can insist upon, is that given by Mr. Addison,
who says, " Our modern' celebrated Clubs are founded
opon eating and drinking, which are points wherein
most men agree, and in which the learned and the illite
rate, the dull and the airy, the philosopher and the buf
foon, can all of them bear a part." They must be
greatly scandalized if billiards and cards do not enter
AS largely into the recreations they supply, as eating
and drinking. There must be some potent attractions
which can draw a set of gentlemen away from all other
scenes and engagements, domestic and social, moral and
religious, literary and political, and hold them together
to a late hour, for many nights in succession. If it ia
eocial reading, the authors they read may well be flat
tered with the honours paid them. If it is conversation,
" The feast of reason and the flow of s'oul,"
the talkers must have rare conversational powers. If
\t is politics, the country must have zealous patriots
among her sons. If it is science, no wonder that under
the pressure of this prodigious research, the lightning
Icmls its wings to knowledge, that the subjugated ejirth
hastens to reveal its deep arcana to mortal eyes, and
that planet after planet should come forth out of the
unfathomable abyss of space, and submit to be mea
sured, and v eighed, and chronicled, as their older sistcra
18
274 HINTS AND HELPS FOh MARRIED PARTNERS.
have been. But this is going too far even for the charity
which "believeth all things." Those who have never
been initiated into the penetralia of these institutions,
know enough of them to be satisfied that they are not
precisely schools of science — or, if they are, that the
sciences they exult in, are not those which soar towards
heaven, but those which have to do with the auriferous
bowels of the earth, and the full-fed cattle upon its
surface.
To come more directly to the point, the allegation
made against these Clubs — made in the name of ten
thousand injured wives and mothers and children — is,
that they become a sort of RIVAL HOME to the home
they occupy ; that the influence they exert over their
members, loosens their domestic ties, indisposes them to
their domestic duties, and not unfrequently seduces
them into habits of intemperance and gambling. The
clients I represent in this argument contend that they
are an unnecessary institution — that where gentlemen
wish to associate together for literary purposes, there
are always within their reach lyceums, athenseums,
libraries, and societies without number ; and that as
to social relaxation, it can be had without setting up
a quasi-ttionastery. They urge with truth that any
course of social amusements pursued systematically and
earnestly by a combination of gentlemen, to the exclu
sion of ladies, will as really tend to impair, as the com
panionship of cultivated women does to refine, the man
ners, and the sensibilities of the heart ; that, as a matter
of fact, those who become addicted to these coarser plea
sures, lose their relish for the best female society ; and
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 275
that the old home sinks in their esteem, as the new one
rises. These charges, which cannot be gainsayed, bear
not only upon married men, but young men ; for the
tastes and habits fostered by the Cluln, are precisely
those which go to alienate them from the paternal roof,
and to unfit them to become heads of families.
After noting down my own reflections on this subject,
I met with some observations upon it by an eminent
female writer (the best writer, probably, that sex has
produced), which one portion of my hearers, as least,
will thank me for quoting: they are graphic, forcible,
and suggestive : " The Clubs generate and cherish luxu
rious habits, from their perfect ease, undress, liberty,
and inattention to the distinctions of rank ; they pro
mote a love of play, and, in short, every temper and
spirit which tends to undomesticate ; and what adds to
the mischief is, all this is attained at a cheap rate com
pared with what may be procured at home in the same
style. A young man in such an artificial state of
society, accustomed to the voluptuous ease, refined luxu
ries, soft accommodations, obsequious attendance, and
all the unrestrained indulgences of a fashionable Club,
is not to be expected after marriage to take very cor
dially to a home, unless very extraordinary exertions
are made to amuse, to attach, and to interest him ; and
he is not likely to lend a helping hand to the union,
whose most laborious exertions have hitherto been little
more than a selfish stratagem to reconcile health with
pleasure. Excess of gratification has only served to
make him irritable and exacting; it will, of course, bo
no part of His project to make sacrifices — he will expect
276 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
to receive them ; and, what would appear incredihle to
the Paladins of gallant times, and the Chevaliers Preux
of more heroic days, even in the necessary business of
establishing himself for life, he sometimes is more dis
posed to expect attentions than to make advances."
" These indulgences, and this habit of mind, gratify so
many passions, that a woman can never hope success
fully to counteract the evil by supplying, at home, grati
fications which are of the same kind, or which gratify
the same habits. Now a passion for gratifying vanity,
and a spirit of dissipation, is a passion of the same
kind; and, therefore, though for a few weeks, a man
who has chosen his wife in the public haunts of fashion,
and this wife a woman made up of accomplishments, may,
from the novelty of the connexion and of the scene, con
tinue domestic; yet, in a little time she will find that
those passions to which she has trusted for making plea
sant the married life of her husband, will crave the still
higher pleasures of the Club ; and while these are pur
sued, she will be consigned over to solitary evenings at
home, or driven back to the old dissipations."
If there is any real foundation for these strictures, it
cannot excite your surprise that in vindicating the
domestic constitution, these associations should be
arraigned and condemned as tending to counteract it3
beneficent operation. The Family is a divine ordinance.
It is God's institution for training men. It is vitally
connected with the destinies of individuals and nations.
Whatever interferes, therefore, with its legitimate influ->
ence, must be criminal in God's sight, and a great social
evil. On this ground, Clubs are to be reprobated. They
HINTS AND HELPh FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 277
ore unfavourable to the domestic virtues. They make
no man a better husband or father, a better son or bro
ther. If some have mixed in them without being con
taminated, this is more than can be said of all. They
have inspired many a man with a disrelish for his home;
have made many a young wife water her couch witL
tears ; and kept many a widowed mother walking her
parlours in lonely anguish till after midnight, awaiting
the return of her wayward son from the card- table.
Does it become a community, who would guard their
homes as they do their altars, because they know their
altars will not long be worth guarding if their homes are
desecrated to encourage CLUBS ?'
The following should be read by every woman in the
country, married or unmarried — yes, it should be com
mitted to memory and repeated three times a day, for it
contains more truth than many volumes that have been
written on the subject : —
4 How often we hear a man say, I am going to Califor
nia, Australia, or somewhere else. You ask him the
reason of his going away, and the answer is, in nine
cases out of ten, I am not happy at home. I have been
unfortunate in business, and I have made up my mind to
try my luck in California. The world seems to go
against me. While fortune favoured me, there were
those whom I thought to be my friends, but when the
'Hcale turned, they also turned the cold shoulder against
me. My wife, she that should have been the first to
have stood by me, and encourage me, was first to point
the finger of scorn and say, " It is your own fault ; why
2/8 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
Ws this or that one been so fortunate? If you had
attended to your business as they have, you would not
be where you are now." These and other like insinua
tions, often drive a man to find other society, other
pleasures, in consequence of being unhappy at home.
He may have children that he loves; he cannot enjoy
life with them as he would; he may love them as dearly
as ever ; yet home is made unpleasant in consequence
of that cold indifference of the wife. Now, I would say
to all such wives, sisters, and in fact, all females, deal
gently with him that is in trouble ; remember that he is
very easily excited. A little word, carelessly thrown
out, may inflict a wound time never can heal. Then be
cautious ; a man is but human — therefore he is liable to
err. If you see him going wrong, ever meet him with a
smile, and with the kiss of affection ; show that you love
him by repeated acts of kindness ; let your friendship
be unbounded ; try to beguile his unhappy hours in
pleasant conversation. By so doing, you may save
yourself and children from an unhappy future.
When a man is in trouble, it is but a little word that
may ruin him; it is but a little word that may save him.'
Marriage, says Jeremy Taylor, is the proper scene
of piety and patience ; of the duty of parents and the
charity of relations. Here kindness is spread abroad,
and love is united and made firm as a centre. Marriage
is the nursery of Heaven. The virgin sends prayers to
God, but she carries but one soul to him ; but the stato
of marriage fills up the numbers of the elect, and hath
m it the labour of love and the delicacies of friendship,
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 279
the blessing of society, and the union of hands and
hearts. It hath in it less of beauty but more of safety
than the single life ; it hath more ease but less danger ;
it is more merry and more sad ; it is fuller of sorrows
and fuller of joys ; it lies under more burdens, but is
supported by all the strengths of love and charity, and
those burdens are delightful. Marriage is the mother
of the world, and preserves kingdoms, and fills cities
and churches, and Heaven itself. Celibole, like the fly
in the heart of an apple, dwells in perpetual sweetness,
but sits alone, and is confined and dies in singularity ;
but marriage, like the useful bee, builds a house, and
gathers sweetness from every flower, and labours and
unites into societies and republics, and sends out colo
nies, and feeds the world with delicacies, and obeys their
king, and keeps order, and exercises many virtues, and
promotes the interest of mankind, and is that state of
good things to which God hath designed the present
constitution of the world.
- The every-day married lad^ is the inventor of a thing
which few foreign nations have as yet adopted either in
their houses or languages. This thing is "comfort."
The word cannot well be defined ; the items that enter
into its composition being so numerous, that a description
would read like a catalogue. We all understand how
ever what it means, although few of us are sensible of
the source of the enjoyment. A widower has very little
comfort, and a bachelor none at all — ;while a married
man, provided his wife be an every-day married lady—
*njoys it in perfection. But he enjoys it unconsciously,
280 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARKED PARTNERS.
and therefore ungratefully ; it is a thing of course — a
necessary, a right, of the want of which he complains
without being distinctly sensible of its presence. Even
when it acquires sufficient intensity to arrest his atten
tion, when his features and his heart soften, and he looks
round with a half smile on his face, and says, " This is
comfort !" it never occurs to him to inquire where it all
comes from. His every-day wife is sitting quietly in
the corner ; it was not she who lighted the fire, or
dressed the dinner, or dreAv the curtains ; and it never
occurs to him to think that all these, and a hundred
other circumstances of the moment, owe their virtue to
her spiriting ; and that the comfort which enriches tho
atmosphere, which sparkles in the embers, which broods
in the shadowy parts of the room, which glows in his
own full heart, emanates from her, and encircles her
like an aureola.
"When once a woman is married, when once she has
enlisted among the matrons of the land ; let not her
fancy dream of perpetual admiration ; let her not be
sketching out endless mazes of pleasure. The mistress
of a family has ceased to be a girl. She can no longer
be frivolous or childish with impunity. The angel of
courtship has sunk into a woman ; and that woman will
be valued principally as her fondness lies in retirement,
and her pleasures in the nursery of her children. And
woe to the mother who is obliged to abandon her chil
dren during the greater part of the day to hirelings —
no, not obliged ; for there is no duty so imperious, no
social convenience or fashionable custom so commanding,
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 281
as to oblige her to such shameful neglect : for maternal
care, let her remember, supersedes all other duties.
In the matrimonial character which you have now
assumed, gentle lady, no longer let your fancy wander
to scenes of pleasure or dissipation. Let home be now
your empire, your world! Let home be now the sole
scene of your wishes, your thoughts, your plans, your
exertions. Let home be now the stage on which, in the
varied character of wife, of mother, and of mistress,
you strive to act and shine with splendour. In its s»oer,
quiet scenes, let your heart cast its anchor, let your
feelings and pursuits all be centred. And beyond the
spreading oaks that shadow and shelter your dwelling,
let not your fancy wander. Leave to your husband to
distinguish himself by his valour or his talents. Do you
seek for fame at hcme ; and let the applause of your God,
of your husband, of your children, and your servants,
weave for your brow a never-fading chaplet.
An ingenious writer says, " If a painter wished to
draw the very finest object in the world, it would be
the picture of a wife, with eyes expressing the serenity
of her mind, and a countenance beaming with benevo
lence ; one hand lulling to rest on her bosom a lovely
infant, the other employed in presenting a moral page
to a second sweet baby, who stands at her knee, listen
ing to the words of truth and wisdom from its incom-
o
parable mother."
I am a peculiar friend to cheerfulness. Not that kind
of cheerfulness which the wise man calls the mirth of
fwfy —always laughing and talking, exhausting itself
in jests and puns, and then sinking into silence and
ZbU HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
gloom when the object that inspired it has disappeared.
No — no ! The cheerfulness I would recommend must
belong to the heart, and be connected with the temper,
and even with the principles. Addison says, " I cannot
but look on a cheerful state of mind as a constant, ha
bitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. An
inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanksgiv
ing to Providence under all its dispensations : it is a
kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed,
a..' i secret approval of the Divine Will in his conduct
towards us." I think there is something very lovely in
seeing a woman overcoming those little domestic dis
quiets which every mistress of a family has to contend
with ; sitting down to her breakfast-table in the morning
with a cheerful, smiling countenance, and endeavouring
to promote innocent and pleasant conversation among
her little circle. But vain will be her amiable efforts at
cheerfulness, if she be not assisted by her husband and
the other members around ; and truly it is an unpleasant
sight to see a family when collected together, instead of
enlivening the quiet scene with a little good-humoured
chat, sitting like so many statues, as if each was un
worthy of the attention of the other. And then, Avhen
a stranger comes in, 0 dear ! such smiles, and anima
tion, and loquacity ! " Let my lot be to please at home,"
eays the poet ; and truly I cannot help feeling a con
temptuous opinion of those persons, young or old, male
or female, who lavish their good humour and pleasantry
in company, and hoard up sullenness and silence for the
{sincere and loving group which compose their fireside.
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS. 283
They do not behold home with the same eyes as did the
writer of the following lines : —
" ' Home's the resort of love, of joy, of peace ;'
So says the bard, and so say truth and grace ;
Home is the scene where truth and candour move,
The only scene of true and genuine love.
1 To balls and routs for fame let others roam,
Be mine the happier lot to please at home.'
Clear then the stage : no scenery we require,
Save the snug circle round the parlour fire;
And enter, marshall'd in procession fair,
Each happier influence that governs there !
First, Love, by Friendship mellow'd into bliss,
Lights the warm glow, and sanctifies the kiss ;
When, fondly welcom'd to the accustom'd seat,
In sweet complacence wife and husband meet ;
Look mutual pleasure, mutual purpose share,
Repose from labours to unite in care !
Ambition! does Ambition there reside?
Yes : when the boy, in manly mood astride,
With ruby lip and eyes of sweetest blue,
And flaxen locks, and cheeks of rosy hue,
(Of headstrong prowess innocently vain),
Canters ; — the jockey of his father's cane:
While Emulation in the daughter's heart
Bears a more mild, though not less powerful, part,
With zeal to shine her little bosom warms,
And in the romp the future housewife forms:
Think how Joy animates, intense though meek,
The fading roses on their grandame's cheek,
When, proud the frolic children to survey,
She feels and owns an interest in their play ;
Tells at each call the story ten times told,
And forwards every wish their whims unfold."
284 HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.
" To be agreeable, arid even entertaining, in our family
circle," says a celebrated writer, " is not only a positive
duty, but an absolute morality."
We cannot help quoting the following passage from
Miss II. More, as an admirable illustration of true sweet
ness of temper, patience, and self-denial — qualities so
essential in a wife and mistress of a family : — " Remember,
that life is not entirely made up of great evils, or heavy
trials, but that the perpetual recurrence of petty evils
and small trials is the ordinary and appointed exercise
of Christian graces. To bear with the feelings of those
about us, with their infirmities, their bad judgments,
their ill-breeding, their perverse tempers — to endure
neglect where we feel we have deserved attention, and
ingratitude where we expected thanks — to bear with the
company of disagreeable people, whom Providence has
placed in our way, and whom he has perhaps provided
on purpose for the trial of our virtue — these are the best
exercise ; and the better because not chosen by our
selves. To bear with vexations in business, with dis
appointments in our expectations, with interruptions in
our retirement, with folly, intrusion, disturbance, in short,
with whatever opposes our will and contradicts our
humour — this habitual acquiescence appears to be the
very essence of self-denial. These constant, inevitable,
but inferior evils, properly improved, furnish a good
moral discipline, and might well, in the days of ignorance,
have superseded pilgrimage and penance." Another
remark of the same author is also excellent : " To sustain
a fit of si *kness may exhibit as true a heroism as to lead
an army To bear a deep affliction well, calls for as
THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE. 235
high exertion of soul as to storm a town ; and to meet
death with Christian resolution, is an act of courage in
7 - O
which many a woman has triumphed, and many a j-hilo-
Enpher, and even some generals, have failed."
THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.
" I allude to that false and contemptible kind of decision which
we term obstinacy ; — a stubbornness of temper which can assign
no reasons but mere will, for a constancy which acts in the nature
of dead weight, rather than strength — resembling less the reaction
of a powerful spring, than the gravitation of a big stone."
FOSTER'S ESSAYS.
" I HAVE said, Mrs. Wilson, that it is my will to have
it so, arid I thought you knew me well enough to know
that my will is unalterable. Therefore, if you please,
let rne hear no more about it."
" But, my dear husband, the boy "
"But, madam, I assure you there is no room for luts
in the matter. Am I not master of my own house, and
fully capable of governing it?"
"Yes, certainly, my dear, only I happen to know
something about this school, which I think would influ
ence you in forming a judgment, if you would listen to
rne for a moment."
" My judgment is already formed, madarn, and is not
likely to be altered by anything a woman coul 1 say.
You may be a very good judge of the merits of a pud-
286 THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.
ding, or the size of a stocking, but this is a matter in
\vhich I do not wish for any advice."
So Master James Wilson, a little, delicate, backward
boy of ten years, was sent to a large public school, in
which the amount of study required was so much beyond
his ability, and the rules so severe, that the heavy penal
ties daily incurred, seriously affected both his health and
happiness. It was with an aching heart that the fond
mother saw him creeping slowly to school in the morning
with a pale and dejected countenance, and returning
home, fatigued in body, soured in spirit, and rapidly
learning to detest the very sight of his books, as the
instruments of his wretchedness. The severity of the
husband and father had in this instance produced its
usual unhappy effect, by tempting Mrs. Wilson to inju
dicious indulgence of her son in private, and the per
petual oscillations between the extremes of harshness
and fondness thus experienced, rendered the poor boy a
weak and unprincipled character, anxious only to escape
the consequences of wrongdoing, without any regard to
the motives of his conduct.
Not many months after his entrance into the public
school, he was violently thrown to the ground during
recess, by an older boy, and his limb so much injured
by the fall, that a long and dangerous illness was the
Consequence. Mrs. Wilson was extremely desirous to
try the effects of the cold water treatment on the diseased
limb, but her husband had adopted a system of his own,
composed of all the most objectionable features of othor
systems, and would not relinquish such an opportunity
of testing his skill as a physician. The child waa
THREE WAFS OF MANAGING A WIFE. 287
accordingly steamed and blistered until the inflammation
became frightful ; and then cupping, leeching, &c., were
resorted to, without any other effect than greatly t(
icduco the strength of the patient.
" Husband," Mrs. Wilson ventured at last to say,
"the poor child is getting worse every day; and if he
lives through it, will, I fear, lose his limb ; will you nrt
try what Dr. S. can do with the cold-water treatment ?"
" If I could be astonished at any degree of folly on
the part of a woman," was his reply, "I should be sur
prised at such a question. I am doing what I think best
for the boy, and you are well aware that my mind was
long since made up about the different systems of medi
cine. Do you confine yourself to nursing the child,
and leave his treatment to me."
Ah, this domestic "making up one's mind!" It is a
process easily and often rapidly gone through, but its
consequences are sometimes so far-reaching and abiding,
that we may well tremble as we hear the words care
lessly pronounced.
After a period of intense suffering, James Wilson rose
from his sick-bed, but he had lost for ever the use of the
injured lirnb ; and his mother could not but feel that il
was in consequence of the ignorant and barbarous treat
ment he had received. But remonstrance was vain ;
the law of the Modes and Persians was not more unal
terable than that which regulated the household of Mr.
Wilson, not only in matters of consequence, but in the
smallest details of domestic economy.
A new cooking apparatus had long been needed iu
the kitchen of Mr. Wilson, and as this was a tnattci
288 THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.
clearly within her province, his wife hoped she might b<»
able to procure a range which had often been declared
indispensable by htr domestics. But in this, she was
doomed to be disappointed. Her husband remembered
the cooking-stove which had been the admiration of his
childhood, arid resolved, if a change must be made, to
have one of that identical pattern in his own house.
" But your mother's stove, though a good one for those
days," said Mrs. Wilson, " was one of the first invented,
and destitute of most of the conveniences which now
accompany them. It consumed, beside, double the
amount of fuel required in one of the modern stoves."
" What an absurd idea ! A stove is a stove. I take
it, and what was good enough for my mother is good
enough for my wife. That which answered all the pur
poses of cooking in so large a family as my father's,
might suffice, I should imagine, in our small one. At
any rate, I choose to get this pattern, and therefore no
more need be said on the subject."
It was nothing to Mr. Wilson, that the expenditure
of fuel, and time, and labour was so greatly increased
by his arrangement — it was nothing that his wife was
constantly annoyed by complaints, threats, and changes
in her kitchen, or that several mortifying failures in her
cuisine had resulted from the obstinate refusal of the
oven to bake — what was all this to the luxury of having
his own way in his own house ?
But the pleasures of absolutism are not unalloyed
Mr. Wilson, like other despots, was obeyed only from
necessity ; and whenever an opportunity occurred of
cheating him, it was generally improved. His wife waa
THREE WAYS OP MANAGING A WIFE. 289
a quiet, timid woman, with no pretensions to brilliancy
of intellect, but possessing what is far better, good
common sense, a \varm heart, and tastes and feelings
thoroughly domestic. With a different husband — one
who understood her disposition, and would have encou
raged her to rely on her own judgment, and to act with
energy and efficiency, she would have made a useful an«l
happy wife and mother ; but as it was, neglected and
regarded as a mere household drudge — with all her
warm affections chilled and driven back upon her own
heart — she became a silent schemer, an adroit dissimu
lator, seeking only (in self-defence as she believed) to
carry out her own plans as often as possible, in spite of
her lord and master.
Mr. Bennet, the neighbour and friend of Mr. Wilson,
was shocked at the petty tyranny he evinced, and
thanked his stars that he knew better than to follow
such an example. Though so long accustomed to con
sult only his own inclinations (for Mr. Bennet married
late in life), he took pleasure in referring everything to
the choice of his amiable companion, only reserving to
himself the privilege of the veto, that indispensable
requisite to a proper " balance of power." Let us
intrude on the conjugal tete-d-tete, the first year after
marriage, that we may better understand the IE caning
of this "reserved right." The parties were about to
commence housekeeping, and the subject under conside
ration was the renting of a house.
"Which of those houses do you intend to take?"
inquired the wife.
19
200 THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.
"Just which you prefer, my dear. I wish you to
please yourself in the matter."
" Well, then, if I may choose, I shall say the cottage
by all means — the other house is sadly out of repair,
much larger than we need, and will require so much
furniture to make it comfortable."
" I am rather surprised at your choice, my dear — the
rooms at the cottage are so small, and those in the other
house so large and airy — do as you please, but I must
Bay I am surprised. Such nice airy rooms.'
" But they are gloomy and dilapidated, and will
require so much expense to make them comfortable.
Still, if you prefer them — "
" Oh, that is nothing, you are to choose, you know,
but I dislike small, confined rooms, and the cottage is
nothing but a bird's-nest."
" Do you not remember how we used to admire it
when Mrs. Murray lived there?"
" Oh, certainly, certainly, take it if you like; but the
rooms are so small, and I never can breathe in a small
room. Those in the large house are just the right size,
and not at all gloomy in my eyes ; but of course do as
you please. I rather wonder at your choice, however."
" Well, then, what do you say to the new house on
•the hill ? That is neither too large nor too small, and
it is such a convenient distance from your office; besides
the giounds are delightful. I could be very happy
there."
" Really, Mrs. Bennet, you have a singular taste.
The neighbourhood is, I dare say, detestable, arid the
dampness of the walls, the smell of new paint, and a
THREE WAYS OP MANAGING A WIFE. 2{?"l
hundred other things, wmld be hard to bear. Notwith
standing, if you choose the new house, we will take it ;
but the rooms in the other tenement are so large and
airy, and I do so like large rooms — well, what do you
say ?"
With a suppressed sigh, the young wife answered—
•' I think, on the whole, we had better take the large
house."
" I was sure you would come over to my opinion !"
was the husband's exulting exclamation ; " see what it
is to have a sensible wife, and an accommodating hus
band "
The large house was taken, and various were the dis
comforts experienced by Mrs. Bennet in her new abode.
The chimneys smoked, the rain came in through nume
rous crevices in the roof, and the wide halls, and lofty
apartments, many of which were unfurnished, struck a
chill to the heart of the lonely wife, who, if she visited
them after sunset, trembled at the sound of her own
footfalls echoing through the house. But she made few
complaints, and Mr. Bennet, even if aware of some
trifling annoyances, was happy in the consciousness that
he had magnanimously submitted to his wife the choice
of a habitation. Fortunately for him, that wife was a
woman of sense, firmness, and principle, who studied her
husband's peculiarities that she might as far as possible
adapt herself to them ; though, it must be confessed, the
attempt was often fruitless, and she was compelled to
acknowledge to her own heart, that the open assump
tion of authority is not the only way in which domestic
despotism manifests itself.
292 THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.
"When Mr. Bennet became a father, in the first gush
of parental emotion he forgot even the exercise of the
veto, in reference to the arrangements for the comfort
of the little stranger, so that for a few weeks the happy
mother carried out her own plans without any inter
ference.
" Have you decided on a name for this dear little
girl ?" said Mrs. Bennet, as they sat together, one morn
ing, caressing the object of so many hopes, and of so
much affection.
" I wish you to name her, my dear," he replied ; " it
Is your privilege to do so."
" I should like to call her Mary, if you have no ob
jection — it is the name of my mother, therefore very
dear to me."
"Is it possible you can like that common name so
well ? For my part I am tired of the very sight and
sound of it. It can be nicknamed, too, and Molly, you
must confess, is not very euphonious. I hoped you might
choose the name of Ruth : it is a scriptural name, simple
and sweet."
" It happens, unfortunately, to be one I particularly
dislike, but as you do not like Mary, perhaps we can
select one in which we shall both agree. What do you
say to Martha ? It is our sister's name, and a scriptural
one also," she added, with a smile.
" Oh, I should never think of anything but Patty.
Surely you could select a better name than that. Ruth
is much prettier — what a pity you do not like it ! I ad
mire it greatly ; but 'my taste is not much. Well, please
yourself, only I am sorry you cannot fancy Ruth."
THREE WAYS OP MANAGING A WIFK 293
" How would you like Lucy ? There caii be no objec
tion to that on the score of nicknames, and it is easily
spoken."
"Yes, and so is Polly, if that were all. But you
must think of some other name beside Lucy. I once
knew a girl of that name who was my perfect aversion,
and she has spoiled it for me. Ruth is the best name,
after all, pity you cannot think so. But choose some
thing else, if you please."
Various were the names suggested by Mrs. Bennet, and
rejected by her husband, some on one ground, and some
on another, still with tho same ending — " I wish you
could like Ruth" — until wearied by the discussion, and
hopeless of gaining anything by its continuance, she
replied to his request that she would please herself —
" Let her be called Ruth, if you prefer it."
" How delighted I am that we are always of the same
opinion at last — it quite repays me for the concession
some might imagine me to make in submitting these
things to the judgment of my wife."
As years passed on, and matters of greater importance
came up for decision, Mrs. Bennet was sometimes com
pelled from principle to abide by her own opinion, though
at an expense of personal comfort which few could ap
preciate. She had yielded so long and so often to the
wearisome pertinacity of her husband, that when she
first dared to do what he had always boasted of permit
ting, he could hardly credit his senses.
" Do you really mean," he inquired one day, long aftei
the scene we have just described, " to forbid young Bar
ton's visiting our children ?"
291 THREE WAYS OP MANAGING A WIFE.
" Did you not tell me to do just as I pleased about
it?"
" Yes, to be sure — but I thought you would of course
take my advice about it, as usual."
"I could not, because I know, what you do not, that
young Barton is a depraved and dangerous character,
and Ruth and Harry are just of an age to be attracted
by the false glitter of his external advantages. Where
the temporal and eternal welfare of my children is con
cerned, my dear husband, you must allow me to follow
my own convictions of duty. In all things where con
science is not concerned, I shall, as I have uniformly
done, yield my own preference and wishes to yours."
"Well," said Mr. Bennet to himself, as he turned
*way, " women are inexplicable beings, and I begin to
think neighbour Wilson's way of managing them is bet
ter than mine, after all. If you give them even a loop
hole to creep out at, they will be sure, sooner or later,
to rebel openly, and set up for themselves. I am too old
to change now, but if I were to begin life again, I would
manage so as to secure submission from my wife on all
points. It is the only way to preserve domestic har
mony."
It was at the close of a love^ day in the " month of
roses," that Robert Manly brought his youthful bride
to their own pleasant home, and for the first time, wel
comed her as its mistress. They were both very happy,
for young love shed its roseate hues over all around, and
they had just spoken those solemn words which bound
them to each other, in joy and sorrow, sickness and
health, prosperity and adversity, till separated by death.
THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE. 295
" What a paradise it is !" exclaimed the delighted
Ellen ; " I shall want nothing on earth, but the occa
sional society of my friends, to render my felicity com
plete."
A kiss was the only reply of the husband, as he gazed
tenderly on the bright face so fondly upturned to his
own, for though he had early learned the sad lesson of
which she was yet ignorant, that perfect and abiding
happiness is not the growth of earth, he could not rudely
dispel her dream of bliss, by reflections that must havo
seemed unsuited to the occasion. Young as he was,
Robert Manly had been trained in the school of adver
sity, and its stern but valuable lessons had not been
thrown away upon him. The only son of his mother,
and she a widow, he had been compelled, almost in child
hood, to depend upon his own exertions for support, and,
carefully guarded by his excellent parent from evil com
panions and influences, had early established a character
for energy and integrity, which was worth more to him
than thousands of gold and silver. He was now a part
ner in the respectable mercantile firm which he had
first entered as a poor and friendless clerk ; and was
reaping the rich reward of uprightness and honour, in
the confidence and respect of all with whom he was as
sociated in business. While still very young, he formed
an attachment for the daughter of his employer, a lovely,
dark-eyed girl, whose sweet voice and endearing atten
tions to the lonely boy won his heart, before he had
thought of regarding her in any other light than tlmt
of a playful and engaging child. She had grown up to
»-omanhood at his side, and every year strengthened the
296 THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.
tie th-tt bound them to each other, though he could not
hut feel with pain, that the education she was receiving
was far from being a useful or rational one. As the
youngest of a large family, and the pet and plaything
of the whole, Ellen was trained in the very lap of luxury
and indulgence ; and her lover was compelled to admit
to himself, that however highly educated, amiable, and
accomplished she might be, she was wholly ignorant of
many things pertaining to her duties as the mistress of
a family. To his mother, the dear confidant of all h'S
joys and sorrows, he expressed his apprehensions on
this subject.
"Have you committed yourself, my son?" she in-
|uired.
" Certainly, in honour, and in fact. I love Ellen with
all my heart, and have no doubt that her native strength
of character, and affection for me, will make her all I
could desire, when once she feels the necessity for ex
ertion."
'•Youth is always sanguine," was the reply; "how
ever, my dear boy, from my heart I pray that your
hopes be fulfilled. I regret that you have chosen a wife
who will have everything to learn after marriage, but the
choice is made, and much will now depend on yourself,
as regards the result. You will find that deficiency of
knowledge in domestic matters, on the part of a wife,
materially affects the comfort and happiness of her hus
band ; and if, on feeling this, you become impatient and
ill-humoured, this will discourage and alienate her, and
the almost certain loss of domestic happiness will be the
consequence. On the contrary, kindness and encourage-
THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE 297
menfc on your part, if she is what you think her, will be
a- constant stimulus to exertion, and thus in time all
your expectations may be realized. Fortunately, you
have been brought up by an old-fashioned mother, who
believed that boys might be made useful at home, and
have learned much that will be of advantage to you both
in a home of your own. Never forget, my son, that a
kind expression of your wishes will do far more to in
fluence the conduct of a woman of sense who loves you,
than harshness or rebuke. The power of gentleness is
always irresistible, when brought to bear on noble and
generous minds."
The lesson thus given, was not forgotten or disre
garded. Soon after his marriage, young Manly found
that, lovely, accomplished, and intelligent as she was,
his wife was wholly incompetent to the task of managing
a household ; and when, by the discharge of a worthless
servant, they were for the first time left alone, her per
plexity and helplessness would have been ridiculous,
had not the subject been too serious to be thus disposed
of. As it was, he lost neither his spirits nor his temper,
but cheerfully and hopefully sought, through her affec
tions, to rouse her to exertion.
" I am certain there is nothing about the house you
cannot do as well as others," he said to her as she was
lamenting her deficiencies, " if you will only make the
attempt; and the plainest food would be far sweeter to
me prepared by my wife, than the most costly delicacies
from any other hand. Our united skill will, I have no
doubt, prove a fair substitute for the help we have lost,
until we can procure more valuable assistance."
298 THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.
Thus encouraged, the young wife, with tears and
smiles contending on her sunny face, commenced the
work of practical housekeeping, and, though her mistakes
and failures were almost innumerable, had made so much
progress before another girl was found, that she was
deeply interested in her duties, and determined to under
stand them thoroughly. The next time her kitchen was
left vacant (for in our country these things are con
stantly happening), she was in a measure independent,
and it was one of the proudest moments of her life, when
she placed before her husband bread of her own making,
which he pronounced the most delicious he had ever
eaten. Let not my young readers suppose that Mrs.
Manly sacrificed any part of her refinement by becom
ing a skilful and useful housewife. She still dearly
loved music, and drawing, and literature, and commu
nion with cultivated minds, and was not less a lady in
the parlour because she had learned the uses and import
ance of the kitchen. But we will let her speak for her
self, of the change wrought in her habits and views, in
a conversation with the mother of her beloved Robert.
"Will you not now come to us," she said, "and take
up your abode with us permanently ? If you knew how
much and how long we have both wished it, I am sure
you would not refuse."
"I do know it, my dear," replied the venerable
matron, " but I have hitherto refused, because I thought
it best for you both, to learn to depend on your own
resources aj early as possible. I knew too that a young
housekeepei, to whom everything is strange and new,
THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE. 299
might find it embarrassing to have an old woman in so
near a relation, always looking on, and noticing defects
should any happen to exist. I have therefore, until
now, preferred remaining by himself, but I have not
been estranged from you in heart. I have watched with
the most intense interest your whole course thus far,
and, my beloved child, 1 can no longer withhold the
meed of approbation which is so justly your due. I own,
I trembled for the happiness of my dear son, when I
learned that his choice had fallen on a fashionably-
educated young lady like yourself, but I knew not as
he did, the sterling worth of character concealed beneath
that glittering exterior. T^o Ood of his fathers has
indeed been gracious to mm, in giving him a treasure
whose price is above rubies, even a virtuous woman, in
whom his heart can safely trust/'
" Oh, my dear mother.'"' exclaimed the young wile,
while tears choked her ucierauco, "you would not say
so if you knew all — if you knew how entirely I owe
everything that I now am, and all my present happi
ness, to the generous forbearance, the delicate kindness
of my beloved husband. He has borne with my igno
rance and helplessness, encouraged my first miserable
attempts to do right, and soothed and praised me when
ready to despair of ever becoming what I ought to be.
He has taught me that the true end and aim of life is
not to seek my own enjoyment, but the good of others,
and the glory of my Father in Heaven. From my in
most soul I thank you for training up such a son and
Buch a husband, and earnestly pray that I may be
300 THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.
enabled so to guide my own darling boy, that some
heart may thus be blessed by my exertions, as mine has
been by your maternal care and faithfulness, for my
own experience has convinced me that the training of
the boy has far more to do with forming the character
of the husband, than all other influences combined."
*B* BVB,
I
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