Chapter 10

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 motionless. 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 drawing his hand over his eyes, he resumed his place, and all was silent again, save the clock with its monotonous tick, tick, beating as calmly as, though human passions were trifles, and the passing away of a soul from earth, only the falling 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 breath 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 apartment. 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 coming 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 very miserable man; and give him a dollar, by way of consolation.

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, or 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 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 _her_ 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 bouquets 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 what "your wife" would like; you bargain with the grocer for sugars and teas, and wonder if he _knows_ that you are a married man? You practise your new way of 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 "Clarence--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 outside 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 hands covering her face. It was twilight, and beyond the little finger glanced a watchful eye towards the door, to see if Theodore _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 beseeching way again.

"Why are you so anxious to go, to-night?"

"O, 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 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 instantly dropped her apron after this was accomplished, and looked reproachfully into her husband's face. Suddenly a thought darted into her head. "When will you come home?" she asked, with quiet melancholy of manner.

"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 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? I 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 forgotten, 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 excruciating 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."

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 expected 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 how 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 die with shame to be dancing with a drunken man, and Theodore not here! I never should have believed the 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!" 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 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 pinafores--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, spasmodically, "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.

"You may come here, madam!"

Madam went, knowing the victory was won; her tears were 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 is pure as an angel."

"I promise!"

"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 minutes continuance.

"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 sulked 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.

OH! 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.

Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere, That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care; Find 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, fill 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 things to remind me the change which had taken place in mode of life. There lay the bouquet of orange flowers worn by Micelle 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 I had merely skirted the great army of humanity, measuring all things with regard to my own strength only. I had now entered its ranks; accompanied by a fellow traveller, whose powers and feelings must be consulted, and 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 for 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 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, "Love one another; there is not on earth a surer talisman; 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 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 Marcelle'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 '_salle a 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 striven 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 me, and I was obliged to have recourse to entreaty before the drapery was raised for our entrance.

The cabinet was lighted by a small window, over which hung a blind, representing a gothic casement of painted glass, the bright colours of which were now rendered 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 Marcelle seated with her embroidery when I passed under her aunt's window. Her pretty flower-stand, gay with her favourite flowers, occupied the window 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 present 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 treasures 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 religious 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 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 sympathies, 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 is the man who, after gazing on the portrait of his youth, can turn towards the original and find it unimpaired by age!

These 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 presence 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 separation 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 all. He lent himself to our dreams of happiness, pausing before each new phase, to point out a hope overlooked 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 donnee en bon 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 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 Roubert, "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 anything 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 nothing, 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 interrupted 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 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 sweetmeats; and lastly, though the '_salle a manger_ is ornamented 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 annoyance 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 out of humour, for I had noticed Marcelle's confusion, "but such omissions 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 breakfast together."

This was a point Marcelle 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 recognize 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; she showed the error without astonishment at its having been committed, and without priding herself on its discovery.

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 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-keeping you already 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 the amount of expenditure, in each separate branch.

The whole formed a domestic budget as clear as it was complete, in which each portion of the government service had its open account regulated by the 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 unpublished maxim 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 thou 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 Marcelle 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 and woe." Our highest and holiest aspirations, our purest and warmest affections, are frequently 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 current of our thoughts and feelings, and, by carrying us back to the days of childhood, or bringing to our remembrance 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 falsity and evil.

How many of the great events of life have their origin 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 trifles. 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; and the human heart is so constituted that there is no joy so great, no sorrow so intense, that it may not 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," as he termed it, and he heard with joy, some few months 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 within 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.

Some faint attempts were made to induce Arthur to endeavour to get released from his bargain, and to become the purchaser of the pretty cottage, but in vain. He 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 remained unabated.

The first few weeks of her residences there passed pleasantly enough, however. All was new and delightful. The grounds about the house, although little cultivated, were beautiful in the wild luxuriance of nature; the trees were loaded with rich autumnal fruits; 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 frequent, 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 endeavouved to 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 their 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 request 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.

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. Hartwell would be home directly,--it was just the evening for a ride," &c.&c.--this ebullition of her feelings being 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. I know I am rather late home, but business must be attended 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 have enjoyed the society of father, mother, 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 be 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 come 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 his irritation by giving the table an impatient jerk, exclaiming,

"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 desire 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 troubles sometimes produce a state which even the addition 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 message, and going up stairs opened the door of their sleeping apartment; but Mary's eyes were closed, and fearful of disturbing her, he quietly returned to the parlour and 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 disturbed 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 therefore 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; 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 affectionate sympathy of a sister.

His acquaintance with Mary before their marriage had been of short duration, and these traits in his character 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 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 he 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 hesitation, and, indeed, with pleasure; but she remained silent, secretly yearning for little acts of kindness, which never entered the mind of her husband. Another peculiarity which gave the young wife much pain, was that Arthur never or very rarely uttered words of commendation 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 at 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, approval 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 pleasant smile with which her husband takes his seat at the tea-and feels new life as she listens to his commendations 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; pleasant 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. To some this might have been satisfactory, but not to Mary. She longed for a word or smile to show that she had given pleasure.

But it is not to be supposed that all these petty causes 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 granted 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 themselves.

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 favourite plants, when her attention was attracted to a small cart laden with some strange old-fashioned-looking furniture, 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, covered with leather and thickly studded with brass nails, from the wagon, and brought it toward the house, bowing 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. Hartwell sent them here, ma'am," was the reply; "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 at length discovered the purchaser of my 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 furniture 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."

"In 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 old clock in its accustomed corner, and to seat myself in the very chair where I have so often sat with 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; I have little reason to expect regard and consideration;" and hastily leaving the room, he was on his way to his 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 unreasonable in Arthur to expect her to yield willingly to such 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 almost overwhelmed with the view of her own misery, which imagination thus placed before her.

And this was the anniversary of their marriage! One short 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 parcel 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 was 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 observing that the address on the package was in Arthur's handwriting, she hastily tore off the envelope, discovering 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 anniversary which she had supposed so entirely forgotten.

It was but a trifling attention--one of those pleasant 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 difficulties 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 summoning 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 unequalled polish, and the chair (sic) 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 was with real joy that she turned to receive the greeting of a worthy old lady, who was one of the nearest neighbours, and having lived on the same place for the last 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 delighted to meet such old friends, and assisted Mary in arranging them with the utmost pleasure.

"There, dear," she exclaimed, when all was completed, "that is exactly right. It seems to me I can almost see my old friend, Mrs. Hartwell, in her favourite chair, with her pretty little boy, your husband that is now, by her side. Poor child! it was such 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 visiter, 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 Arthur'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.

Rising from table, they proceeded as usual to the parlour; and now Mary was amply rewarded for the sacrifice of her own taste, if sacrifice it could be called, by the surprise and pleasure visible in her husband's countenance 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 tenderly and truly than ever before.

"And now, dearest, we will sum up the lesson which we are to remember," said Arthur, playfully, as the lateness of the hour reminded them that the evening had passed unheeded away. "_I_ am 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 pictures, 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 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 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, leading, if we mistake not, to the village church. Beneath this picture, reader, in Roman capitals, are the words:--"BEFORE MARRIAGE."

We turn to the second picture; and there may be seen the same high-backed stile, the same path, and the same passengers. Painfully and awkwardly is the lady represented 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 significant words:--"AFTER MARRIAGE."

One could wish 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 once 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.'

"It is, perhaps, not to be expected that a man can 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 prevented; and those so frequently witnessed, generally arise from a want of attention to those mutual endearments which all have in their power to perform, and which, as they are essential to the preservation of happiness, 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 show 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 expect."

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 and time-stricken. For years she has been living apart from her husband, her children scattered 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 himself the husband. _She_, the confiding one, stunned by some instances of neglect, reproached and taunted. He resented these reproaches as unjust, and to prove them so, redoubled his inattentiveness to her, absented himself 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 quarters. _He_--but why go on? Years--sad years of crimination 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 manner 'Don't do that, _I do not like it._' That was quite enough; I had never thought on the subject before; one 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 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 possible 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 the 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 something 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, we urge upon our readers, all, to prove their constancy of attachment, by mutual kind offices 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_ enjoyments 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 complaints 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 happiness. 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 to love and cherish; such a one does not deserve domestic happiness.

Young reader, and expectant of future domestic bliss 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 prepare 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 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 can not 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 personal habits,_ so far, at least, as the feelings of others 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 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 particular. 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 maybe 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 cultivated._ It is all very well to say that a man and his wife, and their children, if they have any, ought to be 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 to say to each other, as reasonable and thinking beings?--nothing to communicate 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, without knowledge, without intellectual resources, or even intellectual powers, without books, or any acquaintance 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 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 prodigious 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 sympathies 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 perhaps exactly the _description_ of gentleman to excite any rapid growth of romantic attachment in the bosom of an admired 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 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 tastes 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 subsequent excursion, they returned within a year to England, and settled at a pretty cottage in Berkshire, to which we speedily received a cordial invitation. It was no less readily accepted; 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 abode, was the reluctant opinion that, somehow or another, 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 matronly 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 herself. But her captor? asks some modern Petruchio--had he not, or could he not contrive to clip her pinions?

Poor F--! not he! he would have feared to "brush the dust" from off them; and, from something of this over-tenderness, had been feeding, with the honeyed pleasures of the French capital, those tastes which (without them) might have been reconciled already to the more spare and simple sociabilities of a retired English neighbourhood. He was only now trying the experiment which should have been made a year ago, and that with a reluctant and undecided hand.

Poor Emily! her 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 referred to pleasures past, and the rapturous delight with which she greeted certain occasional breaks in the monotony 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 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 cottage 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 celebrated by grand doings; a varied string of entertainments, 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 Goslington and a fragment of the world of London, about to be brought into strange conjunction at W--Castle. What shapes! grotesque, and gay, and 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 discover 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 as certainly before his marriage) either sister, 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 particular, 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 incumbent 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 her own liking, on this the very first occasion on which, we believe, her husband had ever thwarted it.

Well--whether, as with us, awaited in silence, or, as with the many, harbingered by the music of many voices--the grand event marched on; and 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 an early breakfast, we left Emily, as we supposed, to 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 cottage. 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 and scientific 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 proper sphere; yet hardly,--for on looking up we beheld, standing in the wake of a coloured sun-beam, from which, on wing of gossamer, she seemed to have just descended, 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 graceful, 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 surprise, and received the involuntary homage of our admiration.

We saw in a moment how the matter stood; Emily 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 had 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 darkened 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 husband. Under what character, pray, does he attend 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 say something which might yet hinder the young wife's intention; but while considering what that something should be, or whether, indeed, our age and slight relationship gave a sufficient right to say anything, we looked 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, remonstrance 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 to a _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 morning'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 evening 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 towards 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 declining 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 and shade, we were presented gratis with the exhibition of a finer panorama, than the Messrs. Barker ever yet produced.

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 richest 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-rooms 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 running, and all the faster as she approached it, on that fancy ball. Perhaps she suspected that ours was following the same turn, and knowing of old our habit of making observations upon insects, she, by a little womanly 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 ingeniously set us on our hobby, and attended us to the spot whither 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 congregated 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 own 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 actively employed in agitating her wings, bringing them before her head, crossing them in every direction, throwing them from side to side, and producing so many singular contortions as to cause them all four to fall off at the same moment, leaving her reduced to the same condition as her wingless sister. Fatigued, apparently, by her late efforts, she reposed awhile, after the accomplishment 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 female, 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 companions, 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 performance of such domestic duties as will henceforth confine 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 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 peculiar 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 pleasant 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 expression 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 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 syllable about the fancy ball; till, bursting to know how 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,--_"I am 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 Entomological 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 married, 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, when 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 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 saying 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 he 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 hereabouts. 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 news 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 his stockings want running at the heels. I wonder I did not think of that before. There is nothing like preventing holes from coming.

_May_ 2.--Told William last night of my plan of keeping 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 surprise, 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 yesterday--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 house 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. Smith has asked me to look in, as often as I can, and says 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 mentioned to William what she told me about the alteration she had made in her house, but he did not seem as if 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 alteration she has made. The sitting-room is of course so much smaller, but that is nothing compared to the comfort of the passage; I should not have thought that the houses could ever have been built alike, hers is so superior 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. Nothing is more likely than that William should have his 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 putting 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 improvement to our place. Of course he cannot understand as well as I do how disagreeable it is for people to be coming to the door, and lifting the latch and looking straight in at me as I sit at work--just the same as in any cottage in the country. I think William rather 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 toward's 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 seems very comfortable to me;" but that is no reason 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 other uncommonly 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 home.

_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 I 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 chair 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 asking 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.

_May_ 7.--Happening to see John Wilson passing down the lane on the way to his work, I called him in to consult 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. I thought it would not have been more than two pounds at most; but I had forgotten about the inner door, with its handle and hinges, &c. It seems a great deal of money, I must say. William'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 L2 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 this 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 remembrance how I used to say to myself that when once I was William's wife I 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 me; 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 discontented 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 anything 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 he will be!

_Afternoon of the same day_.--After coming to the decision 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 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 acquaintance 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 men are a man and his wife that agree together._ (Ecclus. xxv, 10)

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. Independent of better motives, what a responsibility does it free 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 has 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 adoption; 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 compliance, but great sacrifices, if necessary?

Never witness a tear from your wife with apathy or indifference. Words, looks, actions--all may be artificial; but a _tear_ is unequivocal; it comes direct from the _heart_, and speaks at once the language of truth, nature, and sincerity! Be assured, when, you see a tear on her 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 for 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 her physicians.

Perhaps some calamity, peculiarly her own, may befall her. She may weep over the death of some dear relative or friend; or her spirits and feelings may be 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 remorse, 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 ingenious 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 unremitting unkindness, till perhaps the arrival of their last illness, and who then became all assiduity and attention. Bat 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 in 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 sensibility and merit; and her consciousness of the defect makes her peculiarly awake to the slightest attention or inattention from you: and just for a moment reflect--

"What is the blooming tincture of the skin, To peace of mind and harmony within? 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 be 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 contribute much more to your happiness, more to the regularity, economy, and discipline of your houses 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 respecting 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 to soothe you;--if she can instruct your children, enliven your fireside by her conversation, 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 procure a _friend_ and _companion_ for myself, and a preceptress 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, sensible 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 cultivation, do not therefore think lightly of her; still remember she is your companion, the friend in whom you may confide at all times, and from whom you may obtain counsel and comfort.

Few women 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? who has 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 returned to his habitation fully determined to requite the kindness he has constantly experienced, yet, notwithstanding, 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 assurance 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 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 valueless, 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 imparting 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, O! let the ungentle spirit learn from thence, A _small_ unkindness is a _great_ offence. To give rich gifts perhaps we wish in vain, 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 engage her thoughts on the subject of her duties. Duty, to some, is a cold, repulsive word, but only in the discharge of duties that appertain to each condition in life, is happiness ever secured. From the "Whisper" we copy again:--

'Endeavour to make your husband's habitation alluring 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, gentleness, 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 powerful 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 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 imparts 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 relaxation to a man is the cheerful countenance and pleasant voice of the gentle mistress of his home! On the contrary, 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.

At dinner, endeavour to have his favourite dish dressed and served up in the manner he likes best. In, observing such 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 remark, "Cheerfulness in the _host_ is always the surest and most agreeable mode of welcome to the guest." Perhaps, 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 remember, as you journey on, inclination must be continually 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 with your husband's bachelor friends. It always vexes and disappoints a man when his wife finds fault with his favourites--the favourites 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_ 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 the monotonous hour, by placing in his hand some entertaining 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_ (me thinks 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 cannot 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 every one likes to have the first reading of his or her own letters.

Perhaps your husband may be fond of absenting himself from home, and giving to others that society which you have a right to expect: clubs, taverns, &c., &c., may be his favourite resort. In this case it may perhaps 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 disposition; and I have seen her, when he appeared sullen, fretful, and inclined to go out, invite a friend, or perhaps 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 respecting them. Let his favourite dog be your 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 Ranger, 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 circumstances render it at all practicable, let your determination be made in the beautiful and expressive language of Scripture: _Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. 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 no 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 see how well he can do without you. You may probably 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 bind 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 gentleness 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 endeavour 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 circumstances; 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 like a skilful general, and constantly watching the appropriate moment for retreat. To _convince_ without _irritating_, is one of the most difficult as well as most desirable 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 most 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 general, 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. Whenever he spoke, she seemed to listen as if what he was saying was of importance. And if at any time she differed 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 superior in every point. On all occasions she would refer to him, asking his opinion, and appearing to receive information 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 insignificant 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 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 conquered 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 ridicule; 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 suspicions _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 remember, 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 on Domestic Happiness," has uttered a timely warning against the depraving influence of Clubs, to which some young married men resort, to their own injury and the destruction of domestic peace.

'I have to do, at present,' he says, 'with certain "avocations 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 fashionable 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 ha's 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 denunciation. 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 respectable people who pass by any fashionable Club-House in an evening, the thoughts of a very large proportion are probably directed, for the moment, with the most intensity, 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 upon eating and drinking, which are points wherein most men agree, and in which the learned and the illiterate, the dull and the airy, the philosopher and the buffoon, 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 is social reading, the authors they read may well be flattered with the honours paid them. If it is conversation,

"The feast of reason and the flow of soul."

the talkers must have rare conversational powers. If it 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 lends its wings to knowledge, that the subjugated earth 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 measured, and weighed, and chronicled, as their older sisters 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, athenaeums, libraries, and societies without number; and that as to a social relaxation, it can be had without setting up a quasi-monastery. They urge with truth that any course of social amusements pursued systematically and earnestly by a combination of gentlemen, to the exclusion of ladies, will as really tend to impair, as the companionship of cultivated women does to refine, the manners, and the sensibilities of the heart; that, as a matter of fact, those who become addicted to these coarser pleasures, lose their relish for the best female society; and 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 Clubs, 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 luxurious habits, from their perfect ease, undress, liberty, and inattention to the distinctions of rank; they promote 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 compared 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 luxuries, soft accommodations, obsequious attendance, and all the unrestrained indulgences of a fashionable Club, is not to be expected after marriage to take very cordially 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, be no part of his project to make sacrifices--he will expect to receive them; and, what would appear incredible 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 disposed to expect attentions than to make advances." "These indulgences, and this habit of mind, gratify so many passions, that a woman can never hope successfully to counteract the evil by supplying at home, gratifications 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, continue domestic; yet, in a little time she will find that those passions to which she has trusted for making pleasant the married life of her husband, will crave the still higher pleasures of the Club; and while these are pursued, 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 its 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 influence, must be criminal in God's sight, and a great social evil. On this ground, Clubs are to be reprobated. They are unfavourable to the domestic virtues. They make no man a better husband or father, a better son or brother. If some have mixed in them without being contaminated, 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 with 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 committed to memory and repeated three times a day, for it contains more truth than many volumes that have been written on the subject:--

'How often we hear a man say, I am going to California, 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 scale 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 has 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 insinuations, 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 state of marriage fills up the numbers of the elect, and hath in it the labour of love and the delicacies of friendship, 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 colonies, 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 lady 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 however 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--enjoys it in perfection. But he enjoys it unconsciously, 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 attention, 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 drew 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 the 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 children 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, as to oblige her to such shameful neglect: _for maternal care, let her remember, supercedes 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 sober, 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 _home_; 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 benevolence; 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, listening to the words of truth and wisdom from its incomparable mother."

I am a peculiar friend to cheerfulness. Not that kind of cheerfulness which the wise man calls the _mirth of fools_,--always laughing and talking, exhausting itself in jests and puns, and then sinking into silence and 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, habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanksgiving to Providence under all its dispensations: it is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and a 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 disquiets 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 at 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 unworthy of the attention of the other. And then, when a stranger comes in, O dear! such smiles, and animation, and loquacity! "Let my lot be to please at home," says the poet; and truly I cannot help feeling a contemptuous 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.

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_. '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 welcomed 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."

"To be agreeable, and 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 H. More, as an admirable illustration of true sweetness 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 ourselves. To bear with vexations in business, with disappointments 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 sickness may exhibit as true a heroism as to lead an army. To bear a deep affliction well, calls for as high exertion of soul as to storm a town; and to meet death with Christian resolution, is an act of courage in which many a woman has triumphed, and many a philosopher, 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, and I thought you knew me well enough to know that my will is unalterable. Therefore, if you please, let me hear no more about it."

"But, my dear husband, the boy--"

"_But_, madam, I assure you there is no room for _buts_ 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 influence you in forming a judgment, if you would listen to me for a moment."

"My judgment is already formed, madam, and is not likely to be altered by anything a woman could say. You may be a very good judge of the merits of a pudding, or the size of a stocking, but this is a matter in which 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 penalties 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 injudicious indulgence of her son in private, and the perpetual 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 other systems, and would not relinquish such an opportunity of testing his skill as a physician. The child was accordingly steamed and blistered until the inflammation became frightful; and then cupping, leeching, &c., were resorted to, without any other effect than greatly to reduce 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 not 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 surprised 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 medicine. 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 carelessly 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 limb; and his mother could not but feel that it was in consequence of the ignorant and barbarous treatment he had received. But remonstrance was vain; the law of the Medes and Persians was not more unalterable 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 in the kitchen of Mr. Wilson, and as this was a matter clearly within her province, his wife hoped she might be able to procure a range which had often been declared indispensable by her domestics. But in this, she was doomed to be disappointed. Her husband remembered the cooking-stove which had been the admiration of his childhood, and 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 purposes 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 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 was a quiet, timid woman, with no pretensions to brilliancy of intellect, but possessing what is far better, good common sense, a warm heart, and tastes and feelings thoroughly domestic. With a different husband--one who understood her disposition, and would have encouraged her to rely on her own judgment, and to act with energy and efficiency, she would have made a useful and 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 dissimulator, 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 consult 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-a-tete_, the first year after marriage, that we may better understand the meaning of this "reserved right." The parties were about to commence housekeeping, and the subject under consideration was the renting of a house.

"Which of those houses do you intend to take?" inquired the 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 say 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 grounds are delightful. I could be very happy there."

"Really, Mrs. Bennet, you have a singular taste. The neighbourhood is, I dare say, detestable, and the dampness of the walls, the smell of new paint, and a hundred other things, would be hard to bear. Notwithstanding, 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 husband."

The large house was taken, and various were the discomforts experienced by Mrs. Bennet in her new abode. The chimneys smoked, the rain came in through numerous 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 assumption of authority is not the only way in which domestic despotism manifests itself.

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 interference.

"Have you decided on a name for this dear little girl?" said Mrs. Bennet, as they sat together, one morning, 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 objection--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 admire it greatly; but my taste is not much. Well, please yourself, only I am sorry you cannot fancy Ruth."

"How would you like Lucy? There can be no objection 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 something 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 the 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 compelled from principle to abide by her own opinion, though at an expense of personal comfort which few could appreciate. 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 permitting, he could hardly credit his senses.

"Do you really mean," he inquired one day, long after the scene we have just described, "to forbid young Barton's visiting our children?"

"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 concerned, my dear husband, you must allow me to follow my own convictions of duty. In all things where conscience 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 away, "women are inexplicable beings, and I begin to think neighbour Wilson's way of managing them is better than mine, after all. If you give them even a loophole 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 harmony."

It was at the close of a lovely day in the "month of roses," that Robert Manly brought his youthful bride to their own pleasant home, and for the fist time, welcomed 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.

"What a paradise it is!" exclaimed the delighted Ellen; "I shall want nothing on earth, but the occasional society of my friends, to render my felicity complete."

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 have seemed unsuited to the occasion. Young as he was, Robert Manly had been trained in the school of adversity, 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 childhood, to depend upon his own exertions for support, and, carefully guarded by his excellent parent from evil companions 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 partner 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 associated 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 attentions to the lonely boy won his heart, before he had thought of regarding her in any other light than that of a playful and engaging child. She had grown up to womanhood at his side, and every year strengthened the tie that bound them to each other, though he could not but 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 his joys and sorrows, he expressed his apprehensions on this subject.

"Have you committed yourself, my son?" she inquired.

"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 exertion."

"Youth is always sanguine," was the reply; "however, 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 husband; 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 encouragement 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 influence 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 disregarded. 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 perplexity 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 affections, 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."

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 understand them thoroughly. The next time her kitchen was left vacant (for in our country these things are constantly 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 becoming a skilful and useful housewife. She still dearly loved music, and drawing, and literature, and communion with cultivated minds, and was not less a lady in the parlour because she had learned the uses and importance of the kitchen. But we will let her speak for herself, 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 as early as possible. I knew too that a young housekeeper, to whom everything is strange and new, 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, I can no longer withhold the need 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. The God of his fathers has indeed been gracious to him, 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 wife, while tears choked her utterance, "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 happiness, to the generous forbearance, the delicate kindness of my beloved husband. He has borne with my ignorance 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 inmost soul I thank you for training up such a son and such a husband, and earnestly pray that I may be 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."

THE END.