The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the concealed comforts of a man
Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air
Of blessings, when I came but near the house,
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth--
The violet bed’s no sweeter!
MIDDLETON.
I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women
sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which
break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to
call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity
and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to
sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and
tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to
every trivial roughness, while threading the prosperous paths of life,
suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her
husband under misfortune, and abiding with unshrinking firmness the
bitterest blasts of adversity.
As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak,
and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is
rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils,
and bind up its shattered boughs, so is it beautifully ordered by
Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man
in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with
sudden calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature,
tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.
I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming
family, knit together in the strongest affection. “I can wish you
no better lot,” said he, with enthusiasm, “than to have a wife
and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your
prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you.” And, indeed, I
have observed that a married man falling into misfortune, is more apt to
retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly, because
he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and
beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence, but chiefly because
his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his
self-respect kept alive by finding, that, though all abroad is darkness
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of
which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste
and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart
to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant.
These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was
once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and
accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable
life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample;
and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant
pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that
spread a kind of witchery about the sex.--“Her life,” said he, “shall be
like a fairy tale.”
The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious
combination; he was of a romantic, and somewhat serious cast; she was
all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which
he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made
her the delight: and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still
turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When
leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall,
manly person. The fond, confiding air with which she looked up to
him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing
tenderness, as if he doated on his lovely burden from its very
helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of
early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity.
It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his
property in large speculations; and he had not been married many months,
when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he
found himself reduced to almost penury. For a time he kept his situation
to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking
heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered it more
insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of
his wife; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news.
She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not
well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was
not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She
tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back
to happiness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The
more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that
he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the
smile will vanish from that cheek--the song will die away from those
lips--the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow and the
happy heart which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down,
like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world.
At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a
tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I inquired:
“Does your wife know all this?”--At the question he burst into an agony
of tears. “For God’s sake!” cried he, “if you have any pity on me don’t
mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to
madness!”
“And why not?” said I. “She must know it sooner or later: you cannot
keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more
startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those
we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving
yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also
endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together--an unreserved
community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something
is secretly preying upon your mind; and true love will not brook
reserve; it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of
those it loves are concealed from it.”
“Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future
prospects,--how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling
her that her husband is a beggar! that she is to forego all the
elegancies of life--all the pleasures of society--to shrink with me into
indigence and obscurity! To tell her that I have dragged her down
from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant
brightness--the light of every eye--the admiration of every heart!--How
can she bear poverty? She has been brought up in all the refinements of
opulence. How can she bear neglect? She has been the idol of society.
Oh, it will break her heart--it will break her heart!”
I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for sorrow
relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had
relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged
him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head
mournfully, but positively.
“But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she should
know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your
circumstances. You must change your style of living--nay,” observing a
pang to pass across his countenance, “don’t let that afflict you. I am
sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show--you have yet
friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being
less splendidly lodged: and surely it does not require a palace to be
happy with Mary--”
“I could be happy with her,” cried he, convulsively, “in a hovel!--I
could go down with her into poverty and the dust!--I could--I could--God
bless her!--God bless her!” cried he, bursting into a transport of grief
and tenderness.
“And believe me, my friend,” said I, stepping up, and grasping him
warmly by the hand, “believe me, she can be the same with you. Ay, more;
it will be a source of pride and triumph to her--it will call forth all
the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will
rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true
woman’s heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad
daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams, and blazes
in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom
is--no man knows what a ministering angel she is--until he has gone with
her through the fiery trials of this world.”
There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative
style of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I
knew the auditor I had to deal with; and following up the impression I
had made, I finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his sad
heart to his wife.
I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little
solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one
whose life has been a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt
at the dark, downward path of low humility suddenly pointed out before
her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto
revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many
galling mortifications, to which, in other ranks, it is a stranger. In
short, I could not meet Leslie, the next morning, without trepidation.
He had made the disclosure.
“And how did she bear it?”
“Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for she
threw her arms around my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately
made me unhappy.--But, poor girl,” added he, “she cannot realize the
change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract;
she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels
as yet no privation; she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor
elegancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its
paltry wants, its petty humiliations--then will be the real trial.”
“But,” said I, “now that you have got over the severest task, that of
breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the
better. The disclosure may be mortifying; but then it is a single
misery, and soon over: whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation,
every hour in the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretence, that
harasses a ruined man--the struggle between a proud mind and an empty
purse-the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have
the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest
sting.” On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false
pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to
their altered fortunes.
Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed
of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few
miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture.
The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest
kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold,
excepting his wife’s harp. That, he said, was too closely associated
with the idea of herself it belonged to the little story of their loves;
for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he
had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of
her voice.--I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry
in a doating husband.
He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all
day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly
interested in the progress of his family story, and, as it was a fine
evening, I offered to accompany him.
He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as we walked out, fell
into a fit of gloomy musing.
“Poor Mary!” at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips.
“And what of her,” asked I, “has anything happened to her?”
“What,” said he, darting an impatient glance, “is it nothing to be
reduced to this paltry situation--to be caged in a miserable cottage--to
be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched
habitation?”
Has she then repined at the change?
“Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good-humor. Indeed, she
seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; she has been to me
all love, and tenderness, and comfort!”
“Admirable girl!” exclaimed I. “You call yourself poor, my friend;
you never were so rich,--you never knew the boundless treasures of
excellence you possessed in that woman.”
“Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over,
I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real
experience; she has been introduced into a humble dwelling,--she has
been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments,--she has,
for the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employment,--she has,
for the first time, looked around her on a home destitute of every thing
elegant--almost of every thing convenient; and may now be sitting down,
exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty.”
There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not
gainsay, so we walked on in silence.
After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded
with forest-trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came
in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the
most pastoral poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine
had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their
branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of flowers
tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front.
A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some
shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of
music--Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary’s
voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air
of which her husband was peculiarly fond.
I felt Leslie’s hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward, to hear more
distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel-walk. A bright beautiful
face glanced out at the window, and vanished--a light footstep-was
heard--and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty
rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine
hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance beamed with
smiles--I had never seen her look so lovely.
“My dear George,” cried she, “I am so glad you are come; I have been
watching and watching for you; and running down the lane, and looking
out for you. I’ve set out a table under a beautiful tree behind
the cottage; and I’ve been gathering some of the most delicious
strawberries, for I know you are fond of them--and we have such
excellent cream--and everything is so sweet and still here-Oh!”--said
she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face,
“Oh, we shall be so happy!”
Poor Leslie was overcome.--He caught her to his bosom--he folded his
arms round her--he kissed her again and again--he could not speak, but
the tears gushed into his eyes; and he has often assured me, that
though the world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has,
indeed, been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more
exquisite felicity.