Don't make the mistake that the man of the text made in letting his
eye settle the question in which coolest judgment directed by divine
wisdom are all-important. He who has no reason for his wifely choice
except a pretty face is like a man who should buy a farm because of
the dahlias in the front dooryard. Beauty is a talent, and when God
gives it He intends it as a benediction upon a woman's face. When the
good _Princess of Wales_ dismounted from the railtrain last summer,
and I saw her radiant face, I could understand what they told me the
day before, that, when at the great military hospital where are now
the wounded and the sick from the Egyptian and other wars, the
Princess passed through, all the sick were cheered at her coming, and
those who could be roused neither by doctor nor nurse from their
stupor, would get up on their elbows to look at her, and wan and
wasted lips prayed an audible prayer: "God bless the Princess of
Wales! Doesn't she look beautiful?"
But how uncertain is the tarrying of beauty in a human countenance!
Explosion of a kerosene lamp turns it into scarification, and a
scoundrel with one dash of vitriol may dispel it, or Time will drive
his chariot wheels across that bright face, cutting it up in deep ruts
and gullies. But there is an eternal beauty on the face of some women,
whom a rough and ungallant world may criticise as homely; and though
their features may contradict all the laws of Lavater on physiognomy,
yet they have graces of soul that will keep them attractive for time
and glorious through all eternity.
There are two or three circumstances in which the plainest wife is a
queen of beauty to her husband, whatever her stature or profile. By
financial panic or betrayal of business partner, the man goes down,
and returning to his home that evening he says: "_I am ruined_; I am
in disgrace forever; I care not whether I live or die." It is an
agitated story he is telling in the household that winter night. He
says: "The furniture must go, the house must go, the social position
must go," and from being sought for obsequiously they must be
cold-shouldered everywhere. After he ceases talking, and the wife has
heard all in silence, she says: "Is that all? Why, you had nothing
when I married you, and you have only come back to where you started.
If you think that my happiness and that of the children depend on
these trappings, you do not know me, though we have lived together
thirty years. God is not dead, and the National Bank of Heaven has not
suspended payment, and if you don't mind, I don't care a cent. What
little we need of food and raiment the rest of our lives we can get,
and I don't propose to sit down and mope and groan. Mary, hand me that
darning-needle. I declare! I have forgotten to set the rising for
those cakes!" And while she is busy at it he hears her humming
Newton's old hymn, "To-Morrow:"
"It can bring with it nothing
But He will bear us through;
Who gives the lilies clothing
Will clothe His people too;
Beneath the spreading heavens
No creature but is fed;
And He who feeds the ravens
Will give His children bread.
"Though vine nor fig-tree either
Their wonted fruit should bear,
Though all the fields should wither
Nor flocks nor herds be there;
Yet God the same abiding,
His praise shall tune my voice;
For while in Him confiding
I cannot but rejoice."
The husband looks up in amazement, and says: "Well, well, you are the
greatest woman I ever saw. I thought you would faint dead away when I
told you." And as he looks at her, all the glories of physiognomy in
the court of Louis XV. on the modern fashion plates are tame as
compared with the superhuman splendors of that woman's face. Joan of
Arc, Mary Antoinette, and La Belle Hamilton, the enchantment of the
court of Charles II., are nowhere.