"DRIVE GENTLY OVER THE STONES!"
"It were better to meet some dangers half-way, though they come
nothing near."--_Bacon._
"Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd."--_Milton._
"Drive gently over the stones!" This piece of advice, which is
frequently given to inexperienced whips, may be suggested metaphorically
to the newly-married. On the road upon which they have entered there are
stony places, which, if not carefully driven over, will almost certainly
upset the domestic coach. To accompany one's wife harmoniously on an
Irish car is easy compared to the task of accompanying her over these
stones on the domestic car.
The first rock ahead which should be signalled "dangerous" is the first
year of married life. As a rule the first year either mars or makes a
marriage. During this period errors may be committed which will cast a
shadow over every year that follows. We agree with Mrs. Jameson in
thinking that the first year of married life is not as happy as the
second. People have to get into the habit of being married, and there
are difficult lessons to be learned in the apprenticeship.
A lady once asked Dr. Johnson how in his dictionary he came to define
_pastern_ the _knee_ of a horse; he immediately answered, "Ignorance,
madam, pure ignorance." This is the simple explanation of many an
accident that takes place at the commencement of the matrimonial
journey. The young couple have not yet learned the dangerous places of
the road, and, as a consequence, they drive carelessly over them.
How many people starting in married life throw happiness out of their
grasp, and create troubles for the rest of their days! The cause may be
generally traced to selfishness, their conceit taking everything that
goes amiss as meant for a personal affront, and their wounded
self-esteem making life a burden hard to bear, for themselves and
others. We can all recognize in every circle such cases; we are all able
to read the moral elsewhere; but in our own case we allow the small
breach--that might be healed with very little effort at first--to get
wider and wider, and the pair that should become closer and closer,
gradually not only cease to care for, but have a dread of each other's
society.
There is one simple direction, which, if carefully regarded, might long
preserve the tranquillity of the married life, and ensure no
inconsiderable portion of connubial happiness to the observers of it: it
is--to beware of the _first_ dispute. "Man and wife," says Jeremy
Taylor, "are equally concerned to avoid all offences of each other in
the beginning of their conversation; every little thing can blast an
infant blossom; and the breath of the south can shake the little rings
of the vine, when first they begin to curl like the locks of a new
weaned boy: but when by age and consolidation they stiffen into the
hardness of a stem, and have, by the warm embraces of the sun and the
kisses of heaven, brought forth their clusters, they can endure the
storms of the north, and the loud noises of a tempest, and yet never be
broken. So are the early unions of an unfixed marriage; watchful and
observant, jealous and busy, inquisitive and careful, and apt to take
alarm at every unkind word. After the hearts of the man and the wife are
endeared and hardened by a mutual confidence and experience, longer than
artifice and pretence can last, there are a great many remembrances, and
some things present, that dash all little unkindnesses in pieces."
Every little dispute between man and wife is dangerous. It forces
good-humour out of its channel, undermines affection, and insidiously,
though perhaps insensibly, wears out and, at last, entirely destroys
that cordiality which is the life and soul of matrimonial felicity. As
however "it's hardly in a body's power to keep at times from being
sour," undue importance ought not to be attached to "those little tiffs
that sometimes cast a shade on wedlock." Often they are, as the poet
goes on to observe, "love in masquerade--
"And family jars, look we but o'er the rim,
Are filled with honey, even to the brim."
In the Life of St. Francis de Sales we are told that the saint did not
approve of the saying, "Never rely on a reconciled enemy." He rather
preferred a contrary maxim, and said that a quarrel between friends,
when made up, added a new tie to friendship; as experience shows that
the calosity formed round a broken bone makes it stronger than before.
Beware of jealousy; "it is the green-eyed monster, which doth make the
meat it feeds on." Here is an amusing case in point. A French lady who
was jealous of her husband determined to watch his movements. One day,
when he told her he was going to Versailles, she followed him, keeping
him in sight until she missed him in a passage leading to the railway
station. Looking about her for a few minutes, she saw a man coming out
of a glove-shop with a rather overdressed lady. Blinded with rage and
jealousy, she fancied it was her husband, and without pausing for a
moment to consider, bounced suddenly up to him and gave him three or
four stinging boxes on the ear. The instant the gentleman turned round,
she discovered her mistake, and at the same moment caught sight of her
husband, who had merely called at a tobacconist's, and was now crossing
the street. There was nothing for it but to faint in the arms of the
gentleman she had attacked; while the other lady moved away, to avoid a
scene. The stranger, astonished to find an unknown lady in his arms, was
further startled by a gentleman seizing him by the collar and demanding
to know what he meant by embracing that lady. "Why, sir, she boxed my
ears, and then fainted," exclaimed the innocent victim. "She is my
wife," shouted the angry husband, "and would never have struck you
without good cause." Worse than angry words would probably have followed
had not the cause of the whole misunderstanding recovered sufficiently
to explain how it had all happened.
A jealous wife is generally considered a proper subject for ridicule;
and a woman ought to conceal from her husband any feeling of the kind.
Her suspicions may be altogether groundless, and she may be tormenting
herself with a whole train of imaginary evils.
On the other hand a husband is bound to abstain from even the appearance
of preferring any one else to his wife. When in the presence of others
he should indulge her laudable pride by showing that he thinks her an
object of importance and preference.
In his "Advice to Young Men" Cobbett gives this interesting bit of
autobiography. "For about two or three years after I was married, I,
retaining some of my military manners, used, both in France and America,
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 to bear this in mind; for on some trifle of this sort the
happiness or misery of a long life frequently turns."
There may be a fanaticism in love as well as in belief, and where people
love much they are apt to be exacting one to the other. But although
jealousy does imply love, such love as consists in a craving for the
affection of its object, it is love which is largely dashed with
selfishness. It is incompatible with love of the highest order, for
where that exists there is no dread of not being loved enough in return.
In this relation as well as in the highest, "There is no fear in love,
but perfect love casteth out fear, because fear hath torment. He that
feareth is not made perfect in love."
It is generally admitted that conjugal affection largely depends on
mutual confidence. A friend quoted this sentiment the other day in a
smoking-room, and added that he made it a rule to tell his wife
everything that happened, and in this way they avoided any
misunderstanding. "Well, sir," remarked another gentleman present, not
to be outdone in generosity, "you are not so open and frank as I am, for
I tell my wife a good many things that never happen." "Oh!" exclaimed a
third, "I am under no necessity to keep my wife informed regarding my
affairs. She can find out five times as much as I know myself without
the least trouble."
"How," said a gentleman to a friend who wished to convey a matter of
importance to a lady without communicating directly with her, "how can
you be certain of her reading the letter, seeing that you have directed
it to her husband?" "That I have managed without the possibility of
failure," was the answer; "she will open it to a certainty, for I have
put the word 'private' in the corner."
These anecdotes put in a lively way the well-known fact that it is
impossible for married people to keep secrets the one from the other.
But even to make the attempt is to enter upon ground so dangerous that
scarcely any amount of cautious driving will prevent a catastrophe.
Unless husband and wife trust each other all in all the result will be
much the same as if they trusted not at all.
We believe that the Delilahs are few who would sell their Samsons to the
Philistines when these Samsons have told them the secret source of their
great strength. Still, there are secrets entrusted to the clergyman, the
physician, the lawyer, the legislator to betray which, even to a wife,
would be dishonourable and disgraceful.
A case beautifully illustrating this difficult point in matrimonial
relations occurs in the memoirs of Lady Fanshawe, wife of Sir Richard
Fanshawe, who was a faithful Royalist during the civil war. Soon after
Lady Fanshawe's marriage, she was instigated by some crafty ladies of
the court to obtain from her husband a knowledge of some secret
political events. The matter is best described in her own words: "And
now I thought myself a perfect queen, and my husband so glorious a
crown, that I more valued myself to be called by his name than born a
princess, for I knew him very wise and very good, and his soul doted on
me; upon which confidence I will tell you what happened. My Lady Rivers,
a brave woman, and one that had suffered many thousand pounds' loss for
the King, and whom I had a great reverence for, and she a kindness for
me as a kinswoman--in discourse she tacitly commended the knowledge of
State affairs, and that some women were very happy in a good
understanding thereof, as my Lady Aubingny, Lady Isabel Thynne, and
divers others, and yet none was at first more capable than I; that in
the night she knew there came a post from Paris from the Queen, and that
she would be extremely glad to hear what the Queen commanded the King
in order to his affairs; saying, if I would ask my husband privately, he
would tell me what he found in the packet, and I might tell her. I that
was young and innocent, and to that day had never in my mouth, what
news?--began to think there was more in inquiring into public affairs
than I thought of, and that it being a fashionable thing, would make me
more beloved of my husband, if that had been possible, than I was. When
my husband returned home from council, after welcoming him, as his
custom ever was, he went with his handful of papers into his study for
an hour or more; I followed him: he turned hastily and said, 'What
would'st thou have, my life?' I told him, 'I heard the Prince had
received a packet from the Queen, and I guessed it was that in his
hands, and I desired to know what was in it.' He smilingly replied, 'My
love, I will immediately come to thee; pray thee go, for I am very
busy.' When he came out of his closet I revived my suit; he kissed me
and talked of other things. At supper, I would eat nothing; he as usual
sat by me, and drank often to me, which was his custom, and was full of
discourse to company that was at table. Going to bed I asked again, and
said I could not believe he loved me, if he refused to tell me all he
knew; but he answered nothing, but stopped my mouth with kisses. So we
went to bed; I cried, and he went to sleep. Next morning early, as his
custom was, he was called to rise, but began to discourse with me first;
to which I made no reply; he rose, came on the other side of the bed and
kissed me, and drew the curtain softly and went to court. When he came
home to dinner, he presently came to me as was usual, and when I had
him by the hand, I said, 'Thou dost not care to see me troubled;' to
which he, taking me in his arms, answered, 'My dearest soul, nothing
upon earth can afflict me like that; and when you asked me of my
business, it was wholly out of my power to satisfy thee, for my life and
fortune shall be thine, and every thought of my heart in which the trust
I am in may not be revealed; but my honour is my own, which I cannot
preserve if I communicate the Prince's affairs; and pray thee with this
answer rest satisfied.' So great was his reason and goodness, that upon
consideration it made my folly appear to me so vile, that from that day
until the day of his death, I never thought fit to ask him any business
but what he communicated freely to me, in order to his estate and
family."
When a man comes home tired, hungry, and put out about something that
has gone wrong in business, this is not the time for his wife to order
him to stand and deliver his secret troubles. Rather, she should give
him a well-cooked dinner and say little or nothing. Later on in the
evening, when he is rested and has smoked a pipe of peace, he will be
only too glad to give her his confidence in return for her sympathetic
treatment of him. It seems to me that there is more of vulgar
familiarity than of confidence in a man and wife at all times opening
each other's letters. A sealed letter is sacred; and all persons like to
have the first reading of their own letters. Why should a close
relationship abrogate respectful courtesy?
Artemus Ward tells us that when he was at Salt Lake he was introduced to
Brigham Young's mother-in-law. "I can't exactly tell you how many there
is of her, but it's a good deal." Married people require to drive gently
when there is in the way the stumbling-block of "a good deal" of
mother-or other relations-in-law. Certainly Adam and Eve were in
paradise in this respect. "When I want a nice snug day all to myself,"
says an ingenuous wife, "I tell George dear mother is coming, and then I
see nothing of him till one in the morning." "Are your domestic
relations agreeable?" was the question put to an unhappy-looking
specimen of humanity. "Oh, my domestic relations are all right; it is my
wife's relations that are causing the trouble." It is true we read in
the _Graphic_ a year or two ago an exception to the usual dislike to
mothers-in-law, but the exception was scarcely reassuring. A
well-dressed young woman of nineteen informed a magistrate that her own
mother had run away with her husband. This _mater pulchrior_ came to
stay with her _filia pulchra_, won the affections of the husband, and,
at last, withdrew him from his hearth and home. Still it is the duty of
people to keep on terms of at least friendly neutrality with their
relations-in-law. Where there is disunion there are generally faults on
both sides.
We know of a working-man who on the eve of his marriage signed a promise
to abstain from intoxicating liquor. He put the document into a frame
and presented it to his wife after the wedding as a marriage settlement.
And certainly there cannot be a better marriage settlement than for a
young husband to settle his habits.
The young husband or wife who is in the least degree careless in the use
of intoxicating drinks should read the following account which Mr. Gough
gives of a case which he met in one of the convict prisons of America.
"I was attracted, while speaking to the prisoners in the chapel, by the
patient, gentle look of one of the convicts who sat before me, whose
whole appearance was that of a mild-tempered, quiet man. After the
service, one of the prison officers, in reply to my question, stated
that this same man was serving out a life term. I asked what was the
possible crime for which he was serving a life term in a State prison.
'Murder.' 'Murder?' 'Yes, he murdered his wife.' Having asked if I might
have an interview with him, my request was granted, and I held a
conversation with him. 'My friend, I do not wish to ask you any
questions that will be annoying; but I was struck by your appearance,
and was so much surprised when I heard of your crime, that I thought I
would like to ask you a question. May I?' 'Certainly, sir.' 'Then why
did you commit the crime? What led you to it?' Then came such a pitiful
story. He said: 'I loved my wife, but I drank to excess. She was a good
woman; she never complained; come home when or how I might, she never
scolded. I think I never heard a sharp word from her. She would
sometimes look at me with such a pitying look that went to my heart;
sometimes it made me tender, and I would cry, and promise to do better;
at other times it would make me angry. I almost wished she would scold
me, rather than look at me with that patient earnestness. I knew I was
breaking her heart; but I was a slave to drink. Though I loved her, I
knew I was killing her. One day I came home drunk, and as I entered the
room I saw her sitting at the table, her face resting on her hand. Oh,
my God! I think I see her now! As I came in she lifted up her face;
there were tears there; but she smiled and said, "Well, William." I
remember just enough to know that I was mad. The devil entered into me.
I rushed into the kitchen, seized my gun, and deliberately shot her as
she sat by that table. I am in prison for life, and have no desire to be
released. If a pardon was offered me, I think I should refuse it. Buried
here in this prison, I wait till the end comes. I trust God has forgiven
me for Christ's sake. I have bitterly repented; I repent every day. Oh,
the nights when in the darkness I see her face--see her just as she
looked on me that fatal day! I shall rejoice when the time comes. I pray
that I may meet her in heaven.' This was said with sobbings and tears
that were heart-breaking to hear."
"There goes me but for the grace of God!" "What, is thy servant a dog,
that he should do this great thing?" No! not a dog, but a young man or a
young woman who is liable to forget that "small habits well pursued
betimes may reach the dignity of crimes." If you do not measure your
liquor with as much care as strong medicine; if you are not on your
guard against those drinking habits of society and business which first
draw, then drag, and then haul--beware lest tyrant custom make you a
slave to what has been called "the most authentic incarnation of the
principle of evil."