My brother Tranquillus being gone out of town for some days, my sister
Jenny sent me word she would come and dine with me, and therefore
desired me to have no other company, I took care accordingly, and was
not a little pleased to see her enter the room with a decent and
matron-like behavior, which I thought very much became her. I saw she
had a great deal to say to me, and easily discovered in her eyes, and
the air of her countenance, that she had abundance of satisfaction in
her heart, which she longed to communicate. However, I was resolved to
let her break into her discourse her own way, and reduced her to a
thousand little devices and intimations to bring me to the mention of
her husband. But finding I was resolved not to name him, she began of
her own accord. "My husband," said she, "gives his humble service to
you," to which I only answered, "I hope he is well"; and, without
waiting for a reply, fell into other subjects.
She at last was out of all patience, and said, with a smile and manner
that I thought had more beauty and spirit than I had ever observed
before in her, "I did not think, brother, you had been so ill-natured.
You have seen, ever since I came in, that I had a mind to talk of my
husband, and you will not be so kind as to give me an occasion."
"I did not know," said I, "but it might be a disagreeable subject to
you. You do not take me for so old-fashioned a fellow as to think of
entertaining a young lady with the discourse of her husband. I know
nothing is more acceptable than to speak of one who is to be so, but
to speak of one who is so! indeed, Jenny, I am a better-bred man than
you think me."
She showed a little dislike at my raillery; and, by her bridling up, I
perceived she expected to be treated hereafter not as Jenny Distaff,
but Mrs. Tranquillus. I was very well pleased with this change in her
humor; and, upon talking with her on several subjects, I could not but
fancy I saw a great deal of her husband's way and manner in her
remarks, her phrases, the tone of her voice, and the very air of her
countenance. This gave me an unspeakable satisfaction, not only
because I had found her a husband, from whom she could learn many
things that were laudable, but also because I looked upon her
imitation of him as an infallible sign that she entirely loved him.
This is an observation that I never knew fail, tho I do not remember
that any other has made it. The natural shyness of her sex hindered
her from telling me the greatness of her own passion; but I easily
collected it from the representation she gave me of his.
"I have everything," says she, "in Tranquillus, that I can wish for;
and enjoy in him, what, indeed, you have told me were to be met with
in a good husband, the fondness of a lover, the tenderness of a
parent, and the intimacy of a friend."
It transported me to see her eyes swimming in tears of affection when
she spoke. "And is there not, dear sister," said I, "more pleasure in
the possession of such a man than in all the little impertinencies of
balls, assemblies, and equipage, which it cost me so much pains to
make you contemn?"
She answered, smiling, "Tranquillus has made me a sincere convert in a
few weeks, tho I am afraid you could not have done it in your whole
life. To tell you truly, I have only one fear hanging upon me, which
is apt to give me trouble in the midst of all my satisfactions: I am
afraid, you must know, that I shall not always make the same amiable
appearance in his eye that I do at present. You know, brother
Bickerstaff, that you have the reputation of a conjurer; and, if you
have any one secret in your art to make your sister always beautiful,
I should be happier than if I were mistress of all the worlds you have
shown me in a starry night."
"Jenny," said I, "without having recourse to magic, I shall give you
one plain rule that will not fail of making you always amiable to a
man who has so great a passion for you, and is of so equal and
reasonable a temper as Tranquillus. Endeavor to please, and you must
please; be always in the same disposition, as you are when you ask for
this secret, and you may take my word, you will never want it. An
inviolable fidelity, good humor, and complacency of temper outlive all
the charms of a fine face, and make the decays of it invisible."
We discoursed very long upon this head, which was equally agreeable to
us both; for, I must confess, as I tenderly love her, I take as much
pleasure in giving her instructions for her welfare, as she herself
does in receiving them. I proceeded, therefore, to inculcate these
sentiments by relating a very particular passage that happened within
my own knowledge.
There were several of us making merry at a friend's house in a country
village, when the sexton of the parish church entered the room in a
sort of surprize, and told us, "that as he was digging a grave in the
chancel, a little blow of his pickax opened a decayed coffin, in which
there were several written papers." Our curiosity was immediately
raised, so that we went to the place where the sexton had been at
work, and found a great concourse of people about the grave. Among the
rest there was an old woman, who told us the person buried there was a
lady whose name I do not think fit to mention, tho there is nothing in
the story but what tends very much to her honor. This lady lived
several years an exemplary pattern of conjugal love, and, dying soon
after her husband, who every way answered her character in virtue and
affection, made it her death-bed request, "that all the letters which
she had received from him, both before and after her marriage, should
be buried in the coffin with her." These, I found upon examination,
were the papers before us. Several of them had suffered so much by
time that I could only pick out a few words; as my soul! lilies!
roses! dearest angel! and the like. One of them, which was legible
throughout, ran thus:
_Madam_:--
If you would know the greatness of my love, consider that of your own
beauty. That blooming countenance, that snowy bosom, that graceful
person, return every moment to my imagination; the brightness of your
eyes hath hindered me from closing mine since I last saw you. You may
still add to your beauties by a smile. A frown will make me the most
wretched of men, as I am the most passionate of lovers.
It filled the whole company with a deep melancholy, to compare the
description of the letter with the person that occasioned it, who was
now reduced to a few crumbling bones, and a little moldering heap of
earth. With much ado I deciphered another letter which began with, "My
dear, dear wife." This gave me a curiosity to see how the style of one
written in marriage differed from one written in courtship. To my
surprize, I found the fondness rather augmented than lessened, tho the
panegyric turned upon a different accomplishment. The words were as
follows:
Before this short absence from you, I did not know that I loved you so
much as I really do; tho, at the same time, I thought I loved you as
much as possible. I am under great apprehension lest you should have
any uneasiness whilst I am defrauded of my share in it, and can not
think of tasting any pleasures that you do not partake with me. Pray,
my dear, be careful of your health, if for no other reason but because
you know I could not outlive you. It is natural in absence to make
professions of an inviolable constancy; but toward so much merit it
is scarce a virtue, especially when it is but a bare return to that of
which you have given me such continued proofs ever since our first
acquaintance. I am, etc.
It happened that the daughter of these two excellent persons was by
when I was reading this letter. At the sight of the coffin, in which
was the body of her mother, near that of her father, she melted into a
flood of tears. As I had heard a great character of her virtue, and
observed in her this instance of filial piety, I could not resist my
natural inclination, of giving advice to young people, and therefore
addrest myself to her. "Young lady," said I, "you see how short is the
possession of that beauty, in which nature has been so liberal to you.
You find the melancholy sight before you is a contradiction to the
first letter that you heard on that subject; whereas, you may observe
the second letter, which celebrates your mother's constancy, is
itself, being found in this place, an argument of it. But, madam, I
ought to caution you not to think the bodies that lie before you your
father and your mother. Know their constancy is rewarded by a nobler
union than by this mingling of their ashes, in a state where there is
no danger or possibility of a second separation."