“To whom the virgin majesty of Eve,
As one who loves and some unkindness meets,
With sweet austere composure thus replies.”
Many privileges are, and ought to be, allowed to the virgin majesty
of the sex; and even when the modern fair one does not reply with all
the sweet austere composure of Eve, her anger may have charms for a
lover. There is a certain susceptibility of temper, that sometimes
accompanies the pride of virtue, which indicates a quick sense of
shame, and warm feelings of affection; in whatsoever manner this may
be shown, it appears amiable and graceful. And if this sensibility
degenerate into irritability, a lover pardons it in his mistress; it
is her prerogative to be haughty; and if he be dexterous to seize
“the moment of returning love,” it is often his interest to promote
quarrels, for the sake of the pleasures of reconciliation. The jealous
doubts, the alternate hopes and fears, attendant on the passion of
love, are dear to the lover whilst his passion lasts; but when that
subsides--as subside it must--his taste for altercation ceases. The
proverb which favours the quarrels of lovers may prove fatal to the
happiness of husbands; and woe be to the wife who puts her faith in
it! There are, however, people who would extend that dangerous maxim
even to the commerce of friendship; and it must be allowed (for
morality, neither in small matters nor great, can gain any thing by
suppressing the truth), it must be allowed that in the commencement
of an intimacy the quarrels of friends may tend to increase their
mutual regard, by affording to one or both of them opportunities of
displaying qualities superior even to good humour; such as truth,
fidelity, honour, or generosity. But whatever may be the sum total
of their merit, when upon long acquaintance it comes to be fully
known and justly appreciated, the most splendid virtues or talents
can seldom compensate in domestic life for the want of temper. The
fallacy of a maxim, like the absurdity of an argument, is sometimes
best proved by pushing it as far as it can go, by observing all its
consequences. Our heroine, in the present instance, illustrates this
truth to admiration: her life and her husband’s had now become a
perpetual scene of disputes and reproaches; every day the quarrels
grew more bitter, and the reconciliations less sweet.
One morning, Griselda and her husband were present whilst Emma was
busy showing some poor children how to plait straw for hats.
“Next summer, my dear, when we are settled at home, I hope you will
encourage some manufacture of this kind amongst the children of our
tenants,” said Mr. Bolingbroke to his lady.
“I have no genius for teaching manufactures of this sort,” replied
Mrs. Bolingbroke, scornfully.
Her husband urged the matter no farther. A few minutes afterwards, he
drew out a straw from a bundle, which one of the children held.
“This is a fine straw!” said he, carelessly.
“Fine straw!” cried Mrs. Bolingbroke: “no--that is very coarse. This,”
continued she, pulling one from another bundle; “this is a fine straw,
if you please.”
“I think mine is the finest,” said Mr. Bolingbroke.
“Then you must be blind, Mr. Bolingbroke,” cried the lady, eagerly
comparing them.
“Well, my dear,” said he, laughing, “we will not dispute about
straws.”
“No, indeed,” said she; “but I observe whenever you know you are in
the wrong, Mr. Bolingbroke, you say, _we will not dispute, my dear_:
now pray look at these straws, Mrs. Granby, you that have eyes--which
is the finest?”
“I will draw lots,” said Emma, taking one playfully from Mrs.
Bolingbroke; “for it seems to me, that there is little or no
difference between them.”
“No difference? Oh, my dear Emma!” said Mrs. Bolingbroke.
“My dear Griselda,” cried her husband, taking the other straw from her
and blowing it away; “indeed it is not worth disputing about: this is
too childish.”
“Childish!” repeated she, looking after the straw, as it floated down
the wind; “I see nothing childish in being in the right: your raising
your voice in that manner never convinces me. Jupiter is always in the
wrong, you know, when he has recourse to his thunder.”
“Thunder, my dear Griselda, about a straw! Well, when women are
determined to dispute, it is wonderful how ingenious they are in
finding subjects. I give you joy, my dear, of having attained the
perfection of the art: you can now literally dispute about straws.”
Emma insisted at this instant upon having an opinion about the shape
of a hat, which she had just tied under the chin of a rosy little
girl of six years old; upon whose smiling countenance she fixed the
attention of the angry lady.
All might now have been well; but Griselda had a pernicious habit of
recurring to any slight words of blame which had been used by her
friends. Her husband had congratulated her upon having attained the
perfection of the art of disputing, since she could cavil about
straws. This reproach rankled in her mind. There are certain diseased
states of the body, in which the slightest wound festers, and becomes
incurable. It is the same with the mind; and our heroine’s was in this
dangerous predicament.