If, reader, you have grasped the intent of this book,--and
infinite honor is done you by the supposition: the profoundest
author does not always comprehend, I may say never comprehends,
the different meanings of his book, nor its bearing, nor the good
nor the harm it may do--if, then, you have bestowed some attention
upon these little scenes of married life, you have perhaps noticed
their color--
“What color?” some grocer will doubtless ask; “books are bound in
yellow, blue, green, pearl-gray, white--”
Alas! books possess another color, they are dyed by the author,
and certain writers borrow their dye. Some books let their color
come off on to others. More than this. Books are dark or fair,
light brown or red. They have a sex, too! I know of male books,
and female books, of books which, sad to say, have no sex, which
we hope is not the case with this one, supposing that you do this
collection of nosographic sketches the honor of calling it a book.
Thus far, the troubles we have described have been exclusively
inflicted by the wife upon the husband. You have therefore seen
only the masculine side of the book. And if the author really has
the sense of hearing for which we give him credit, he has already
caught more than one indignant exclamation or remonstrance:
“He tells us of nothing but vexations suffered by our husbands, as
if we didn’t have our petty troubles, too!”
Oh, women! You have been heard, for if you do not always make
yourselves understood, you are always sure to make yourselves
heard.
It would therefore be signally unjust to lay upon you alone the
reproaches that every being brought under the yoke (_conjugium_)
has the right to heap upon that necessary, sacred, useful,
eminently conservative institution,--one, however, that is often
somewhat of an encumbrance, and tight about the joints, though
sometimes it is also too loose there.