"To marry!--Why, every man plays the fool once in his
life--but to marry is playing the fool all one's life
long."--CONGREVE.
There is something so satisfactory in knowing at once the limit of
your fortunes--in making yourself secure in the first instance of that
happiness to which all your exertions are directed,--which is in fact
the end and aim of your worldly existence, and of all your worldly
toils--the enjoyment of domestic peace and love;--in quenching that
restless, burning anxiety, which is ever busy within the bosom of the
young and the aspiring. Marrying early, in fact, is taking time by the
forelock, and leading your future destinies after you, instead of
suffering yourself to be led and tossed about by them,--it is tearing
away the black veil from the brow of futurity, and perusing all her
lineaments in her own despite. It is [he continued with an oratorical
attitude] building your fate upon a rock--"
"Ah!" I exclaimed, "stop there--that _rock_ is so commonplace."
Harry laughed and went on with his argument.--"Besides, there is the
gratification of making yourself _considered_ in society--which no
single man is. A single man is a kind of protected or licensed
vagabond--rambling to and fro without stamp or mark, as Witwould might
say,--like a sheep that has been overlooked at tarring time. His home
is a desert to him,--and the love of social converse, which is so
natural, and so amiable at the same time keeps him eternally in a
state of fidgetty restlessness, which precludes all possibility of
serious and persevering labour. Only think of the horrors of a house
without a queen--Yawning servants, negligent housekeepers, extorting
tradespeople,--these and a thousand other annoyances, for which you
have no relief, because you cannot stoop to meddle or make in such
transactions--are the agitations which perpetually infest the domestic
commonwealth of a bachelor.--But turn your eyes into the house of
'Benedick, the married man'--He wears his rue with a difference,
indeed!--There is a sense of life, bustle, mirth, and happiness, in
the very air of the dwelling. To be greeted with smiles at your going
forth and coming in--to know that there is at least one who serves you
without a self-interest--to hear the joyous, feminine laugh, delicate
and temperate in the very whirlwind of its ecstacy, ring through the
mansion from hour to hour--to hear the little foot pattering about you
as you sit at your philosophic studies--to have a friend with whom you
can converse freely and without fear of present offence or future
disadvantage--and whose presence is not without its influence and its
charm, even when the call of a worldly ambition summons you to--
"----Pursue
Your tasks, in social silence too,"
with just sense enough to understand all you can say to her--and
nothing so wise as to mortify you at any time by setting you right.
Then, instead of the natty primness of your bachelor's apartment, you
have your eyes feasted by that elegant confusion of the little
sanctuary--the charm of which cannot, unseen, be apprehended, and is
only known to those who are privileged to enter, by the passport of
Hymen. A bit of bobbin here--a thread-paper there--here a hat
feather--there a scrap of silk.--Besides," [drawing his chair closer
to mine and looking very tender] "when you love her, you know--." He
paused and sighed, and I groaned strenuously.--
"And is this all you have to say in defence of an elopement with a
girl of sixteen." ["A beautiful girl," he passionately interrupted]
"well! a beautiful girl--so young, that it is perfectly impossible for
you to form any judgment on her inclinations or her temper--at a time
when her character is undecided--unformed--when that which is mere
caprice, frequently assumes the hue of passion, and wears all its
fervour and intensity. Or if it should continue unabated--as I must
confess [observing him turn himself with an air before a pier glass,]
I see no reason why it should not--you will find the unsophistication
of the young lady as quickly tending to domestic disquiet, as might
have been her inconstancy--She will be unreasonable in her exactions
on your confidence, and you will be compelled to take refuge in fits
of sullenness--perhaps rudeness;--and then what becomes of that
blissful state, where like you, every body expects, and so very--very
few _find_ happiness?--to secure which the most perfect union of taste
and feeling--the utmost kindliness of manner, and a politeness as
habitual as motion itself, are absolute requisites?--Have you no
further arguments to offer in favour of this measure of yours?--"
"Oh, yes," said he, very dryly, "I have one more."
"What may that be?"
"That I WILL marry her."
"Oh!..." said I.
And without exchanging another word, I put on my great coat, and we
sallied forth together to the rendezvous of the lovers. The fair
fugitive was true to her appointment, and at the first sound of the
expected footfall, glided from her concealment into the happy
scoundrel's arms. The action which followed I could not see (though it
was a bright moonlight,) for a breeze lifted the large veil which hung
over the lady's shoulder, in such a manner as to envelope the
countenances of both. What the action _ought_ to have been, perhaps
you, madam, or you, mademoiselle, may inform me?--I only know that
when the modest zephyr passed, and the veil fell back again, the fair
cheek that it revealed glowed with
"A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't,
Might well have warm'd old Saturn."
Harry gave me his hand (heartily) as he stood on the carriage step,
and the bride wafted me a farewell with the prettiest action of her
fan from the window, and murmured,--"Give me a good wish for the
tobacconist."
"Yes," said I; "may you never have occasion to say of the love that
now leads you to him, that
"'Its beacon light is quench'd in _smoke_.'"
[For although naturally grave, and silently given, I often catch
myself endeavouring to sport a bad pun, when I have got the ear of a
fair damsel] The only effect which the witticism produced in the
present instance, however, was an enormous groan, in which the fellows
on the dickey participated. Even the postilion who stood near, set up
a crowing laugh--and the very horses by their snorting and neighing,
seemed to be sensible of the utter and deplorable failure.
And away they went--and they were hotly pursued, and overtaken, _just_
in time to be too late--which left no other course but that of
reconciliation;--and where there is no choice to be made, every body
knows there is but one part to be taken.
That occurrence is now three years since, and it was only the other
day that I again met the pair of turtles. Dropping in rather late at a
card-party, I beheld them sitting vis-a-vis at one of the tables,
playing together against an old lady and gentleman, before whom Mrs.
L---- thought, perhaps, it was not necessary to appear _very_
fashionable towards dear Harry. With the requisite _ceremonious
unceremoniousness_ so popular at present, I took a chair behind him,
and annoyed him every moment by remarks upon his wife; of course all
highly nattering to both.
"My love, you have played that card wrong--very wrong."
"Did I, my dear?" replied Mrs. L. smiling languidly, and looking in
his face more as if she was admiring the elegant turn of his forehead,
and the spirited expression of his dark eye, than as if she minded
what he was saying--"'tis indeed--very."
"'Tis what?"
"Oh! were you not speaking of something? I beg pardon, love--I thought
you spoke."
"And so I did, my dear. I told you that card was played most
abominably."
"I dare say, my love;--[still gazing in his eyes and smiling]--I know
I'm very stupid,"--[playing a card.]
"Well, you have taken a curious way to mend matters--that last play
was a thousand degrees worse than the other."
"I dare say, my love,--[looking in his face, and continuing to drawl
and simper in the manner which we might imagine of Shakspeare's little
shepherdess--
"'Sweet youth chide on--I had rather hear thee chide
Than others woo--'"]
"But tell me, love, when I play wrong," [playing again without taking
her eyes from his, even to look at her card.]
"I had much better leave you to yourself," said L.
"'_You will be compelled to take refuge in fits of sullenness_,'"
muttered I, quoting from my former prophecy.
"My dear,"--[pronounced just in the same way as he might have said,
'you fool,']--pray open your eyes."
"_Perhaps in rudeness_," I continued.
"There again!" cried poor L----, who seemed in danger of being ruined
by the admiration of his wife. "It is not possible for a card to be
played worse than that. Your head, my dear, must be as confused as
your boudoir."
"_A bit of bobbin here--a hat feather there_," I continued, growing
malicious.
"Sir," cried L----, starting round in a passion. Fixing his eyes for a
moment on my wooden phiz, however, he burst into a fit of laughter,
and then as suddenly assuming a most doleful change of countenance, he
squeezed my hand and said to me apart, in a tragic tone, "Ah, my dear
friend, you were right--you were right."
"He that would lead a happy married life,
First learn to rule, and then to have, a wife,"
say Beaumont and Fletcher--and a pleasant
aphorism it is too--and a wise and
useful--but with a slight alteration, a
periphrasis comprehending advice not less
to the purpose may be presented--
"He that would lead a happy wedded life,
Beware of marrying a _too_ youthful wife."
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