Well--whether, as with us, awaited in silence, or, as with the many,

harbingered by the music of many voices--the grand event marched on;

and a day was only wanted of its expected arrival when business

called F-- to London, from whence he was not to return till late at

night. Soon after his departure, which followed an early breakfast,

we left Emily, as we supposed, to the business of her little

household, and repaired, as was our wont, to the library,--a small

apartment which our friend F-- had made the very bijou of his

pretty cottage. It was tastefully fitted up in the gothic style,

with a window of painted glass,--a window, by the way, especially

suited to a book-room, not merely as pleasing to the eye but for a

correspondence which has often struck us. The many-coloured panes,

through which the light of day finds entrance, form no unfitting

symbol of a library's contents, whereby the light of intelligence is

poured upon the mind through as many varied mediums, from the deep,

cold, black and blue of learned and scientific lore to the glowing

flame colour and crimson of poetry and romance. Having taken down a

choice copy of the Faery Queen, we committed our person to an ebony

arm-chair, and our spirit to the magic guidance of our author's

fancy. Obedient to its leading, we were careering somewhere betwixt

earth and heaven, when a slight noise brought us down for a moment

to our proper sphere; yet hardly,--for on looking up we beheld,

standing in the wake of a coloured sun-beam, from which, on wing of

gossamer, she seemed to have just descended, an unexpected

apparition of surpassing grace and beauty. Titania's self, just

stepped upon the moonlit earth, could scarcely have stood poised on

an unbroken flower-stalk, in form more airy, in attitude more

graceful, with countenance more radiant than those of Emily F--,

as, arrayed in likeness of the Faery Queen, she thus burst upon our

view, and with an air half-archly playful, half-proudly triumphant,

enjoyed our bewildered surprise, and received the involuntary homage

of our admiration.

We saw in a moment how the matter stood; Emily was really going to

the fancy ball; and this, of the Queen of Fays, was the fantastic

and too bewitching costume she had chosen to assume. Knowing her

kind heart, and having believed that its best affections had been

gained by her estimable husband, if not bestowed on him at first, we

were vexed and disappointed in our young relation, and felt it only

right to give, if we could, a check to her buoyant vanity, by

letting her feel the weight of our disapproval,--shown, if not

expressed. "So I see, Emily," said I, in the coldest tone, "I see,

after all, that you are going to this foolish ball."

The beaming countenance of the beautiful sylph darkened in a moment,

like a cosmoramic landscape. "And why not?" returned she, pettishly;

"I suppose, then, you don't approve."

"_My_ approbation can be of very little import, if you possess that

of your own heart, and that of your husband. Under what character,

pray, does he attend you? I suppose he plays Oberon to your

Titania?"

Emily's face reddened. Some strong emotion heaved her bosom, and I

saw that pride alone kept the starting tears from overflowing.

"Charles," said she, with an attempt at assumed indifference, "will

not be there at all; I am to go with Lady Forrester."

We felt more vexed than ever, and wished to say something which might

yet hinder the young wife's intention; but while considering what that

something should be, or whether, indeed, our age and slight relationship

gave a sufficient right to say anything, we looked down for a moment on

our still open book. Of that moment Emily availed herself to effect an

escape, and on raising our eyes we only caught a glimpse of her

glittering wings as she glided through the doorway. Our first impulse

was to recall her; our next thought, to leave her to herself. If her

better nature still struggled, remonstrance of ours, we considered,

might only serve to set wounded pride against it; and wounded passions,

like wounded bravoes, fight most desperately. We saw no more of our

young hostess till the hour of dinner, to which we sat down to a

_tete-a-tete._ Emily's sweet face had regained all its usual expression

of good humour, and by almost an excess of attention, and an effort at

more than ordinary liveliness, she strove to make amends for the slight

ebullition of temper stirred up by the morning's incident; but her

sociability seemed forced, and we felt that our own was much of the same

description.

Our after-dinner sitting was soon ended for an evening stroll. It

had been a sultry day towards the end of August; the lazy zephyrs

had been all asleep since noontide; so, with a view to meet the

first of them which should happen to be stirring, we directed our

steps towards a high open heath, or common. Its summit was crowned

by a magnificent beech, towards which we slowly ascended, under a

shower of darts levelled by the declining sun; and, on arriving at

the tree, were right glad to seat ourselves on the circular bench

which surrounded its smooth and bulky bole.

Here, in addition to the welcome boons of rest and shade, we were

presented gratis with the exhibition of a finer panorama, than the

Messrs. Barker ever yet produced.

What a scene of tranquil splendour lay before us! one of those

glowing pictures of the declining day and declining year, whereon,

like a pair of dying painters, they seem to have combined their

utmost skill and richest colours in order to exceed, in a last

effort, all the productions of their meridian prime.

After a few moments of silent admiration, we were on the point of

exclaiming to our young companion, "Oh! who could prefer the most

brilliant ball-rooms to a scene like this?" but we checked the

impulse; for perhaps, thought we, the "still small voice," which

speaks from all around us, is even now whispering to her heart. But

never, we believe, was adder more deaf to the accents of the

"charmer" than was Emily at that moment to those of nature. Her

mind, we are pretty sure, was still running, and all the faster as

she approached it, on that fancy ball. Perhaps she suspected that

ours was following the same turn, and knowing of old our habit of

making observations upon insects, she, by a little womanly artifice,

availed herself of it to divert their course. Pointing with her

parasol to a long procession of brown ants, which were crossing the

foot-worn area beneath the tree,--"Look," said she, "I suppose they

are going home to bed."

"Or perhaps to a ball," rejoined we, "quite unable to resist the

pleasure of taking our fair cousin in her own _ruse_; but let us

follow them, and see."

Emily was delighted at having, as she thought, so ingeniously set us

on our hobby, and attended us to the spot whither we had traced the

little labourers. Their populous settlement bore no appearance of

evening repose. Other trains were approaching in various directions,

to meet that which we had followed, and a multitude was covering the

conical surface of, the ant-hill, as if taking a farewell bask in

the glowing sunset. Amidst the congregated many, and distinguished

from the common herd by very superior bulk and four resplendent

wings, were several individual ants, which Emily (as well she might)

mistook for flies, and inquired accordingly what could be their

business in such incongruous society. "They are no flies," said we,

"but ants themselves--female ants,--though with somewhat of the air,

certainly, of being in _masquerade_ or _fancy costume_. But say what

we will of their attire, we must needs confess that they are in

their proper places; for they are the _matrons_ of the community,

and, as we see, they are _at home_."

Our young companion made no reply; but stooping down, seemed wholly

engrossed by examination of the ant-hill. "Look," exclaimed she,

presently; "there is one of these portly dames without any wings at

all. I suppose some of her neighbours have taken up a spite against

her, and combined to strip her of her glittering appendages."

"By no means," we answered, "_she has laid them aside by her own

voluntary act._ Only see, my dear Emily, here is one of her sisters

even now employed in the business of disrobing."

We both stooped, and watched narrowly the curious operation to which

we had directed our young friend's attention. One of the larger

insects in question was actively employed in agitating her wings,

bringing them before her head, crossing them in every direction,

throwing them from side to side, and producing so many singular

contortions as to cause them all four to fall off at the same

moment, leaving her reduced to the same condition as her wingless

sister. Fatigued, apparently, by her late efforts, she reposed

awhile, after the accomplishment of her purpose, brushed her denuded

corselet with her feet, and then proceeding to burrow in the soft

earth of the hillock, was speedily lost to our observation. "How

very odd!" said Emily; "what can possibly be the meaning of such a

strange, unnatural proceeding?"

"I will tell you," replied we, "that which has been thought fully to

explain its intention. This insect female, in common with her

sisters, has hitherto been privileged to lead a life of entire

indolence and pleasure. A few days since, having risen from her

lowly birth-place on those discarded pinions, we might have seen her

disporting in the air with some gay and gallant companions, of

inferior size, but winged like herself. But now her career of

pleasure, though not of happiness, being at an end, her life of

usefulness is about to begin, and, in character of a matron, she is

called to the performance of such domestic duties as will henceforth

confine her to the precincts of her home.

"Of what use now, therefore, are the glittering wings which adorned

and became her in her earlier youth? Their possession might only,

perchance, have tempted her to desert the post which Nature, under

Divine guidance, has instructed her to fill. Obedient to its

teaching, she has thus despoiled herself of the showy pinions which

(essential to her enjoyment in the fields of air) would only have

encumbered her in the narrower but more important sphere of home."

Emily listened in silence to our lecture on Entomology, which must

have been delivered, we suppose, with peculiar clearness, as she did

not, according to her usual custom, follow it up by any further

inquiry or comment. We soon afterwards bid adieu to the insect

community, and wended our way homewards.

F-- returned from London the same evening; but availing ourselves

of an old friend's freedom, we had retired to bed before his

arrival.

Next morning ushered in the day, "the great, the important day" of

the fancy ball--neither "heavily" nor "in clouds;" yet greatly did

we fear that the pleasant sunshine which greeted our opening eyes

would be met with no answering beams at the breakfast-table of our

friends.

How agreeably, therefore, were we surprised, when, on entering the

parlour, we at once perceived an expression of more perfect serenity

on the countenances both of F-- and his pretty wife, than had been

worn by either since the day of that confounded invitation.

"Ah!" thought we, "it's pretty plain how the matter is ended; that

wicked little fairy has wrought her charms for something--has

carried her point--and will carry her willing captive to the ball.

What poor weak fools fond husbands are! Thank heaven that--Well!

perhaps better so than worse."

Breakfast proceeded; chat in plenty; but not a syllable about the

fancy ball; till, bursting to know how the case, so long pending,

had really ended, we ventured on a pumping query--"At what hour,

Emily," said we, "does Lady Forrester come to take you to the ball?"

"I have written to prevent her calling."

"Oh, then, you are going under other escort?" and we looked slyly at

F--.

"I am not going at all," said Emily.

Here she put in ours her little white hand, and looked up archly in

our face,--_"I am not going, for I have laid aside my wings!"_

"My good fellow!" said F--, as he took our other hand; "you

deserve to be made President of the Entomological Society."

PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY.

THE following passages from the diary of a young English wife may be

read with profit here. The lesson taught is well worth treasuring in

the memory.

_May_ 1.--Just three months to-day since William and I were married.

What a happy time it has been, and how quickly it has passed! I am

determined to begin and keep a journal again as I used to do before

I married, if it be only to mark how the days go by--one happier

than the other. How different from the days of our long courtship,

when there was always something to be anxious about; whilst now,

nothing but death can ever part us, and it seems to me as if all the

trials of life must be easy to bear when borne together. Dear

William! How kind he has been to me, and how cheerful and

good-tempered he always is. He was saying only this morning that he

did not think we had had a single _tiff_ since we married; and I am

sure it would have been my fault if we had. Gratitude alone ought to

keep me from quarrelling with William, if nothing else would,

considering all he has done for me. How nice he made this place

ready for me when we married! I cannot think how he ever contrived

to save enough out of his salary to buy such handsome furniture. To

be sure he always says that it is my setting it off so well that

makes it look better than it is; and yet, except the muslin curtains

to the window, and the table-cover, and my work-box, and the

flowers, I have not done much. I almost wish he had left me more to

do, for time does hang heavy on my hands sometimes when he is away.

I wish that some of my neighbours would make acquaintance with me;

for I know no one hereabouts. That Mrs. Smith who lives next door,

looked towards the window as she passed this morning, and seemed

inclined to stop--I only wish she would; it would be so pleasant to

have a neighbour occasionally coming in for a chat, and I should

pick up a bit of news perhaps to tell William in the evening. Now I

think of it, I will just go up stairs and take a look at his shirts;

it is just possible that there may be a button off, though they were

all new when he married; or perhaps his stockings want running at

the heels. I wonder I did not think of that before. There is nothing

like preventing holes from coming.

_May_ 2.--Told William last night of my plan of keeping a diary, and

he thinks it a good one, and has given me the old ledger, in which

he says I can scribble away as much as I like. And really, after

writing so much as I used for Aunt Morris, it is easier I believe

for me than for most people to write down what happens each day and

what passes in my mind. To my great surprise, who should come in

this morning but Mrs. Smith, from next door! One would think she had

peeped over my shoulder, and seen what I wrote about her

yesterday--but she says that she has long been thinking of coming

in, only she did not know whether I should be inclined to be

sociable. She seems a most respectable and pleasant kind of person,

and really quite superior to the other people in the lane. She said

she felt sure by my looks as she had seen me going to church on

Sunday with William, that I was not a common sort of person, and

said moreover that William was a very genteel-looking young man, and

remarkably like a nephew of hers who is in quite a large way of

business in Manchester. Mrs. Smith admires my room very much, only

she says her house has an advantage over ours, in having a passage,

instead of the front door opening into the room. She had, in fact, a

partition put up after she came, to divide one off, and says it is

astonishing how much more comfortable it makes the place, besides

looking more genteel. I have often wondered myself that William did

not choose a house that had this convenience, and I am sure it will

be cold in winter to have the door opening right into one's room in

this way, besides making the chimney smoke. Mrs. Smith has asked me

to look in, as often as I can, and says it will be quite a charity

to sit with her now and then, she is so lonely.

_May_ 3.--I think William is glad that I am at liberty to have a

friendly neighbour--only he says he is afraid that Mrs. Smith is

rather above us in the world, and might not suit our humble ways. I

do not think this, however; but if it were so, I would rather

associate with those who are above me than below me. I mentioned to

William what she told me about the alteration she had made in her

house, but he did not seem as if he thought it would be so great an

improvement. After breakfast I put on my bonnet and shawl, and went

in to Mrs. Smith's. She keeps a little maid-servant, I find, which I

had no idea of before. I found her sitting at work quite in style,

and really it is quite astonishing how snug her house seems in

consequence of the alteration she has made. The sitting-room is of

course so much smaller, but that is nothing compared to the comfort

of the passage; I should not have thought that the houses could ever

have been built alike, hers is so superior to ours. To be sure the

style of her furniture is perhaps better than ours, and the papering

handsomer, and her carpet goes all over her room, and she has a very

handsome hearth-rug. Altogether I could not help fancying our place

looked quite mean and shabby after I came back. But then I said to

myself, that William and I were after all only beginning the world,

and who knows what we may not be able to do by-and-by. Nothing is

more likely than that William should have his salary raised in a

year or two, and perhaps some day go into business himself.

_May_ 4.--William got home nice and early last night, and read aloud

to me for more than an hour. It was very kind of him, and the book

was very interesting, but somehow or other I think I would rather

have talked to him. I wanted to tell him several things that Mrs.

Smith had said to me--especially about the putting up of that

partition being such a trifling expense. I did get it said at last;

but it is astonishing how little he seems to care about what would

be such a great improvement to our place. Of course he cannot

understand as well as I do how disagreeable it is for people to be

coming to the door, and lifting the latch and looking straight in at

me as I sit at work--just the same as in any cottage in the country.

I think William rather forgets that I never was accustomed to this

kind of thing at home. Last night even, when the postman came; if he

had not been so anxious to read his letter, he might have noticed

how the draught from the open door made the candle flare, and the

tallow ran down all over my nice bright candlestick. The letter was

from his father, asking him to give a couple of pounds toward's

fitting out his brother George for Australia. William means to send

it, I see, and really I am very glad that he can assist his

relations, and should never think of saying a word against it--only

it shows that he has plenty of spare money, and that it is not so

much the expense of the thing that makes him seem to dislike the

idea of altering our place. He keeps saying, "My dear, I think it is

very well as it is," and "My dear, it seems very comfortable to me;"

but that is no reason why it should not be better, as I tell him.

_May_ 5.--Mrs. Smith came in this morning and brought her work, to

have, as she said, a friendly gossip with me. She is really a most

pleasant and sociable person, and says she is sure we shall suit

each other uncommonly well. I told her that I had mentioned to

William about the passage she had contrived to her house, but that

he did not seem to think it would be so great an improvement. "I

dare say not," said she, laughing; "husbands very often don't like

new plans unless they are themselves the first to propose them; but

such a young wife as you ought to have your way in such a matter." I

took care to tell her that William was the kindest and most

good-natured creature in the world, and that no husband could be

more anxious to please a wife. "Then," said she, "if that be the

case, take my word for it he will end by making the alteration you

want." This quite emboldens me to say a little more to William about

our having this partition put up; because I should not like Mrs.

Smith to fancy that my wishes have no weight with him. I will see

what I can do to-night when he comes home.

_May_ 6.--I am afraid I vexed William last night, and only wish I

could unsay two or three things that I said about the making of this

passage. I begin to think I was foolish to get such a fancy into my

head. After tea, just as he was going to open out his book, I

ventured to say, "I wish you would talk to-night, dear William,

instead of read, for I have so little of your company." In a minute

he had shut his book, and drawn his chair up to mine, and said so

good-naturedly, "Well, little Fanny, and what shall we talk about?"

that I felt quite afraid of beginning upon the subject I had in my

mind. By-and-by, however, I broached it, and said I really had set

my heart upon having our room altered like Mrs. Smith's, and that I

was sure it would be done for very little expense, even supposing

our landlord would not do it for us. William said he could not think

of even asking him to do it, after having put the house into such

complete repair when we came here; and he added, that he had fancied

that I was pleased with the place, and thought it comfortable. "So I

was, dear William," said I; "but I had no idea till I tried, how

uncomfortable it is to sit in a room with a front door opening into

it in this way--it is like sitting in the street." William looked so

vexed as I said this, I did not speak for some time. Then all at

once he said, "Well, Fanny, as I wish you to be happy and

comfortable, I suppose you must have your way in this matter. I

cannot exactly say that I cannot afford it, because you know I do

not spend all my salary upon housekeeping; but there were some books

that I thought of buying, that, after all, I can wait for very

well:--So if you like to speak to John Wilson, I dare say he would

do the job as cheaply as any one--he can make an estimate of what it

would cost, and let me know." I thanked William, most heartily, for

his consent, and I am sure that when the passage is once made, he

will be as pleased as any one with the improvement. And yet I do not

feel quite satisfied at the idea of his going without his books, and

only wish he had the money for them as well.

_May_ 7.--Happening to see John Wilson passing down the lane on the

way to his work, I called him in to consult him about putting up the

partition. He made a very careful measurement, and then after

calculating wood-work, and paint, and time, he said he thought he

could do it for two pounds ten. I thought it would not have been

more than two pounds at most; but I had forgotten about the inner

door, with its handle and hinges, &c. It seems a great deal of

money, I must say. William's books I know would only have cost

thirty shillings, for I have a list of them that he made one

evening.

_May_ 8.--Somehow or other I could hardly make up my mind after all,

last night, to tell William about John Wilson's estimate; but when I

did get it said, he made me feel quite at ease by the open way in

which he talked about it with me, and planned it all just as if he

thought it as desirable as I do. This is particularly kind of him,

because I know he thinks all the time that we could do very well

without it. Before we went to bed, too, he took out the little purse

in which he keeps his savings (the very purse I made him before we

married), and taking out the L2 10s., told me to keep the

money myself ready to pay John Wilson, as he said he might be

spending it perhaps if it was not out of his way. "You know," said

he, laughing, "I pass the book-shop every evening on my way home,

and I cannot answer for myself." I could not help feeling very much

this kindness of William's in giving up his wishes so readily to

mine in the matter, and I told him so--and really it quite kept me

awake half the night thinking about it. I think the very sight of

that purse brought back to my remembrance how I used to say to

myself that when once I was William's wife I would try so hard to

make him happy, and sacrifice all my wishes to his. I began to feel

that after all it would not make me half as happy to have my own way

as for him to be pleased with me; and in spite of his trying not to

let me see it, I cannot help fancying that he was a little hurt at

my being discontented with my little home, that had given me such

satisfaction at first and in which we have been so happy. I begin to

think that I was foolish in being persuaded by Mrs. Smith that my

snug little house wanted anything to complete my happiness.

Happiness! How ridiculous it seems to write that word in connexion

with such a trifle as this. As if William and I were not too happy

to care about whether our house is as good as our neighbour's! I am

determined after all to give up this affair of the passage

altogether. I have half a mind--nay, I am quite, resolved, to spend

the money instead upon those books for William. How surprised he

will be!

_Afternoon of the same day_.--After coming to the decision I did

this morning, I put on my things, and set off into the town. I don't

think I ever walked faster than I did to that bookseller's shop.

Luckily they had all the books I wanted, or if they are not quite

right William has only to change them afterwards. They did not cost

as much as I had calculated, too, and with the discount that they

gave me I had enough left for the little hanging bookshelves that

William took such a fancy to at the cabinet-maker's the other day. I

got them all home this afternoon--books as well as shelves--and in

less than an hour after their arrival, the nail was knocked into the

wall opposite the fire-place; the shelves hung, and all the books

arranged upon them. How nice they look, and how pleased will dear

William be when he returns! I declare I would not exchange the

happiness I now feel in giving him pleasure for the finest house,

with the grandest entrance to it too, that ever was built. Six

o'clock: and William will be home at seven!

HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.

AND first, let us speak to the young husband, in the words of the

author of that excellent little volume, "A Whisper to a

Newly-Married Pair."

'Earnestly endeavour to obtain among your acquaintance the character

of a _good husband_; and abhor that _would-be_ wit, which I have

sometimes seen practised among men of the world--a kind of coarse

jesting on the bondage of the _married state_, and a laugh at the

shackles which a _wife_ imposes. On the contrary, be it your pride

to exhibit to the world that sight on which the wise man passes such

an encomium: _Beautiful before God and men are a man and his wife

that agree together._ (Ecclus. xxv, 10)

Make it an established rule to consult your wife on all occasions.

_Your_ interest is _hers_: and undertake _no_ plan contrary to her

advice and approbation. Independent of better motives, what a

responsibility does it free you from! for, if the affair turn out

ill, you are spared reproaches both from her and from your own

feelings. But the fact is, she who ought to have most influence on

her husband's mind, is often precisely the person who has least; and

a man will frequently take the advice of a stranger who cares not

for him nor his interest, in preference to the cordial and sensible

opinion of his wife. A due consideration of the domestic evils such

a line of conduct is calculated to produce, might, one would think,

of itself be sufficient to prevent its adoption; but, independent of

these, policy should influence you; for there is in woman an

intuitive quickness, a sagacity, a penetration, and a foresight into

the probable consequences of an event, that make her peculiarly

calculated to give her opinion and advice.--"If I was making up a

plan of consequences," said the great Lord Bolingbroke, "I should

like first to consult with a sensible woman."

Have you any male acquaintance, whom, on reasonable grounds, your

wife wishes you to resign? Why should you hesitate? Of what

consequence can be the civilities, or even the friendship, of any

one, compared with the wishes of her with whom you have to spend

your life--whose comfort you have sworn to attend to; and who has a

right to demand, not only such a trifling compliance, but great

sacrifices, if necessary?

Never witness a tear from your wife with apathy or indifference.

Words, looks, actions--all may be artificial; but a _tear_ is

unequivocal; it comes direct from the _heart_, and speaks at once

the language of truth, nature, and sincerity! Be assured, when, you

see a tear on her cheek, her heart is touched; and do not, I again

repeat it, do not behold it with coldness or insensibility!

It is very unnecessary to say that contradiction is to be avoided at

all times: but when in the presence of others, be most particularly

watchful. A look, or word, that perhaps, in _reality_, conveys no

angry meaning, may at once lead people to think that their presence

alone restrains the eruption of a discord, which probably has no

existence whatsoever.

Some men, who are married to women of inferior fortune or connexion,

will frequently have the meanness to upbraid them with the

disparity. My good sir, allow me to ask what was your motive in

marrying? Was it to oblige or please _your wife_? No, truly; it was

to oblige and please _yourself_, your own dear self. Had she refused

to marry you, you would have been (in lover's phrase) a very

miserable man. Did you never tell her so? Therefore, really, instead

of upbraiding her, you should be very grateful to her for rescuing

you from such an unhappy fate.

It is particularly painful to a woman, whenever her husband is

unkind enough to say a lessening or harsh word of any member of her

family: invectives against herself are not half so wounding.

Should illness, or suffering of any kind, assail your wife, your

tenderness and attention are then peculiarly called for; and if she

be a woman of sensibility, believe me, a look of love, a word of

pity or sympathy, will, at times, have a better effect than the

prescriptions of her physicians.

Perhaps some calamity, peculiarly her own, may befall her. She may

weep over the death of some dear relative or friend; or her spirits

and feelings may be affected by various circumstances. Remember that

your sympathy, tenderness, and attention, on such occasions, are

particularly required.

A man would not, on any account, take up a whip, or a stick, and

beat his wife; but he will, without remorse, use to her language

which strikes much deeper to her heart than the lash of any whip he

could make use of. "He would not, for the world," says an ingenious

writer, "cut her with a _knife_, but he will, without the least

hesitation, cut her with his _tongue_."

I have known some unfeeling husbands, who have treated their

luckless wives with unvaried and unremitting unkindness, till

perhaps the arrival of their last illness, and who then became all

assiduity and attention. Bat when that period approaches, their

remorse, like the remorse of a murderer, is felt too late; the die

is cast; and kindness or unkindness can be of little consequence to

the poor victim, who only waits to have her eyes closed in the long

sleep of death!

Perhaps your wife may be destitute of youth and beauty, or other

superficial attractions, which distinguish many of her sex: should

this be the case, remember many a plain face conceals a heart of

exquisite sensibility and merit; and her consciousness of the defect

makes her peculiarly awake to the slightest attention or inattention

from you: and just for a moment reflect--

"What is the blooming tincture of the skin,

To peace of mind and harmony within?

What the bright sparkling of the finest eye,

To the soft soothing of a calm reply?

Can loveliness of form, or look, or air,

With loveliness of words or deeds compare?

No: those at first the unwary heart may gain;

But these, these only, can the heart retain."

Your wife, though a gentle, amiable creature, may be deficient in mental

endowments, and destitute of fancy or sentiment; and you, perhaps a man

of taste and talents, are inclined to think lightly of her. This is

unjust, unkind and unwise. It is not, believe me, the woman most gifted

by nature, or most stored with literary knowledge, who always makes the

most comfortable wife; by no, means: _your_ gentle, amiable helpmate may

contribute much more to your happiness, more to the regularity, economy,

and discipline of your houses and may make your children a much better

mother, than many a brilliant dame who could trace, with Moore, Scott,

and Byron, every line on the map of taste and sentiment, and descant on

the merits and demerits of poetry, as if she had just arrived fresh from

the neighbourhood of Parnassus.

Should your wife be a woman of sense, worth, and cultivation, yet not

very expert at cutting out a shirt, or making paste, pies, and puddings

(though I would not by any means undervalue this necessary part of

female knowledge, or tolerate ignorance in my sex respecting them), yet

pray, my good sir, do not, on this account _only_, show discontent and

ill-humour towards her. If she is qualified to be your bosom friend, to

advise, to comfort, and to soothe you;--if she can instruct your

children, enliven your fireside by her conversation, and receive and

entertain your friends in a manner which pleases and gratifies you;--be

satisfied: we cannot expect to meet in a wife, or indeed in any one,

exactly all we could wish. "I can easily," says a sensible friend of

mine, "hire a woman to make my linen and dress my dinner, but I cannot

so readily procure a _friend_ and _companion_ for myself, and a

preceptress for my children." The remark was called forth by his

mentioning that he had heard a gentleman, the day before, finding fault

with his wife, an amiable, sensible well-informed woman, because she was

not clever at pies, puddings, and needle-work! On the other hand, should

she be sensible, affectionate, amiable, domestic, yet prevented by

circumstances in early life from obtaining much knowledge of books, or

mental cultivation, do not therefore think lightly of her; still

remember she is your companion, the friend in whom you may confide at

all times, and from whom you may obtain counsel and comfort.

Few women are insensible of tender treatment; and I believe the number

of those is small indeed who would not recompense it with the most

grateful returns. They are naturally frank and affectionate; and, in

general, there is nothing but austerity of look and distance of

behaviour, that can prevent those amiable qualities from being evinced

on every occasion. There are, probably, but few men who have not

experienced, during the intervals of leisure and reflection, a

conviction of this truth. In the hour of absence and of solitude, who

has not felt his heart cleaving to the wife of his bosom? who has not

been, at some seasons; deeply impressed with a sense of her amiable

disposition and demeanour, of her unwearied endeavours to promote and

perpetuate his happiness, and of its being his indispensable duty to

show, by the most unequivocal expressions of attachment and of

tenderness, his full approbation of her assiduity and faithfulness? But

lives not he that has often returned to his habitation fully determined

to requite the kindness he has constantly experienced, yet,

notwithstanding, has beheld the woman of his heart joyful at his

approach without even attempting to execute his purpose?--who has still

withheld the rewards of esteem and affection; and, from some motive, the

cause of which I never could develop, shrunk from the task of duty, and

repressed those soft emotions which might have gladdened the breast of

her that was ever anxious to please, always prompt to anticipate his

desires, and eager to contribute everything that affection could

suggest, or diligence perform, in order to promote and perpetuate his

felicity?

When absent, let your letters to your wife be warm and affectionate. A

woman's heart is peculiarly formed for tenderness; and every expression

of endearment from the man she loves is flattering and pleasing to her.

With pride and pleasure does she dwell on each assurance of his

affection: and, surely, it is a cold, unmanly thing to deprive her

virtuous heart of such a cheap and easy mode of gratifying it. But,

really, a man should endeavour not only for an affectionate, but an

agreeable manner of writing to his wife. I remember hearing a lady say,

"When my husband writes to me, if he can at all glean out any little

piece of good news, or pleasing intelligence, he is sure to mention it."

Another lady used to remark, "My husband does not intend to give me

pain, or to say anything unpleasant when he writes; and yet, I don't

know how it is, but I never received a letter from him, that I did not,

when I finished it, feel comfortless and dissatisfied."

I really think a husband, whenever he goes from home, should always

endeavour, if possible, to bring back some little present to his wife.

If ever so trifling or valueless, still the attention gratifies her; and

to call forth a smile of good-humour should be always a matter of

importance.

Every one who knows anything of the human mind, agrees in acknowledging

the power of _trifles_, in imparting either pain or pleasure. One of our

best writers, speaking on this subject, introduces the following sweet

lines:--

"Since trifles make the sum of human things,

And half our misery from those trifles springs,

O! let the ungentle spirit learn from thence,

A _small_ unkindness is a _great_ offence.

To give rich gifts perhaps we wish in vain,

But all may shun the guilt of giving pain."

So much of happiness and comfort in the wedded life depends upon the

wife, that we cannot too often nor too earnestly engage her thoughts

on the subject of her duties. Duty, to some, is a cold, repulsive

word, but only in the discharge of duties that appertain to each

condition in life, is happiness ever secured. From the "Whisper" we

copy again:--

'Endeavour to make your husband's habitation alluring and delightful

to him. Let it be to him a sanctuary to which his heart may always

turn from the ills and anxieties of life. Make it a repose from his

cares, a shelter from the _world_, a _home_ not for his person only,

but for his _heart_. He may meet with _pleasure_ in other houses,

but let him find _happiness_ in his _own_. Should he be dejected,

soothe him; should he be silent and thoughtful, or even peevish,

make allowances for the defects of human nature, and, by your

sweetness, gentleness, and good humour, urge him continually to

_think_, though he may not _say_ it, "This woman is indeed a comfort

to me. I cannot but love her, and requite such gentleness and

affection as they deserve."

I know not two female attractions so captivating to men as delicacy

and modesty. Let not the familiar intercourse which marriage

produces, banish such powerful charms. On the contrary, this very

familiarity should be your strongest incitement in endeavouring to

preserve them; and, believe, me, the modesty so pleasing in the

_bride_, may always, in a great degree, be supported by the _wife_.

"If possible, let your husband suppose you think him a _good_

husband and it will be a strong stimulus to his being so. As long as

he thinks he possesses the character, he will take some pains to

deserve it: but when he has once lost the name, he will be very apt

to abandon the reality altogether." I remember at one time being

acquainted with a lady who was married to a very worthy man.

Attentive to all her comforts and wishes, he was just what the world

calls a very good husband; and yet his manner to his wife was cold

and comfortless, and he was constantly giving her _heart_, though

never her _reason_, cause to complain of him. But she was a woman of

excellent sense, and never upbraided him. On the contrary, he had

every cause for supposing she thought him the best husband in the

world; and the consequence was, that instead of the jarring and

discord which would have been inevitably produced had she been in

the habit of finding fault with him, their lives passed on in

uninterrupted peace.

I know not any attraction which renders a woman at all times so

agreeable to her husband, as cheerfulness or good humour. It

possesses the powers ascribed to magic: it gives charms where charms

are not; and imparts beauty to the plainest face. Men are naturally

more thoughtful and more difficult to amuse and please than women.

Full of cares and business, what a relaxation to a man is the

cheerful countenance and pleasant voice of the gentle mistress of

his home! On the contrary, a gloomy, dissatisfied manner is a poison

of affection; and though a man may not seem to notice it, it is

chilling and repulsive to his feelings, and he will be very apt to

seek elsewhere for those smiles and that cheerfulness which he finds

not in his own house.

In the article of dress, study your husband's taste, and endeavour

to wear what he thinks becomes you best. The opinion of others on

this subject is of very little consequence, if _he_ approves.

Make yourself as useful to him as you can, and let him see you

employed as much as possible in _economical_ avocations.

At dinner, endeavour to have his favourite dish dressed and served

up in the manner he likes best. In, observing such trifles as these,

believe me, gentle lady, you study your own comfort just as much as

his.

Perhaps your husband may occasionally bring home an unexpected guest

to dinner. This is not at all times convenient. But beware, gentle

lady, beware of frowns. Your fare at dinner may be scanty, but make

up for the deficiency by smiles and good humour. It is an old

remark, "Cheerfulness in the _host_ is always the surest and most

agreeable mode of welcome to the guest." Perhaps, too, unseasonable

visiters may intrude, or some one not particularly welcome may come

to spend a few days with you. Trifling as these circumstances may

be, they require a command of feeling and temper: but remember, as

you journey on, inclination must be continually sacrificed; and

recollect also, that the _true_ spirit of hospitality lies (as an

old writer remarks), not in giving great dinners and sumptuous

entertainments, but in receiving with kindness and cheerfulness

those who _come_ to you, and those who _want_ your assistance.

Endeavour to feel pleased with your husband's bachelor friends. It

always vexes and disappoints a man when his wife finds fault with

his favourites--the favourites and companions of his youth, and

probably those to whom he is bound not only by the ties of

friendship, but by the cords of gratitude.

Encourage in your husband a desire for reading aloud at night. When

the window curtains are drawn, the candles lighted, and you are all

seated after tea round the fire, how can his time be better

employed? _You_ have your work to occupy you: _he_ has nothing to do

but to sit and to think; and perhaps to think too that this family

scene is extremely stupid. Give interest to the monotonous hour, by

placing in his hand some entertaining but useful work. The pleasure

which you derive from it will encourage him to proceed; while

remarks on the pages will afford improving and animating topics for

conversation.

Is he fond of music? When an appropriate moment occurs, sit down

with cheerfulness to your piano or harp; recollect the airs that are

wont to please him most, and indulge him by playing those favourite

tunes. Tell me, gentle lady, when was your time at this

accomplishment so well devoted? While he was your _lover_, with what

readiness, and in your very best manner, would you touch the chords;

and on every occasion what pains did you take to captivate! And now

that he is become your _husband_ (me thinks at this moment I see a

blush mantling in your cheek), now that he is your husband, has

pleasing him become a matter of indifference to you?

Particularly shun what the world calls in ridicule, "Curtain

lectures." When you both enter your room at night, and shut to your

door, endeavour to shut out at the same moment all discord and

contention, and look on your chamber as a retreat from the vexations

of the world, a shelter sacred to peace and affection.

I cannot say I much approve of man and wife at all times opening

each other's letters. There is more, I think, of vulgar familiarity

in this than of delicacy or confidence. Besides, a sealed letter is

sacred; and every one likes to have the first reading of his or her

own letters.

Perhaps your husband may be fond of absenting himself from home, and

giving to others that society which you have a right to expect:

clubs, taverns, &c., &c., may be his favourite resort. In this case

it may perhaps be necessary to have recourse to mild reasoning; but

never--I again repeat--never to clamorous dispute. And the fonder he

seems of quitting his home, the greater should be your effort to

make yourself and your fireside agreeable to him. This may appear a

difficult task; but I recommend nothing that I have not myself seen

successfully practised. I once knew a lady who particularly studied

her husband's character and disposition; and I have seen her, when

he appeared sullen, fretful, and inclined to go out, invite a

friend, or perhaps a few friends, to spend the evening, prepare for

him at dinner the dish she knew he liked best, and thus, by her

kind, cheerful manner, make him forget the peevishness which had

taken possession of him. Believe it from me, and let it take deep

root, gentle lady, in your mind, that a good-humoured deportment, a

comfortable fireside, and a smiling countenance, will do more

towards keeping your husband at home than a week's logic on the

subject.

Is he fond of fishing, fowling, &c.? When those amusements do not

interfere with business or matters of consequence, what harm can

result from them? Strive then to enter into his feelings with regard

to the pleasure which they seem to afford him, and endeavour to feel

interested in his harmless accounts and chat respecting them. Let

his favourite dog be your favourite also; and do not with a surly

look, as I have seen some wives put on, say, in his hearing, "That

Cato, or Rover, or Ranger, is the most troublesome dog and the

greatest pest in the world."

If the day he goes out on these rural expeditions be cold or wet, do

not omit having his shirt and stockings aired for him at the

fireside. Such little attentions never fail to please; and it is

well worth your while to obtain good humour by such easy efforts.

Should he be obliged to go to some distant place or foreign land, at

once and without indecision, if circumstances render it at all

practicable, let your determination be made in the beautiful and

expressive language of Scripture: _Entreat me not to leave thee, nor

to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will

go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my

people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there

will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but

death part thee and me._ (Ruth i. 16, 17.) If his lot be

comfortless, why not lessen those discomforts by your society? and

if pleasure and gayety await him, why leave him exposed to the

temptations which pleasure and gayety produce? A woman never appears

in so respectable a light, never to no much advantage, as when under

the protection of her husband.

Even occasional separations between man and wife I am no friend to,

when they can be avoided. It is not to your advantage, believe me,

gentle lady, to let him see how well he can do without you. You may

probably say, "Absence is at times unavoidable." Granted: I only

contend such intervals of absence should be short, and occur as

seldom as possible.

Perhaps it may be your luckless lot to be united to an unkind

husband--a man who cares not whether he pleases or displeases,

whether you are happy or unhappy. If this be the case, hard is your

fate, gentle lady, very hard! But the die is cast; and you must

carefully remember that no neglect of duty on _his_ part can give a

legitimate sanction to a failure of duty on _yours_. The sacredness

of those ties which bind you as a wife remain equally strong and

heavy, whatever be the conduct of your husband; and galling as the

chain may be, you must only endeavour for resignation to bear it,

till the Almighty, by lightening it, pleases to crown your

gentleness and efforts with success.

When at the Throne of Grace (I address you as a religious woman), be

fervent and persevering in your prayers for your husband; and by

your example endeavour to allure him to that heaven towards which

you are yourself aspiring: that, if your husband _obey not the

word_, as the sacred writer says, _he may, without the word_, be won

by the conversation (or conduct) of the wife.

Your husband, perhaps, may be addicted to gambling, horse-racing,

drinking, &c. These are serious circumstances; and mild

remonstrances must be occasionally used to oppose them; but do not

let your argument rise to loud or clamorous disputing. Manage your

opponent like a skilful general, and constantly watching the

appropriate moment for retreat. To _convince_ without _irritating_,

is one of the most difficult as well as most desirable points of

argument. Perhaps this may not be in your power: at all events, make

the attempt, first praying to God for direction, and then leaving to

him the result.

Or, gentle lady, you may, perhaps, be united to a man of a most

uncongenial mind, who, though a very good sort of husband, differs

from you in every sentiment. What of this? You must only make the

best of it. Look around. Numbers have the same and infinitely worse

complaints to make; and, truly, when we consider what real misery

there is in the world, it seems the height of folly fastidiously and

foolishly to refine away our happiness, by allowing such worthless

trifles to interfere with our comfort.

There are very few husbands so bad as to be destitute of good

qualities, and probably, very decided ones. Let the wife search out

and accustom herself to dwell on those good qualities, and let her

treat _her own_ errors, not _her husband's_, with severity. I have

seldom known a dispute between man and wife in which faults _on both

sides_ were not conspicuous; and really it is no wonder; for we are

so quick-sighted to the imperfections of others, so blind and

lenient to our own, that in cases of discord and contention, we

throw all the blame on the opposite party, and never think of

accusing ourselves. In general, at least, this is the case.

I was lately acquainted with a lady, whose manner to her husband

often attracted my admiration. Without appearing to do so, she would

contrive to lead to those subjects in which he appeared to most

advantage. Whenever he spoke, she seemed to listen as if what he was

saying was of importance. And if at any time she differed from him

in opinion, it was done so gently as scarcely to be perceived even

by himself. She was quite as well informed (perhaps more so) and as

sensible as himself, and yet she always appeared to think him

superior in every point. On all occasions she would refer to him,

asking his opinion, and appearing to receive information at the very

moment, perhaps, she was herself imparting it. The consequence was,

there never was a happier couple, and I am certain he thought her

the most superior woman in the world.

I repeat, it is amazing how trifles--the most insignificant

trifles--even a word, even a look,--yes, truly, a look, a

glance--completely possess the power, at times, of either pleasing,

or displeasing. Let this sink deep into your mind: remember, that to

endeavour to keep a husband in constant good humour is one of the

first duties of a wife.

Perhaps, on some occasion or other, in the frolic of the moment,

without in the least degree intending to annoy you, your husband may

toy, and laugh, and flirt, while in company, with some pretty girl

present. This generally makes a wife look foolish; and it would be

as well, nay, much better, if he did not do so. But let not a shade

of ill humour cross your brow, nor even by a glance give him or any

one present, reason to think his behaviour annoys you. Join in the

laugh and chat, and be not outdone in cheerfulness and good humour

by any of the party. But remember, gentle lady, there must be no

_acting_ in this affair: the effort must extend to your _mind_ as

well as your _manner_; and a moment's reasoning on the subject will

at once restore the banished sunshine. The incomparable Leighton

says, "The human heart is like a reservoir of clear water, at the

bottom of which lies a portion of _mud_: stir the mud, and the water

gets all sullied. In like manner does some strong passion or peevish

feeling rise in the heart, and stain and darken it as the mud does

the water." But should there be a prospect of your husband often

meeting with this lady in question, endeavour at once to break off

the intimacy by bringing forward some pretext consistent with truth

(for to _truth_ everything must be sacrificed), such as, You do not

like her; The intimacy is not what you would wish, &c. Never,

however, avow the _real_ reason: it will only produce discord, and

make your husband think you prone to jealousy--a suspicion a woman

cannot too carefully guard against. And there is often in men an

obstinacy which refuses to be conquered of all beings in the world

_by a wife_. A jealous wife (such is the erroneous opinion of the

ill-judging world) is generally considered a proper subject for

ridicule; and a woman ought assiduously to conceal from her husband,

more than from any one else, any feeling of the kind. Besides, after

all, gentle lady, your suspicions _may_ be totally groundless; and

you may possibly be tormenting yourself with a whole train of

imaginary evils. As you value your peace, then, keep from you, if

possible, all such vexatious apprehensions, and remember, a man can

very ill bear the idea of being suspected of inconstancy even when

_guilty_; but when _innocent_, it is intolerable to him.'

Dr. Boardman, in his excellent "Hints on Domestic Happiness," has

uttered a timely warning against the depraving influence of Clubs,

to which some young married men resort, to their own injury and the

destruction of domestic peace.

'I have to do, at present,' he says, 'with certain "avocations and

habits which contravene the true idea of home, and are prejudicial

to domestic happiness." I have spoken at some length, in this view,

of a life of fashionable dissipation, particularly in its influence

upon the female sex. The whole range of public amusements might

fairly be considered as within the sweep of my subject; but there is

one topic which it will not do to pass by. Equal justice ought, in a

series of lectures like this, to be meted out to both sexes; and I

feel bound to say a few words in respect to CLUBS.

One reason why I do this ha's been given. A second is, that in so

far as large cities are concerned, one can hardly sever the mental

association which links together Clubs and domestic happiness--or

unhappiness. I bring against these institutions no wholesale

denunciation. I neither say nor believe that all who belong to them

are men of profligate character. I cannot doubt that they comprise

individuals not only of high social standing, but of great personal

worth. But in dealing with the institutions themselves, I must be

permitted to express the conviction that they are unfavourable to

the culture of the domestic affections, and hurtful to the morals

and manners of society. That this is the common opinion respecting

them is beyond a question. Of the respectable people who pass by any

fashionable Club-House in an evening, the thoughts of a very large

proportion are probably directed, for the moment, with the most

intensity, to the homes of its tenantry, with the feeling, "Those

would be happier homes if this establishment were out of the way."

The mildest conception of these associations which any one can

insist upon, is that given by Mr. Addison, who says, "Our modern

celebrated Clubs are founded upon eating and drinking, which are

points wherein most men agree, and in which the learned and the

illiterate, the dull and the airy, the philosopher and the buffoon,

can all of them bear a part." They must be greatly scandalized if

billiards and cards do not enter as largely into the recreations

they supply, as eating and drinking. There must be _some_ potent

attractions which can draw a set of gentlemen away from all other

scenes and engagements, domestic and social, moral and religious,

literary and political, and hold them together to a late hour, for

many nights in succession. If it is social reading, the authors they

read may well be flattered with the honours paid them. If it is

conversation,

"The feast of reason and the flow of soul."

the talkers must have rare conversational powers. If it is politics,

the country must have zealous patriots among her sons. If it is

science, no wonder that under the pressure of this prodigious

research, the lightning lends its wings to knowledge, that the

subjugated earth hastens to reveal its deep _arcana_ to mortal eyes,

and that planet after planet should come forth out of the

unfathomable abyss of space, and submit to be measured, and weighed,

and chronicled, as their older sisters have been. But this is going

too far even for the charity which "believeth all things." Those who

have never been initiated into the _penetralia_ of these

institutions, know enough of them to be satisfied that they are not

precisely schools of science--or, if they are, that the sciences

they exult in, are not those which soar towards heaven, but those

which have to do with the auriferous bowels of the earth, and the

full-fed cattle upon its surface.

To come more directly to the point, the allegation made against

these Clubs--made in the name of ten thousand injured wives and

mothers and children--is, that they become a sort of RIVAL HOME to

the home _they_ occupy; that the influence they exert over their

members, loosens their domestic ties, indisposes them to their

domestic duties, and not unfrequently seduces them into habits of

intemperance and gambling. The clients I represent in this argument

contend that they are an unnecessary institution--that where

gentlemen wish to associate together for literary purposes, there

are always within their reach lyceums, athenaeums, libraries, and

societies without number; and that as to a social relaxation, it can

be had without setting up a quasi-monastery. They urge with truth

that any course of social amusements pursued systematically and

earnestly by a combination of gentlemen, to the exclusion of ladies,

will as really tend to impair, as the companionship of cultivated

women does to refine, the manners, and the sensibilities of the

heart; that, as a matter of fact, those who become addicted to these

coarser pleasures, lose their relish for the best female society;

and that the old home sinks in their esteem, as the new one rises.

These charges, which cannot be gainsayed, bear not only upon married

men, but young men; for the tastes and habits fostered by the Clubs,

are precisely those which go to alienate them from the paternal

roof, and to unfit them to become heads of families.

After noting down my own reflections on this subject, I met with

some observations upon it by an eminent female writer (the best

writer, probably, that sex has produced), which one portion of my

hearers, as least, will thank me for quoting: they are graphic,

forcible, and suggestive: "The Clubs generate and cherish luxurious

habits, from their perfect ease, undress, liberty, and inattention

to the distinctions of rank; they promote a love of play, and, in

short, every temper and spirit which tends to _undomesticate_; and

what adds to the mischief is, all this is attained at a cheap rate

compared with what may be procured at home in the same style. A

young man in such an artificial state of society, accustomed to the

voluptuous ease, refined luxuries, soft accommodations, obsequious

attendance, and all the unrestrained indulgences of a fashionable

Club, is not to be expected after marriage to take very cordially to

a _home_, unless very extraordinary exertions are made to amuse, to

attach, and to interest him; and he is not likely to lend a helping

hand to the union, whose most laborious exertions have hitherto been

little more than a selfish stratagem to reconcile health with

pleasure. Excess of gratification has only served to make him

irritable and exacting; it will, of course, be no part of his

project to make sacrifices--he will expect to receive them; and,

what would appear incredible to the _Paladins_ of gallant times, and

the _Chevaliers Preux_ of more heroic days, even in the necessary

business of establishing himself for life, he sometimes is more

disposed to expect attentions than to make advances." "These

indulgences, and this habit of mind, gratify so many passions, that

a woman can never hope successfully to counteract the evil by

supplying at home, gratifications which are of the same kind, or

which gratify the same habits. Now a passion for gratifying vanity,

and a spirit of dissipation, _is_ a passion of the same kind; and,

therefore, though for a few weeks, a man who has chosen his wife in

the public haunts of fashion, and this wife a woman made up of

accomplishments, may, from the novelty of the connexion and of the

scene, continue domestic; yet, in a little time she will find that

those passions to which she has trusted for making pleasant the

married life of her husband, will crave the still higher pleasures

of the Club; and while these are pursued, she will be consigned over

to solitary evenings at home, or driven back to the old

dissipations."

If there is any real foundation for these strictures, it cannot

excite your surprise that in vindicating the domestic constitution,

these associations should be arraigned and condemned as tending to

counteract its beneficent operation. The Family is a divine

ordinance. It is God's institution for training men. It is vitally

connected with the destinies of individuals and nations. Whatever

interferes, therefore, with its legitimate influence, must be

criminal in God's sight, and a great social evil. On this ground,

Clubs are to be reprobated. They are unfavourable to the domestic

virtues. They make no man a better husband or father, a better son

or brother. If some have mixed in them without being contaminated,

this is more than can be said of all. They have inspired many a man

with a disrelish for his home; have made many a young wife water her

couch with tears; and kept many a widowed mother walking her

parlours in lonely anguish till after midnight, awaiting the return

of her wayward son from the card-table. Does it become a community,

who would guard their homes as they do their altars, because they

know their altars will not long be worth guarding if their homes are

desecrated to encourage CLUBS?

The following should be read by every woman in the country, married

or unmarried--yes, it should be committed to memory and repeated

three times a day, for it contains more truth than many volumes that

have been written on the subject:--

'How often we hear a man say, I am going to California, Australia,

or somewhere else. You ask him the reason of his going away, and the

answer is, in nine cases out of ten, I am not happy at home. I have

been unfortunate in business, and I have made up my mind to try my

luck in California. The world seems to go against me. While fortune

favoured me, there were those whom I thought to be my friends, but

when the scale turned, they also turned the cold shoulder against

me. My wife, she that should have been the first to have stood by

me, and encourage me, was first to point the finger of scorn and

say, "It is your own fault; why has this or that one been so

fortunate? If you had attended to your business as they have, you

would not be where you are now." These and other like insinuations,

often drive a man to find other society, other pleasures, in

consequence of being unhappy at home. He may have children that he

loves, he cannot enjoy life with them as he would; he may love them

as dearly as ever; yet home is made unpleasant in consequence of

that cold indifference of the wife. Now, I would say to all such

wives, sisters, and in fact, all females, deal gently with him that

is in trouble; remember that he is very easily excited. A little

word, carelessly thrown out, may inflict a wound time never can

heal. Then be cautious; a man is but human--therefore he is liable

to err. If you see him going wrong, ever meet him with a smile, and

with the kiss of affection; show that you love him by repeated acts

of kindness; let your friendship be unbounded; try to beguile his

unhappy hours in pleasant conversation. By so doing, you may save

yourself and children from an unhappy future.

When a man is in trouble, it is but a little word that may ruin him;

it is but a little word that may save him.'

Marriage, says Jeremy Taylor, is the proper scene of piety and

patience; of the duty of parents and the charity of relations. Here

kindness is spread abroad, and love is united and made firm as a

centre. Marriage is the nursery of Heaven. The virgin sends prayers

to God, but she carries but one soul to him; but the state of

marriage fills up the numbers of the elect, and hath in it the

labour of love and the delicacies of friendship, the blessing of

society, and the union of hands and hearts. It hath in it less of

beauty but more of safety than the single life; it hath more ease

but less danger; it is more merry and more sad; it is fuller of

sorrows and fuller of joys; it lies under more burdens, but is

supported by all the strengths of love and charity, and those

burdens are delightful. Marriage is the mother of the world, and

preserves kingdoms, and fills cities and churches, and Heaven

itself. Celibole, like the fly in the heart of an apple, dwells in

perpetual sweetness, but sits alone, and is confined and dies in

singularity; but marriage, like the useful bee, builds a house, and

gathers sweetness from every flower, and labours and unites into

societies and republics, and sends out colonies, and feeds the world

with delicacies, and obeys their king, and keeps order, and

exercises many virtues, and promotes the interest of mankind, and is

that state of good things to which God hath designed the present

constitution of the world.

The every-day married lady is the inventor of a thing which few

foreign nations have as yet adopted either in their houses or

languages. This thing is "comfort." The word cannot well be defined;

the items that enter into its composition being so numerous, that a

description would read like a catalogue. We all understand however

what it means, although few of us are sensible of the source of the

enjoyment. A widower has very little comfort, and a bachelor, none

at all--while a married man, provided his wife be an every-day

married lady--enjoys it in perfection. But he enjoys it

unconsciously, and therefore ungratefully; it is a thing of

course--a necessary, a right, of the want of which he complains

without being distinctly sensible of its presence. Even when it

acquires sufficient intensity to arrest his attention, when his

features and his heart soften, and he looks round with a half smile

on his face, and says, "This is comfort!" it never occurs to him to

inquire where it all comes from. His every-day wife is sitting

quietly in the corner; it was not she who lighted the fire, or

dressed the dinner, or drew the curtains; and it never occurs to him

to think that all these, and a hundred other circumstances of the

moment, owe their virtue to her spiriting; and that the comfort

which enriches the atmosphere, which sparkles in the embers, which

broods in the shadowy parts of the room, which glows in his own full

heart, emanates from her, and encircles her like an aureola.

When once a woman is married, when once she has enlisted among the

matrons of the land; let not her fancy dream of perpetual

admiration; let her not be sketching out endless mazes of pleasure.

The mistress of a family has ceased to be a _girl_. She can no

longer be frivolous or childish with impunity. The _angel_ of

courtship has sunk into a _woman_; and that woman will be valued

principally as her fondness lies in retirement, and her pleasures in

the nursery of her children. And woe to the mother who is obliged to

abandon her children during the greater part of the day to

hirelings--no, not obliged; for there is no duty so imperious, no

social convenience or fashionable custom so commanding, as to oblige

her to such shameful neglect: _for maternal care, let her remember,

supercedes all other duties_.

In the matrimonial character which you have now assumed, gentle

lady, no longer let your fancy wander to scenes of pleasure or

dissipation. Let _home_ be now your _empire_, your _world_! Let

_home_ be now the sole scene of your wishes, your thoughts, your

plans, your exertions. Let _home_ be now the stage on which, in the

varied character of wife, of mother, and of mistress, you strive to

act and shine with splendour. In its sober, quiet scenes, let your

heart cast its anchor, let your feelings and pursuits all be

centred. And beyond the spreading oaks that shadow and shelter your

dwelling, let not your fancy wander. Leave to your husband to

distinguish himself by his valour or his talents. Do you seek for

fame at _home_; and let the applause of your God, of your husband,

of your children, and your servants, weave for your brow a

never-fading chaplet.

An ingenious writer says, "If a painter wished to draw the very

finest object in the world, it would be the picture of a wife, with

eyes expressing the serenity of her mind, and a countenance beaming

with benevolence; one hand lulling to rest on her bosom a lovely

infant, the other employed in presenting a moral page to a second

sweet baby, who stands at her knee, listening to the words of truth

and wisdom from its incomparable mother."

I am a peculiar friend to cheerfulness. Not that kind of

cheerfulness which the wise man calls the _mirth of fools_,--always

laughing and talking, exhausting itself in jests and puns, and then

sinking into silence and gloom when the object that inspired it has

disappeared. No--no! The cheerfulness I would recommend must belong

to the heart, and be connected with the temper, and even with the

principles. Addison says, "I cannot but look on a cheerful state of

mind as a constant, habitual gratitude to the great Author of

nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and

thanksgiving to Providence under all its dispensations: it is a kind

of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and a secret

approval of the Divine Will in his conduct towards us." I think

there is something very lovely in seeing a woman overcoming those

little domestic disquiets which every mistress of a family has to

contend with; sitting down to her breakfast-table in the morning

with a cheerful, smiling countenance, and endeavouring to promote

innocent and pleasant conversation among her little circle. But vain

will be her amiable efforts at cheerfulness, if she be not assisted

by her husband and the other members around; and truly it is an

unpleasant sight to see at family when collected together, instead

of enlivening the quiet scene with a little good-humoured chat,

sitting like so many statues, as if each was unworthy of the

attention of the other. And then, when a stranger comes in, O dear!

such smiles, and animation, and loquacity! "Let my lot be to please

at home," says the poet; and truly I cannot help feeling a

contemptuous opinion of those persons, young or old, male or female,

who lavish their good humour and pleasantry in company, and hoard up

sullenness and silence for the sincere and loving group which

compose their fireside.

They do not behold home with the same eyes as did the writer of the

following lines:--

"'Home's the resort of love, of joy, of peace;''

So says the bard, and so say truth and grace;

Home is the scene where truth and candour move,

The only scene of _true_ and genuine _love_.

'To balls, and routs for fame let others roam,

Be mine the happier lot to please at home.'

Clear then the stage: no scenery we require,

Save the snug circle round the parlour fire;

And enter, marshall'd in procession fair,

Each happier influence that governs there!

First, Love, by Friendship mellow'd into bliss,

Lights the warm glow, and sanctifies the kiss;

When, fondly welcomed to the accustom'd seat,

In sweet complacence wife and husband meet;

Look mutual pleasure, mutual purpose share,

Repose from labours to unite in care!

Ambition! Does Ambition there reside?

Yes: when the boy, in manly mood astride,

With ruby lip and eyes of sweetest blue,

And flaxen locks, and cheeks of rosy hue,

(Of headstrong prowess innocently vain),

Canters;--the jockey of his father's cane:

While Emulation in the daughter's heart

Bears a more mild, though not less powerful, part,

With zeal to shine her little bosom warms,

And in the romp the future housewife forms:

Think how Joy animates, intense though meek,

The fading roses on their grandame's cheek,

When, proud the frolic children to survey,

She feels and owns an interest in their play;

Tells at each call the story ten times told,

And forwards every wish their whims unfold."

"To be agreeable, and even entertaining, in our family circle," says

a celebrated writer, "is not only a positive duty, but an absolute

morality."

We cannot help quoting the following passage from Miss H. More, as

an admirable illustration of true sweetness of temper, patience, and

self-denial--qualities so essential in a wife and mistress of a

family:--"Remember, that life is not entirely made up of great

evils, or heavy trials, but that the perpetual recurrence of petty

evils and small trials is the ordinary and appointed exercise of

Christian graces. To bear with the feelings of those about us, with

their infirmities, their bad judgments, their ill-breeding, their

perverse tempers--to endure neglect where we feel we have deserved

attention, and ingratitude where we expected thanks--to bear with

the company of disagreeable people, whom Providence has placed in

our way, and whom he has perhaps provided on purpose for the trial

of our virtue--these are the best exercise; and the better because

not chosen by ourselves. To bear with vexations in business, with

disappointments in our expectations, with interruptions in our

retirement, with folly, intrusion, disturbance, in short, with

whatever opposes our will and contradicts our humour--this habitual

acquiescence appears to be the very essence of self-denial. These

constant, inevitable, but inferior evils, properly improved, furnish

a good moral discipline, and might well, in the days of ignorance,

have superseded pilgrimage and penance." Another remark of the same

author is also excellent: "To sustain a fit of sickness may exhibit

as true a heroism as to lead an army. To bear a deep affliction

well, calls for as high exertion of soul as to storm a town; and to

meet death with Christian resolution, is an act of courage in which

many a woman has triumphed, and many a philosopher, and even some

generals, have failed."

THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.

"I allude to that false and contemptible kind of decision which we

term _obstinacy_;--a stubbornness of temper which can assign no

reasons but mere will, for a constancy which acts in the nature of

dead weight, rather than strength-resembling less the reaction of a

powerful spring, than the gravitation of a big stone."

FOSTER'S ESSAYS.

"I HAVE said, Mrs. Wilson, that it is my will to have it so, and I

thought you knew me well enough to know that my will is unalterable.

Therefore, if you please, let me hear no more about it."

"But, my dear husband, the boy--"

"_But_, madam, I assure you there is no room for _buts_ in the

matter. Am I not master of my own house, and fully capable of

governing it?"

"Yes, certainly, my dear, only I happen to know something about this

school, which I think would influence you in forming a judgment, if

you would listen to me for a moment."

"My judgment is already formed, madam, and is not likely to be

altered by anything a woman could say. You may be a very good judge

of the merits of a pudding, or the size of a stocking, but this is a

matter in which I do not wish for any advice."

So Master James Wilson, a little, delicate, backward boy of ten

years, was sent to a large public school, in which the amount of

study required was so much beyond his ability, and the rules so

severe, that the heavy penalties daily incurred, seriously affected

both his health and happiness. It was with an aching heart that the

fond mother saw him creeping slowly to school in the morning with a

pale and dejected countenance, and returning home, fatigued in body,

soured in spirit, and rapidly learning to detest the very sight of

his books, as the instruments of his wretchedness. The severity of

the husband and father had in this instance produced its usual

unhappy effect, by tempting Mrs. Wilson to injudicious indulgence of

her son in private, and the perpetual oscillations between the

extremes of harshness and fondness thus experienced, rendered the

poor boy a weak and unprincipled character, anxious only to escape

the consequences of wrongdoing, without any regard to the motives of

his conduct.

Not many months after his entrance into the public school, he was

violently thrown to the ground during recess, by an older boy, and

his limb so much injured by the fall, that a long and dangerous

illness was the consequence. Mrs. Wilson was extremely desirous to

try the effects of the cold water treatment on the diseased limb,

but her husband had adopted a system of his own, composed of all the

most objectionable features of other systems, and would not

relinquish such an opportunity of testing his skill as a physician.

The child was accordingly steamed and blistered until the

inflammation became frightful; and then cupping, leeching, &c., were

resorted to, without any other effect than greatly to reduce the

strength of the patient.

"Husband," Mrs. Wilson ventured at last to say, "the poor child is

getting worse every day; and if he lives through it, will, I fear,

lose his limb; will you not try what Dr. S. can do with the

cold-water treatment?"

"If I could be astonished at any degree of folly on the part of a

woman," was his reply, "I should be surprised at such a question. I

am doing what I think best for the boy, and you are well aware that

my mind was long since made up about the different systems of

medicine. Do you confine yourself to nursing the child, and leave

his treatment to me."

Ah, this domestic "making up one's mind!" It is a process easily and

often rapidly gone through, but its consequences are sometimes so

far-reaching and abiding, that we may well tremble as we hear the

words carelessly pronounced.

After a period of intense suffering, James Wilson rose from his

sick-bed, but he had lost for ever the use of the injured limb; and

his mother could not but feel that it was in consequence of the

ignorant and barbarous treatment he had received. But remonstrance

was vain; the law of the Medes and Persians was not more unalterable

than that which regulated the household of Mr. Wilson, not only in

matters of consequence, but in the smallest details of domestic

economy.

A new cooking apparatus had long been needed in the kitchen of Mr.

Wilson, and as this was a matter clearly within her province, his

wife hoped she might be able to procure a range which had often been

declared indispensable by her domestics. But in this, she was doomed

to be disappointed. Her husband remembered the cooking-stove which

had been the admiration of his childhood, and resolved, if a change

must be made, to have one of that identical pattern in his own

house.

"But your mother's stove, though a good one for those days," said

Mrs. Wilson, "was one of the first invented, and destitute of most

of the conveniences which now accompany them. It consumed, beside,

double the amount of fuel required in one of the modern stoves."

"What an absurd idea! A stove is a stove. I take it, and what was

good enough for my mother is good enough for my wife. That which

answered all the purposes of cooking in so large a family as my

father's, might suffice, I should imagine, in our small one. At any

rate, I choose to get this pattern, and therefore no more be said on

the subject."

It was nothing to Mr. Wilson, that the expenditure of fuel, and

time, and labour was so greatly increased by his arrangement--it was

nothing that his wife was constantly annoyed by complaints, threats,

and changes in her kitchen, or that several mortifying failures in

her _cuisine_ had resulted from the obstinate refusal of the oven to

bake--what was all this to the luxury of having his own way in his

own house?

But the pleasures of absolutism are not unalloyed. Mr. Wilson, like

other despots, was obeyed only from necessity; and whenever an

opportunity occurred of cheating him, it was generally improved. His

wife was a quiet, timid woman, with no pretensions to brilliancy of

intellect, but possessing what is far better, good common sense, a

warm heart, and tastes and feelings thoroughly domestic. With a

different husband--one who understood her disposition, and would

have encouraged her to rely on her own judgment, and to act with

energy and efficiency, she would have made a useful and happy wife

and mother; but as it was, neglected and regarded as a mere

household drudge--with all her warm affections chilled and driven

back upon her own heart--she became a silent schemer, an adroit

dissimulator, seeking only (in self-defence as she believed) to

carry out her own plans as often as possible, in spite of her lord

and master.

Mr. Bennet, the neighbour and friend of Mr. Wilson, was shocked at

the petty tyranny he evinced, and thanked his stars that he knew

better than to follow such an example. Though so long accustomed to

consult only his own inclinations (for Mr. Bennet married late in

life), he took pleasure in referring everything to the choice of his

amiable companion, only reserving to himself the privilege of the

veto, that indispensable requisite to a "proper balance of power."

Let us intrude on the conjugal _tete-a-tete_, the first year after

marriage, that we may better understand the meaning of this

"reserved right." The parties were about to commence housekeeping,

and the subject under consideration was the renting of a house.

"Which of those houses do you intend to take?" inquired the wife.

"Just which you prefer, my dear. I wish you to please yourself in

the matter."

"Well, then, if I may choose, I shall say the cottage by all

means--the other house is sadly out of repair, much larger than we

need, and will require so much furniture to make it comfortable."

"I am rather surprised at your choice, my dear--the rooms at the

cottage are so small, and those in the other house so large and

airy--do as you please, but I must say I am surprised. Such nice

airy rooms."

"But they are gloomy and dilapidated, and will require so much

expense to make them comfortable. Still, if you prefer them--"

"Oh, that is nothing, you are to choose, you know, but I dislike

small, confined rooms, and the cottage is nothing but a

bird's-nest."

"Do you not remember how we used to admire it when Mrs. Murray lived

there?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly, take it if you like; but the rooms are so

small, and I never can breathe in a small room. Those in the large

house are just the right size, and not at all gloomy in my eyes; but

of course do as you please. I rather wonder at your choice,

however."

"Well, then, what do you say to the new house on the hill? That is

neither too large nor too small, and it is such a convenient

distance from your office; besides the grounds are delightful. I

could be very happy there."

"Really, Mrs. Bennet, you have a singular taste. The neighbourhood

is, I dare say, detestable, and the dampness of the walls, the smell

of new paint, and a hundred other things, would be hard to bear.

Notwithstanding, if you choose the new house, we will take it; but

the rooms in the other tenement are so large and airy, and I do so

like large rooms--well, what do you say?"

With a suppressed sigh, the young wife answered--"I think, on the

whole, we had better take the large house."

"I was sure you would come over to my opinion!" was the husband's

exulting exclamation; "see what it is to have a sensible wife, and

an accommodating husband."

The large house was taken, and various were the discomforts

experienced by Mrs. Bennet in her new abode. The chimneys smoked,

the rain came in through numerous crevices in the roof, and the wide

halls, and lofty apartments, many of which were unfurnished, struck

a chill to the heart of the lonely wife, who, if she visited them

after sunset, trembled at the sound of her own footfalls echoing

through the house. But she made few complaints, and Mr. Bennet, even

if aware of some trifling annoyances, was happy in the consciousness

that he had magnanimously submitted to his wife the choice of a

habitation. Fortunately for him, that wife was a woman of sense,

firmness, and principle, who studied her husband's peculiarities

that she might as far as possible adapt herself to them; though, it

must be confessed, the attempt was often fruitless, and she was

compelled to acknowledge to her own heart, that the open assumption

of authority is not the only way in which domestic despotism

manifests itself.

When Mr. Bennet became a father, in the first gush of parental

emotion he forgot even the exercise of the _veto_, in reference to

the arrangements for the comfort of the little stranger, so that for

a few weeks the happy mother carried out her own plans without any

interference.

"Have you decided on a name for this dear little girl?" said Mrs.

Bennet, as they sat together, one morning, caressing the object of

so many hopes, and of so much affection.

"I wish you to name her, my dear," he replied; "it is your privilege

to do so."

"I should like to call her Mary, if you have no objection--it is the

name of my mother, therefore very dear to me."

"Is it possible you can like that common name so well? For my part I

am tired of the very sight and sound of it. It can be nicknamed,

too, and Molly, you must confess, is not very euphonious. I hoped

you might choose the name of Ruth: it is a scriptural name, simple

and sweet."

"It happens, unfortunately, to be one I particularly dislike, but as

you do not like Mary, perhaps we can select one in which we shall

both agree. What do you say to Martha? It is our sister's name, and

a scriptural one also," she added, with a smile.

"Oh, I should never think of anything but Patty. Surely you could

select a better name than that. Ruth is much prettier--what a pity

you do not like it! I admire it greatly; but my taste is not much.

Well, please yourself, only I am sorry you cannot fancy Ruth."

"How would you like Lucy? There can be no objection to that on the

score of nicknames, and it is easily spoken."

"Yes, and so is Polly, if that were all. But you must think of some

other name beside Lucy. I once knew a girl of that name who was my

perfect aversion, and she has spoiled it for me. Ruth is the best

name, after all, pity you cannot think so. But choose something

else, if you please."

Various were the names suggested by Mrs. Bennet, and rejected by her

husband, some on one ground, and some on another, still with the

same ending--"I wish you could like Ruth"--until wearied by the

discussion, and hopeless of gaining anything by its continuance, she

replied to his request that she would please herself--

"Let her be called Ruth, if you prefer it."

"How delighted I am that we are always of the same opinion at

last--it quite repays me for the concession some might imagine me to

make in submitting these things to the judgment of my wife."

As years passed on, and matters of greater importance came up for

decision, Mrs. Bennet was sometimes compelled from principle to

abide by her own opinion, though at an expense of personal comfort

which few could appreciate. She had yielded so long and so often to

the wearisome pertinacity of her husband, that when she first dared

to do what he had always boasted of permitting, he could hardly

credit his senses.

"Do you really mean," he inquired one day, long after the scene we

have just described, "to forbid young Barton's visiting our

children?"

"Did you not tell me to do just as I pleased about it?"

"Yes, to be sure--but I thought you would of course take my advice

about it, as usual."

"I could not, because I know, what you do not, that young Barton is

a depraved and dangerous character, and Ruth and Harry are just of

an age to be attracted by the false glitter of his external

advantages. Where the temporal and eternal welfare of my children is

concerned, my dear husband, you must allow me to follow my own

convictions of duty. In all things where conscience is not

concerned, I shall, as I have uniformly done, yield my own

preference and wishes to yours."

"Well," said Mr. Bennet to himself, as he turned away, "women are

inexplicable beings, and I begin to think neighbour Wilson's way of

managing them is better than mine, after all. If you give them even

a loophole to creep out at, they will be sure, sooner or later, to

rebel openly, and set up for themselves. I am too old to change now,

but if I were to begin life again, I would manage so as to secure

submission from my wife on all points. It is the only way to

preserve domestic harmony."

It was at the close of a lovely day in the "month of roses," that

Robert Manly brought his youthful bride to their own pleasant home,

and for the fist time, welcomed her as its mistress. They were both

very happy, for young love shed its roseate hues over all around,

and they had just spoken those solemn words which bound them to each

other, in joy and sorrow, sickness and health, prosperity and

adversity, till separated by death.

"What a paradise it is!" exclaimed the delighted Ellen; "I shall

want nothing on earth, but the occasional society of my friends, to

render my felicity complete."

A kiss was the only reply of the husband, as he gazed tenderly on

the bright face so fondly upturned to his own, for though he had

early learned the sad lesson of which she was yet ignorant, that

perfect and abiding happiness is not the growth of earth, he could

not rudely dispel her dream of bliss, by reflections that must have

seemed unsuited to the occasion. Young as he was, Robert Manly had

been trained in the school of adversity, and its stern but valuable

lessons had not been thrown away upon him. The only son of his

mother, and she a widow, he had been compelled, almost in childhood,

to depend upon his own exertions for support, and, carefully guarded

by his excellent parent from evil companions and influences, had

early established a character for energy and integrity, which was

worth more to him than thousands of gold and silver. He was now a

partner in the respectable mercantile firm which he had first

entered as a poor and friendless clerk; and was reaping the rich

reward of uprightness and honour, in the confidence and respect of

all with whom he was associated in business. While still very young,

he formed an attachment for the daughter of his employer, a lovely,

dark-eyed girl, whose sweet voice and, endearing attentions to the

lonely boy won his heart, before he had thought of regarding her in

any other light than that of a playful and engaging child. She had

grown up to womanhood at his side, and every year strengthened the

tie that bound them to each other, though he could not but feel with

pain, that the education she was receiving was far from being a

useful or rational one. As the youngest of a large family, and the

pet and plaything of the whole, Ellen was trained in the very lap of

luxury and indulgence; and her lover was compelled to admit to

himself, that however highly educated, amiable, and accomplished she

might be, she was wholly ignorant of many things pertaining to her

duties as the mistress of a family. To his mother, the dear

confidant of all his joys and sorrows, he expressed his

apprehensions on this subject.

"Have you committed yourself, my son?" she inquired.

"Certainly, in honour, and in fact. I love Ellen with all my heart,

and have no doubt that her native strength of character, and

affection for me, will make her all I could desire, when once she

feels the necessity for exertion."

"Youth is always sanguine," was the reply; "however, my dear boy,

from my heart I pray that your hopes be fulfilled. I regret that you

have chosen a wife who will have everything to learn after marriage,

but the choice is made, and much will now depend on yourself, as

regards the result. You will find that deficiency of knowledge in

domestic matters, on the part of a wife, materially affects the

comfort and happiness of her husband; and if, on feeling this, you

become impatient and ill-humoured, this will discourage and alienate

her, and the almost certain loss of domestic happiness will be the

consequence. On the contrary kindness and encouragement on your

part, if she is what you think her, will be a constant stimulus to

exertion, and thus in time all your expectations may be realized.

Fortunately, you have been brought up by an old-fashioned mother,

who believed that boys might be made useful at home, and have

learned much that will be of advantage to you both in a home of your

own. Never forget, my son, that a kind expression of your wishes

will do far more to influence the conduct of a woman of sense who

loves you, than harshness or rebuke. The power of gentleness is

always irresistible, when brought to bear on noble and generous

minds."

The lesson thus given, was not forgotten or disregarded. Soon, after

his marriage, young Manly found that, lovely, accomplished, and

intelligent as she was, his wife was wholly incompetent to the task

of managing a household; and when, by the discharge of a worthless

servant, they were for the first time left alone, her perplexity and

helplessness would have been ridiculous, had not the subject been

too serious to be thus disposed of. As it was, he lost neither his

spirits nor his temper, but cheerfully and hopefully sought, through

her affections, to rouse her to exertion.

"I am certain there is nothing about the house you cannot do as well

as others," he said to her as she was lamenting her deficiencies,

"if you will only make the attempt; and the plainest food would be

far sweeter to me prepared by my wife, than the most costly

delicacies from any other hand. Our united skill will, I have no

doubt, prove a fair substitute for the help we have lost, until we

can procure more valuable assistance."

Thus encouraged, the young wife, with tears and smiles contending on

her sunny face, commenced the work of practical housekeeping, and,

though her mistakes and failures were almost innumerable, had made

so much progress before another girl was found, that she was deeply

interested in her duties, and determined to understand them

thoroughly. The next time her kitchen was left vacant (for in our

country these things are constantly happening), she was in a measure

independent, and it was one of the proudest moments of her life,

when she placed before her husband bread of her own making, which he

pronounced the most delicious he had ever eaten. Let not my young

readers suppose that Mrs. Manly sacrificed any part of her

refinement by becoming a skilful and useful housewife. She still

dearly loved music, and drawing, and literature, and communion with

cultivated minds, and was not less a lady in the parlour because she

had learned the uses and importance of the kitchen. But we will let

her speak for herself, of the change wrought in her habits and

views, in a conversation with the mother of her beloved Robert.

"Will you not now come to us," she said, "and take up your abode

with us permanently? If you knew how much and how long we have both

wished it, I am sure you would not refuse.

"I do know it, my dear," replied the venerable matron, "but I have

hitherto refused, because I thought it best for you both, to learn

to depend on your own resources as early as possible. I knew too

that a young housekeeper, to whom everything is strange and new,

might find it embarrassing to have an old woman in so, near a

relation, always looking on, and noticing defects should any happen

to exist. I have therefore, until now, preferred remaining by

himself, but I have not been estranged from you in heart. I have

watched with the most intense interest your whole course thus far,

and, my beloved child, I can no longer withhold the need of

approbation which is so justly your due. I own, I trembled for the

happiness of my dear son, when I learned that his choice had fallen

on a fashionably educated young lady, like yourself, but I knew not

as he did, the sterling worth of character concealed beneath that

glittering exterior. The God of his fathers has indeed been gracious

to him, in giving him a treasure whose price is above rubies, even a

virtuous woman, in whom his heart can safely trust."

"Oh, my dear mother!" exclaimed the young wife, while tears choked

her utterance, "you would not say so if you knew all--if you knew

how entirely I owe everything that I now am, and all my present

happiness, to the generous forbearance, the delicate kindness of my

beloved husband. He has borne with my ignorance and helplessness,

encouraged my first miserable attempts to do right, and soothed and

praised me when ready to despair of ever becoming what I ought to

be. He has taught me that the true end and aim of life is not to

seek my own enjoyment, but the good of others, and the glory of my

Father in Heaven. From my inmost soul I thank you for training up

such a son and such a husband, and earnestly pray that I may be

enabled so to guide my own darling boy, that some heart may thus be

blessed by my exertions, as mine has been by your maternal care and

faithfulness, for my own experience has convinced me that the

training of the boy has far more to do with forming the character of

the husband, than all other influences combined."

THE END.