partner an entire reliance on his affection, and a thorough persuasion
that he is disposed to the full amount of his power to promote
her comfort. Let him not think it beneath him to take an interest
in her domestic arrangements: by showing that he does so, he will
make her sensible that her efforts to render home pleasing are not
unappreciated; her labour for that end will be redoubled, and yet
prove more light to her. As he must be abroad the greater part of the
day, let him not deprive her of his company in the hours of leisure
that business leaves him. A man cannot altogether seclude himself from
the world in the bosom of his family; neither can he always carry his
wife along with him: but he must not for a light reason allow himself
to be detained from her society. A woman’s hours are often lonely;
and after she has bestowed her whole cares for a day to set her house
in order, and anxiously awaits her husband’s return, in the hope of
enjoying a few hours of mutually endearing converse by the cheerful
hearth, if she have to watch every approaching footstep in vain, it
is a cruel disappointment. One of the greatest sins which the husband
can commit, is that of making a practice of staying out late at night,
which, though not reckoned among the usual catalogue of crimes against
social life, is one of those most worthy of reprobation. The mental
anguish endured by many excellent wives from this infamous practice,
no one can picture unless he have witnessed it. There, by the lonely
hearth—the fire sunk to a cinder and a mass of ashes—the candle verging
to its close in the socket—the dingy silent apartment strewed with the
toys and furniture of the children, sent hours since to bed—there, in
the midst of this domestic wilderness sits the drooping, desponding,
almost broken-hearted wife, counting the hours, and conning over
in her wearied mind the numbers of times she has been so deserted,
and foreseeing the still greater misery which awaits her by such a
course of profligacy in her husband. And for what, may we ask, has
the master of the household thus deserted his home?—the company of
hollow friends, idle acquaintances, perhaps drunkards or gamblers,
whose witless jocularity forms the temptation to abandon a good name,
fortune, worldly respectability, and self-esteem. None but the wife who
has endured trials of this nature can properly understand the horrors
resulting from such a life of folly and dissipation.
Every reader must be delighted with the beautiful excuse, which, among
others, Sir Thomas More makes why he did not publish his Utopia sooner.
It shows us how important that great man considered an attentive
performance of the minor duties of life to be. “Seeing that almost the
whole of the day is devoted to business abroad, and the remainder of my
time to domestic duties, there is none left for myself—that is, for my
studies. For, on returning home, I have to talk with my wife, prattle
with my children, and converse with my servants: all which things
I number among the duties of life; since, if a man would not be a
stranger in his own house, he must, by every means in his power, strive
to render himself agreeable to those companions of his life whom nature
has provided, chance thrown in his way, or that he has himself chosen.”
The husband must not accustom himself to form resolutions, and, without
previously consulting his wife, make a sudden declaration of his
purposes, in the same way as he would casually mention to a neighbour
a plan, the execution of which he is just on the point of commencing.
Even although such resolutions may be come to in a spirit of wisdom, to
determine upon any measure without her participation argues a want of
confidence in her affection and judgment, and cannot fail greatly to
distress and discourage her. Granting that there are some matters of
which the husband is the most competent judge, and that his wife cannot
aid or improve his schemes, still she ought to be made acquainted with
them, and the reasons for them, as far as possible; for it is only
proper that the wife should be admitted to the satisfaction of knowing
what is expected to produce advantage to her husband. As to what some
write, that women are not fit to be entrusted with great affairs, it
may have been true in the cases which gave occasion to the remark,
where the object involved a course of crooked policy, or where the
ear to which the secret was committed was that of a female from whom
fidelity was scarcely in any case to be expected. If a man’s designs
be bad, the best way for success in them is to make the disclosure to
nobody—least of all to women; to whom, if they be depraved, how can
he trust? and if they be not thoroughly hardened in wickedness, how
much less can he trust to them, seeing that, being of much tenderer
consciences than men, they are always more ready to relent! But if
he would make his way in the world by fair and honest practices, a
husband can have no better counsellor than his wife: her stretch of
understanding may not be so masculine as to embrace the subject in all
its more important bearings, but, in the lesser details of management,
her advice may prove invaluable.
Without a constant and unreserved interchange of sentiments, a
constant and perfect cordiality cannot be maintained; and then,
indeed, when things are communicated only by fits and starts, and
perhaps never more than half explained, leaving an impression that
her discretion is distrusted, the wife will be more apt to carry
them abroad, to endeavour, by the help of other wits than her own,
to penetrate what is concealed, and in the hope of finding, in the
sympathy of others, consolation for the want of confidence with which
she is treated at home. It is thus that a man becomes by degrees
“a stranger in his own house.” His domestic behaviour is observed
with the same distant caution with which his conduct in public is
scrutinised; and as in all likelihood he does not take the same pains
to produce a favourable impression, and is not equally on his guard to
obviate misinterpretations of what he says and does, he must appear
proportionably less amiable; and as the endearments of domestic life
are in consequence withdrawn, the bad effects of his unsocial humour
are at last felt in his own discomfort.
“Those that are curious observers of mankind,” says a Christian
philosopher, who is not so generally known as might be expected from
the excellence of his writings, “love to consider them in the most
familiar lights. When men are abroad, they choose to appear (whatever
they really are) to the best advantage; but at home, their minds, as
well as their persons, are in a perfect undress and dishabille. The
world is the great theatre on which they act a part; but, behind the
scenes, they may be seen in their proper persons, without any studied
appearances. Our domestic behaviour is, therefore, the main test of our
virtue and good nature. In public, we may carry a fair outside; our
love may be not without dissimulation nor our hatred without disguise;
but at home, Nature, left to itself, shows its true and genuine face,
with an unreserved openness, and all the soul stands forth to view,
without any veil thrown over it. There we see men in all the little and
minute circumstances of life, which, however they may be overlooked by
common observers, yet give a man of discernment a truer opening into a
man’s real character, than the more glaring and important transactions
of it, because, as to these, they are more upon their guard—they act
with more of caution and of art than of plain simple nature. In short,
our good or ill breeding is chiefly seen abroad, our good or ill nature
at home. It were to be wished that we had more family pieces preserved
and transmitted down to us. The good public magistrate is of use to few
only; but the prudent and affectionate father of a family is of a more
general and extensive influence. For my part, I more admire Cornelius,
the centurion, for that short sketch of his character, viz. that he
was a devout man, and one that feared God, _with all his house_, than
if he had been represented as the most victorious general that had
enlarged the bounds of the Roman empire; for we learn from it this
useful lesson—that the influence of a pious example, like the precious
ointment from Aaron’s beard, descends downwards from the head of the
family, diffuses itself over the main body, till it reaches the very
skirts—the lowest members of it.”
THEY.
Before saying a word upon the subject, I must make an apology similar
to that presented by honest Andro Symson, episcopal minister of a
Galloway parish before the Revolution, when, in singing the praises of
Sir David Dunbar of Baldoon, he says, his muse
——’gainst Priscian avers,
_He_, HE ALONE, _were my parishioners_.
As good Andro’s congregation of one required to be spoken of in the
plural, so do my friends THEY need to be mentioned in the singular
number. The truth is, THEY is a collective ideality, a most potent
plural unit, who does a great many remarkable things in the world,
without ever being called to account for them, and without any body
knowing very distinctly who or what he is. I venture to say, that
hardly a subject of his Majesty does not, day by day, refer events
and deeds to the agency of THEY, and yet never has presumed, to this
blessed hour, to consider who this mysterious personage—this great
unknown—this finer spirit than Ariel—can be. In very truth, he is
a most impalpable being, and susceptible of a wonderful variety of
shapes. There is no height of greatness, and no depth of degradation,
which he may not arrive at. Sometimes one would suppose that he is
the government itself—sometimes, only a town council. One of THEY’S
employments is the disposal of criminals. “Are THEY going to hang this
fellow?” one man will ask another. “Perhaps THEY will only banish him,”
is the probable answer. If the culprit be not decently and humanely
hanged, the people get dreadfully enraged at THEY, and look as if they
would almost tear his eyes out. THEY also has a great deal to do in
public works. “Why did THEY make the road so crooked?” “THEY have put
up a very absurd set of street lamps, I see.” “What, in wonder’s name,
do THEY mean by building a temple up there, like a boy’s peerie, or
an hour-glass?” Then THEY is the author of all kinds of rumours and
surmises. “They say—what say they—let them say!” is an inscription on
a wall within Aberdeen Cathedral four hundred years old; and I do not
doubt that THEY would have given currency to scandals regarding the
mother of mankind herself, in Paradise, if there had been any other
lady to tell them to—or if THEY had then existed. Old newspapers say,
“THEY write from St Petersburg that the Empress Catharine is about to
fit out an armament for the Caspian.” “THEY talk at Rome of a change
of councils in the Vatican.” Modern quidnuncs are also filled to the
brim with things which THEY has been circulating. “THEY are now making
out Lord —— to be _non compos_.” “THEY will have a marriage to be on
the tapis between SO-AND-SO and SO-AND-SO;” personages, by the way, who
claim a sort of kindred with THEY, and certainly are of imagination
all compact. THEY is sometimes admired for his power, sometimes blamed
for his stinginess. “THEY used to write capital solid books long ago.”
“THEY used Burns very ill when he was alive.” It certainly was bad of
THEY to treat Burns so scurvily; but unfortunately the fellow is so
utterly impersonal, that we blame without knowing what we are doing.
THEY has a great deal to do with the _naming_ of things. He may be
called, in arithmetical language, the _Grand Denominator_. Indeed, I
do not believe that Adam himself named more things than THEY. “What
do THEY call this place?” one will ask a coachman, on nearing a town,
village, or gentleman’s seat. “THEY call it Ashbourne,” or whatever
else, is the reply. “What do THEY call ye?” is the ordinary question
of a rustic boy to his unknown companion, and so forth. THEY is also
the grand censor of all things which happen in the world. “I will
not do this, for what would THEY say of me?” is a common expression,
when a man hesitates upon some equivocal step. He may be convinced,
from irrefragable data, of the propriety of what he contemplates:
but then he could not convince THEY of it, and, of course, in these
circumstances, he must let the scheme drop. THEY thus prevents many
things that would be bad, many things that would be only strange, and
many things that would certainly be good, if he could be convinced
of it. A most uncompromising fellow is this THEY! He knows very well
that he cannot enter into another man’s bosom, to see all the various
reasons and tendencies which lead him towards the thing he aims at;
but, nevertheless, presuming that he is quite omniscient, or at least
fully as well acquainted with every other particular man’s business
as his own, he never hesitates to give a decided contradiction to any
proposal he is not, at first sight, pleased with. Many are the good
original schemes which THEY has spoilt, from a hasty conclusion without
premises.
THEY, also, amidst all his multitudinous and most Protean varieties of
character, is a general scapegoat for all the mischief that is done in
a household. “I see THEY have cracked that decanter.” “THEY have at
last made an end of the globe in the lobby.” Or, as I once heard said
by the lady of a house afflicted with a breaking woman-servant, “I
declare THEY have broken the very kitchen poker!”—a compound fracture,
too, it was. Such are a few of the doings of THEY in his household
capacity; and it must be owned that in this light he is very great,
and often comes above-board. The grandest aspect, however, in which
THEY ever appears, is when he stands up as a representative of the
government of the country. “THEY are going, I see, to bring us into
a war with France.” “THEY intend, it seems, to resume cash payments
at the Bank.” No matter whether the affair refers to privilege or
prerogative; no matter for the claims of the particular officer
under whose hands it ought to fall; King, Lords, Commons, Treasury,
Admiralty, and Horse Guards—all melt, like mixed colours, into the
single white light of THEY! Things may be different under the Reform
Bill; but, heretofore, there has hardly been any precise government but
THEY. THEY crowns the king—signs the orders of council—passes all bills
through the legislature that _will_ go through—fits out armies, and
rigs fleets—makes war, and concludes peace—is church and state—Swing
and the Press. THEY is a being of past history, and of present
existence—a tyrant, or the people. THEY is the great despot pronoun of
the _world_!
RELATIONS.
Owing to the different merits of the different members of a family, and
in some measure, also, to the various chances which are vouchsafed to
them of bettering their circumstances, we generally see that, though
they all begin alike, some go _up_ and some go _down_ in life, so that
in the long-run the family, or at least its second generation, is
scattered over nearly the whole surface of society, from its top to its
bottom. The case may seem startling; but it is our belief that there is
hardly any person, be his own situation ever so exalted, who has not
relations, and near relations too, in the very lowest walks of life—not
only in the condition of servants, perhaps, for that is decent, and,
in its way, respectable, but in the most degraded state to which human
nature can well be reduced.
In the same way, almost all of us have kinsfolk a little higher in
the scale than ourselves, or whom we think so—it is all one. Now,
it is quite amazing how accurate our genealogical knowledge becomes
respecting one of these individuals, compared with its equally
surprising ignorance regarding those who have not been so fortunate.
When a cousin or half grand-uncle rises above our level, he rises
into a blaze of light, which enables us to trace our connection with
him as plainly as we run our eye along the string of a boy’s kite. But
when a poor nephew or grand-nephew descends into poverty and contempt,
he seems like a plummet submersed in the ocean, where, though we may
occasionally feel him tugging at the bottom of the line, we are totally
unable to trace the line itself. We are always most laudably ready to
exchange the civilities of life and the affections of kindred with
the cousin who has, in the first place, convinced us of his merit by
thatching himself well over with bank-notes. It is pleasant to go and
dine at a kinsman’s house, where we know that our entertainment can be
furnished without any distress to our worthy host. But really it is a
totally different case to intrude upon a scene where our poor friend
is doing his best, with the tears in his eyes, to satisfy the cravings
of his family with, perhaps, a very homely meal. Humanity in that case
demands that we should rather stay away, for we know he does not like
to be seen in his poor state. And then, too, how easily we can put up
with the eccentricities of a wealthy relation, even though they may
sometimes gall our pride a little: how strangely liable, on the other
hand, are we to fall out with the poor unfortunates below us! On the
day after having been regaled to the uttermost excess by our wealthy
friend, we will quarrel with the poor one for having drunk a single
glass of some plebeian fluid. With the former, nothing—with the latter,
every thing, is a fault. The imperfections of the poor are yawning
and palpable as their own rags: those of the rich are as smooth as
broad-cloth can make them. The truth is, our senses can tolerate almost
any odious or improper thing that is found in a scene above our usual
grade in the world. We never know enough of it to be able to measure
its real odiousness, or it is disguised by the cordial appliances which
we always have ready for the sores of the great. But the vices, nay,
the smallest foibles of the lowly, come before our senses so bare,
so beggarly, so unanealed, and, moreover, they are so immediately
followed by that additional wretchedness which wealthy error escapes,
that we have no excuse for them. Hence we generally find, that we have
shaken off the most of our poor relations on account of some trivial
cause of offence, which we find it necessary, however, to be always
nursing in our minds, in order to sustain us in the conviction that the
breach of treaty—the _casus fœderis_—was sufficient.
There is one very obvious mark of the individual who despises poor
relations—a perpetual reference to rich ones. Some people are
constantly bringing in allusions to “my cousin Mr This,” and “my
uncle Mr That,” and even to more remote relations, such as “my
great-grandmother the Countess of Somewhere.” A few are so very silly
as to tell, in the newspaper announcement of their marriage, that
their bride, besides being daughter to this or that plain esquire, is
“grand-niece to General So-and-So,” or “cousin to Mr Such-a-Thing,
secretary of state.” These announcements are an impertinence fit for
the interference of the legislature—or the police. If people have
exalted relations, let them enjoy them as much as they can within
themselves, but do not let them be perpetually presenting this odious
little piece of vanity before others, who not only are not interested
in it, but are perhaps reminded by it that they have no fine relations
themselves. To be always thus singling out a relation from all the
rest, and holding him up in connection with ourselves, is a direct
injury to him, in so far as we are thus trying to exalt ourselves at
his expense—an indirect insult to our kindred in general, whom we leave
out of view, and a nuisance to all before whom we thus exhibit our own
poverty of soul. It is a _cultivation_ of the most odious character,
and necessarily suggests to every thinking person, that in exact
proportion to our homage to the great persons of our family must be our
haughtiness and severity to the humble. The people addicted to this
vice of conversation are evidently satisfied in their own minds that
they are talking very fine, and exciting no feeling in their hearers
but admiration and respect; but in reality they are always scouted
and ridiculed, even to the degree of being honoured with a nickname,
carved, perhaps, out of the favourite phrase.
A really good and philosophical spirit will neither plume himself
upon his more fortunate, nor despise his less fortunate, relations.
He will modestly rejoice in the success of the former, and take care,
by avoiding the appearance of intrusiveness on the one hand, and
splenetic and pettish jealousy on the other, to afford no reason for
the fortunate individual to feel incommoded by the connection, and,
consequently, to endeavour to shake it off. To those who are less
fortunate than himself, he will be as encouraging and kind as his
circumstances render prudent or decent, neither manifesting that vulgar
pride which tries needlessly to make a kind of virtue out of a low
origin, nor that still more pitiable vanity which denies all inferior
kindred, and seeks, at the expense of real dignity, the eclat of a
few “great friends.” We allow there is a general difficulty in the
case. Friends in different worldly circumstances are like positive and
negative clouds in electricity: there is a constant tendency in the
poor to an equalization, which is not relished by the parties whose
pockets are charged positively. But human nature should be always
contending with its weaknesses, and, though full confiding friendship
is not perhaps to be expected, there may still be a sufficient
interchange of kindness to lighten, in no small degree, the general
burden of life.
THE STRANGERS’ NOOK.
In country churchyards in Scotland, and perhaps in other countries
also, there is always a corner near the gateway, which is devoted to
the reception of strangers, and is distinguished from the rest of the
area by its total want of monuments. When you inquire of the passing
peasant respecting this part of the burial-ground, he tells you that it
is the corner for strangers, but never, of course, thinks that there
is or can be any sentiment in the matter. To me, I must confess, this
spot is always more interesting than any other, on account of the more
extended scope which it gives to those feelings with which one surveys
a churchyard. As you wander over the rest of the ground, you see humble
memorials of humbler worth, mixed perhaps with the monuments of rank
and wealth. But these tell always a definite tale. It is either the
lord or the tenant of some of the neighbouring fields, or a trading
burgher, or perhaps a clergyman; and there is an end of it. These men
performed their parts on earth, like the generality of their fellows,
and, after figuring for a space on the limited arena of the parish or
the district, were here gathered to their fathers. But the graves of
the strangers! what tales are told by every undistinguished heap—what
eloquence in this utter absence of epitaphs!