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