dreams of courtship vanish too often into thin air soon after the
wedding ring is put on. The realization of that perfect and unalloyed
happiness that each partner anticipated is seldom found in the holy
bonds of matrimony. Cool and distant, with a feeling that the sweet
courtesies of wooing-time are now out of place, they treat each other
with an indifference that ends in mutual aversion and contempt. This is
altogether wrong. As reasoning men and women they have entered the
relation; it is vain to suppose it is one of unmixed delights. It has
its trials. You must expect to meet them. The conditions of happiness
there are much the same as elsewhere, therefore the only sure way of
finding it is to forget self in the furtherance of the happiness of
others. The trials of wedded life are seen to be but the approaches to
its joys when once the spirit of kindly forbearance is spread abroad in
the heart.
It must seem to all who seriously meditate on this subject that many of
the trials of married life arise from mistaken notions of economy and
the right use of money. Every wife knows her husband's income or ought
to know it. That knowledge should be the guide of her conduct. A clear
understanding respecting the domestic expenses is necessary to the peace
of every dwelling. If it be little, "better is a dinner of herbs where
love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." If it be ample, let it
be enjoyed with all thankfulness. Partners in privation are more to each
other than partners in wealth. Those who have suffered together love
more than those who have rejoiced together. Where a wife, seeing her
duty, has made up her mind to this, she will brighten her little home
with smiles that will make it a region of perpetual sunshine.
We account these two things essential to the happiness of married
life,—to have a home of your own, and to live distinctly and honestly
within your means. A great proportion of the failures in wedlock may be
traced directly to the neglect of the latter rule. No man can feel happy
or enjoy the sweets of domestic life who is spending more than he earns.
No sensible person will account it a hardship to begin on a moderate
scale; and those who do thus begin, and afterwards attain to the
possession of wealth, always look back to the days of "small things"
with peculiar satisfaction as the golden days of their hearts, if not of
their purses. True affection delights in the opportunities of
self-denial and in the little acts of personal service, for which there
is scarcely any place in the house of the rich.
At the shrine of domestic ambition much of the comfort and happiness of
home life is immolated, and, for the sake of appearance, happiness and
content are exchanged for wearying cares. To regulate our expenses by
other people's income is the height of folly, and to contract debts for
a style of living which is of our neighbor's choosing rather than our
own is nearly akin to insanity. There is no happiness, social, domestic,
or individual, without independence; and no dependence is so bitter as
that of debt. And when you reflect how needless this is, you can readily
see that in this instance, as in many others, the trials are of our own
choosing, and might be avoided by consideration and care.
[Illustration: HUSBAND AND WIFE.]
"O let us walk the world, so that our love
Burns like a blessed beacon, beautiful,
Upon the walls of life's surrounding dark."
—MASSEY.
[Illustration]
The true marriage is the result of years of mutual endeavor to please,
and comes of patient efforts to learn each other's disposition and
taste. This can be done by all who cherish right views of the duties and
pleasures of the marriage relation.
You have but one life to live, and no amount of money or influence or
fame can pay you for a life of unhappiness. You can not afford to
quarrel with one another. You can not afford to cherish a single
thought, to harbor a single desire, to gratify a single passion, nor
indulge a single selfish feeling, that will tend to make this union any
thing but a source of happiness to you. So it becomes you at starting to
have a perfect understanding with one another. It becomes you to resolve
that you will be happy together at any rate, or that if you suffer it
shall be from the same cause and in perfect sympathy. You are not to let
any human being step between you under any circumstances.
Human character, by a wise provision of Providence, is infinitely
varied, and there are not two individuals in existence so entirely alike
in their tastes, habits of thought, and natural aptitude that they can
keep step with one another over all the rough places in the journey of
life. There must be a leaning to one another. The compromise can not be
all on one side. You can be happy together if you will, but the
agreement to be happy must be mutual. Draw your souls closer and closer
together from year to year. Get all obstacles out of the way. Just as
soon as one arises attend to it, and get rid of it. At last they will
all disappear. You will have become wonted to one another's habits and
frames of mind and peculiarities of disposition, and love, respect, and
charity will take care of the rest.
If you observe faults in your companion keep them to yourself. What
right have you, who should be the very one to kindly conceal faults, to
inform others of their presence? Neither father nor mother, neither
brother nor sister, have any right to be informed of the secrets of your
domestic life. A husband and wife have no business to tell one another's
faults to any body but themselves. They can not do it without shame.
Their grievances are to be settled in private between themselves, and in
all public places and among friends they are to preserve towards one
another that nice consideration and entire respectfulness which their
relations enjoin. With a true wife the husband's faults should be
secret. A wife forgets when she condescends to that refuge of weakness,
a female confidant. A wife's bosom should be the tomb of her husband's
failings, and his character far more valuable in her estimation than
life.
Happiness between husband and wife can only be secured by that constant
tenderness and care of the parties for each other which are based upon
warm and demonstrative love. The heart demands that the man shall not
sit silent, reticent, and self-absorbed in the midst of his family. The
wife who forgets to provide for her husband's tastes and wishes
renders her home undesirable for him. In a word, ever-present and
ever-demonstrative gentleness must reign, or else the heart starves.
There is propriety in all things, and though public displays of
affection, familiarity of touch, and half-concealed caresses are always
distasteful to men and women of sense, yet love is of such a nature that
you must give it expression or it languishes. There are husbands so cold
and formal that they have no kiss or caress for the wives whom they
really love. There are wives to whom a single demonstration that shall
tell to their hearts how inexpressibly pleasant their faces and their
society are, and how fondly they are loved, would be better than untold
gold.
The affection that should link together man and wife is a far holier and
more enduring passion than the enthusiasm of young love. It may want its
gorgeousness or its imaginative character, but it is far richer in its
attributes. It should not call for such daily proofs of existence as is
demanded of the lover, but it is human to wish for the freshness of
morning to continue far into the day and evening. True, it is vain to
expect this, but humanity continually wishes for what can not be; and,
though the glow and sparkle of the morning of love will fade away, yet
it should be as fades the bewitching charm of morning into the quiet
splendor of the Summer day; and, though recognizing that exhibitions of
tenderness so appropriate for the morning of life are out of place in
its noon, yet, as long as it is human to love, so long are exhibitions
of it, quiet though they may be, gratifying to the one beloved.
We exhort you who are a husband to love your wife even as you love
yourself. Continue through life the same manly tenderness that in youth
gained her affections. Reflect that though her bodily charms may not now
be so great as then, yet that habit and a thousand acts of kindness have
strengthened your mutual friendship. Devote yourself to her, and after
the hours of business let the pleasures which you most highly prize be
found in her society. The true wife wishes to feel sure that she is
precious to her husband—not useful, not valuable, not convenient
simply, but that she is dear to him; let her be the recipient of his
polite and hearty attentions; let her notice that her cares and loves
are noticed, appreciated, and returned, her opinions asked, her approval
sought, and her judgment respected; in short, let her only be loved,
honored, and cherished in fulfillment of the marriage vow, and she will
be to her husband a well-spring of pleasure.
We exhort you who are wife to be gentle and considerate to your husband.
Let the influence which you possess over him arise from the mildness of
your manner and the discretion of your conduct. Whilst you are careful
to adorn your person with new and clean apparel—for no woman can long
preserve affections if she is negligent on this point—be still more
attentive in ornamenting your mind with meekness and peace, with
cheerfulness and good humor. Lighten the cares and chase away the
vexations to which he is inevitably exposed in his commerce with the
world by rendering, as far as is in your power, his home pleasant. Keep
at home. Let your employment and pleasures be domestic.
What a man desires in a wife is her companionship, sympathy, and love.
The way of life has many dreary places in it, and man needs a companion
to go with him. A man is sometimes overtaken by misfortune; he meets
with failure and defeat, trials and temptation beset him, and he needs
one to stand by and sympathize. All through life, through storms and
through sunshine, conflicts and victory, man needs a woman's love. Let
him think upon his duty in return for this love. You who have taken a
wife from a happy home of kindred hearts and kind companionship, have
you done what you could to make amends for the loss of those friends and
companions? Remember what your wife was when you took her, not from
compulsion, but from your own choice—a choice based on what you then
considered her superiority to all others. She was young—perhaps the
idol of her happy home; she was as gay and blithe as the lark, and the
brothers and sisters at her father's cherished her as an object of
endearment. Yet she left all to join her destiny with yours—to make
your home happy, and to do all that womanly ingenuity could do to meet
your wishes, and to lighten the burdens which might press upon you.
Consult the tastes and disposition of your husband, and endeavor to give
him high and noble thoughts, lofty aims, and temporal comforts. Let the
husband see that you really have a strong desire to make him happy, and
to retain the warmest place in his respect, his admiration, and his
affection. Enter into all his plans with interest. Sweeten all his
troubles with your sympathy. Make him feel that there is one ear always
open to the revelation of his experiences, that there is one heart that
never misconstrues him, that there is one refuge for him in all
circumstances, and that in all weariness of body and soul there is one
warm pillow for his head, beneath which a heart is beating with the same
unvarying truth and affection, through all gladness and sadness, as the
faithful chronometer suffers no perturbation of its rhythm, whether in
storm or shine.
[Illustration: JEALOUSY.]
"Trifles light as air,
Are to the jealous confirmation strong
As proofs of holy writ."
—SHAKESPEARE.
[Illustration]
There is no passion more base, nor one which seeks to hide itself more
than jealousy. It is ashamed of it itself when it appears. It carries
its stain and disgrace on its forehead. We do not wish to acknowledge it
ourselves, it is so ignominious, but hidden in the character we would be
confused and disconcerted if it appeared; by the which we are convinced
of our bad minds and debased courage.
It is difficult sometimes to distinguish between jealousy and envy, for
they often run into one another, and are blended together. The most
valid distinction seems to be that jealousy is always personal. The
envious man desires some good which another possesses; the jealous man
suspects another of seeking to deprive him of some good that he already
possesses.
Jealousy is, in many respects, preferable to envy, since it aims at the
preservation of some good which we think belongs to us; whereas envy is
a frenzy that can not endure, even in idea, the good of others. Jealousy
is such a headstrong passion, that therein doth consist its danger. All
the other passions condescend at times to accept the inexorable logic of
facts. But jealousy looks facts straight in the face, ignores them
utterly, and says she knows a great deal better than they can tell her.
Jealousy violates contracts, dissolves society, breaks wedlock, betrays
friends and neighbors, thinks nobody is good, and that every one is
either doing or designing them an injury. Its rise is in guilt or
ill-nature; as he that is overrun with the jaundice takes others to be
yellow. If jealousy were not a hardened offender, he must have
disappeared ere this by the abuse which poets and moralists have alike
delighted to heap upon him. Yet he still lives and flourishes, exerts
his influence and displays his power, as though he were a favored friend
or a welcome guest.
Did jealousy always make its appearance in its ordinary form of
detraction, it would be, comparatively speaking, harmless; but it is
surprising how many different masks it can assume, and how it lurks and
tries to conceal itself under some less mean and unlovable quality.
Sometimes it appears in the character of injustice; sometimes it takes
the form of rudeness and want of courtesy; occasionally a bitter or
sarcastic way of speaking. At other times it borrows the garb of a
virtue, and shows itself under what might be mistaken for humility or
sincerity; lying coiled up like a serpent under some flower, and darting
forth its venemous sting where and when you least expect to find it.
No stronger proof is needed to show how contemptible a fault jealousy is
than that no one is willing to acknowledge that they are jealous. It is
jealousy that is the root and foundation of many offenses, but they are
charged to other causes. Jealousy is singular in this: every trifling
circumstance is regarded as confirming and strengthening the previously
aroused suspicions. It is a sorer curse, a more certain and fatal blight
to the heart on which it seizes, than it can be to those against whom
its spite is hurled. Jealousy is as cruel as the grave; not the grave
that opens its deep bosom to receive and shelter from further storms the
worn and forlorn pilgrim, who rejoices exceedingly and is glad when he
can find its repose; but cruel as the grave is when it yawns and
swallows down from the lap of luxury, from the summit of fame, from the
bosom of love, the desire of many eyes and hearts.
Among the deadly things upon the earth, or in the sea, or flying through
malarial regions, few are more noxious than jealousy. And of all mad
passions there is not one that has a vision more distorted or a more
unreasonable fury. To the jealous eye white looks black, yellow looks
green, and the very sunshine turns deadly lurid. There is no innocence,
no justice, no generosity that is not touched with suspicions save just
the jealous person's own. Once lodged within the heart, for life it
rules ascendant and alone. It sports in solitude. It pants for blood,
and rivers will not sate its thirst. Minds strongest in worth and valor
stoop to meanness and disgrace before it. The meanest soul, the weakest,
it can give courage to beyond the daring of despair. No balm can assuage
its sting. Death alone can heal its wound. When it has once possessed a
man he has no ear but for the tale that falls like molten lead upon the
heart.
In nothing is jealousy more commonly shown than when under the fear that
some one will supplant us in the affections of another. Here it assumes
its most malignant form, here its greatest distress is wrought. The
gamester, whose last piece is lost; the merchant, whose whole risk the
sea has swallowed up; the child, whose air bubble has burst—may each
create a bauble like the former. But he whose treasure was in woman's
love, who trusted as man once trusts and was deceived—that hope once
gone, there is no finding it again, no restoring it. Let not any too
rigorously judge the conduct of a jealous woman or a jealous man.
Remember that the maniac suffers. To be sure, the suffering is from
selfishness, often it is without the shadow of a cause; but still it is
suffering, and it is intense. Pity it, bear with it; you may yourself
fall into temptation.
It is said that jealousy is love. This is not true; for, though jealousy
may be procured by love, as ashes are by fire, yet jealousy extinguishes
love, as ashes smother the flame. Jealousy may exist without love, and
this is common, for jealousy can feed on that which is bitter no less
than on that which is sweet, and is sustained by pride as often as by
affection.
The unfortunate habit of mind which makes one prone to jealousy can not
be too strenuously fought against. It were well to constantly remember
that jealousy injures and pains no one so much as the person feeling it.
It is a self-consuming fire, a self-inflicted torment, an arrow that
falls back and wounds only the archer. It becomes one to cultivate a
spirit of magnanimity toward all, and to strive to allay, by every means
in his power, a too suspicious nature. It has been well said that there
are occasions on which a man would have been ashamed of himself not to
have been deceived. A man to be genuine to himself must believe and be
believed, must trust and be trusted.
Suspicion is no less an enemy to virtue than to happiness. He that is
already corrupt is naturally suspicious, and he that becomes suspicious
will quickly become corrupt. Suspicion is the child of guilt, the virtue
of a coward. It is a vain and foolish pride which would teach that every
one is conspiring against your happiness or has designs on your
reputation and business. The fact is, probably no one is thinking of
you. Yet your jealous disposition magnifies every little circumstance,
and thus you are continually making yourself unhappy when no real cause
exists. You are to strive against such an unfortunate disposition at all
times. And it can be eradicated. It is not the liberally educated, those
who have read much and thought more, who are thus suspicious and jealous
in disposition; but it is the narrow-minded, the illiterate, and the
vulgar.
[Illustration: REGRET.]
"For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'"
—WHITTIER.
[Illustration]
There is not a word in the English tongue which signifies more than the
word regret. It expresses every degree of pain in the gamut of sorrow,
from the childish regret for a lost plaything, to the remorse which,
when the sands of life are almost run, contemplates a wasted life.
There are none who have not felt its potency; no age escapes it, and
such will ever be the case as long as it is human to err. But as pain
and sickness are the sentinels which guard the life and health of the
body, so it is regret which keeps conscience alive in man and sustains
the moral faculties in the discharge of duty. Life is full of sorrowful
scenes, so much that could not have been avoided; but how much added
force there is to sorrow when we reflect that we are to blame—that we
knew at the time that we were doing wrong—that we disregarded the
warning voice of conscience, contemptuously rejected the proffered
advice of others, and have nothing to extenuate the keen regret gathered
with the harvest of sorrow sown by our own negligence.
The profoundest sorrow is not brought upon us by the world, by its
bitterness, its malice, its injustice, or its persecution. These,
indeed, affect us, and make us wiser, more weak, or more brave. We can,
if we choose, repel the world's wrongs. We can laugh at the injuries
inflicted upon us, and hurl defiance upon them; or, if we can not
command this spirit, we may patiently endure what we do not resent. But
the sorrows we bring upon ourselves by our own lack of discretion, or
heedless obstinacy, when regret adds its sting, then it is that we
experience what real sorrow is. We can not then repel its attacks with
indifference.
Regret is the heart's sorrow for past offenses,—the soul's prompting to
better actions. Have you ever stood by the grave of one dear to you, and
been compelled to remember how much happier you might have made that
life which has now passed beyond your reach? Has the hasty or unkind
word ever come back to you and repeated itself over and over, until you
would gladly have given a year of your own life to have recalled it, and
made it as if it had never been? Let us remember that those who are now
living may soon be dead, and beware of adding to the things done that
ought not to have been done, the things undone that ought to have been
done. Many a heart has languished for the tenderness withheld in life,
but poured out too late in remorse and unavailing regret.
Let us be tender to our friends while they are with us,—not wait till
they are gone to find out their good qualities. Let us be kind and
gentle now, and not wait for regret to tell us of duty undone. The way
of life is so full of occasions that call forth real regret, that it
would seem that there was little danger of manifesting regret where it
was uncalled for and useless. Yet such spectacles are of daily
occurrence. When one has done the best he can, he should let that fact
console him, and not give way to causeless regret and a wish that he had
done differently.
Under the guiding light of the present it is easy enough to discover the
mistakes of the past; and it would be easy to make advantageous changes
were we allowed to go back and commence anew in the journey of life. But
alas! this is vain. What we should do is so to learn by reason of regret
from the lessons of the past that we become fully fitted for the duties
of the present. Regret, if deep and hopeless, becomes remorse, which
settles down over the heart with a crushing weight, driving from thence
all hope, unless, indeed, the angel of forgiveness brings consolation to
the soul.
There are many walking the earth whose lives are shadowed by some great
sorrow, to which is added the pain of regret caused by their own
heedless and inconsiderate actions. With one, it is the sorrow of a
reputation gone,—some act of folly swept away the fair name founded on
years of honest living. With another, it is the shadow of a grave dark
and deep which covers the form of one whom death claimed before he had
redressed some wrong done, carelessly perhaps, and with no intention of
lasting injury. Hasty and inconsiderate marriages cause much vain
repining and regret. The happiness of life is gone; the hopes of a home,
endearing companionship, are fled, because hasty and inconsiderate
action was taken where care and study was required. Of all regrets, the
remorse that must accompany the closing moments of a misspent life must
possess the sharpest sting. Life and its possibilities allowed to go to
waste from a lack of consideration on our part! Oh, that the young would
give heed to the warning voice of experience, and thus escape the vain
regrets of later years!