“Oh! bless’d with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day!
She who ne’er answers till a husband cools,
Or if she rules him, never shows she rules;
Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,
Yet has her humour most when she obeys.”--POPE.
Harry Jones was one of the smartest young men of the village in which he
was born. His parents were industrious and contented; and he himself was
of that active and cheerful disposition which derives a pleasure from
habitual employment, and requires no excitement of vice or folly in the
hours of leisure. Harry Jones was by trade a cabinet-maker. He was a
skilful and ingenious workman, and his master delighted to exhibit the
tables and drawers which Harry manufactured, as the best specimens of
his workshop. He lived in a small town to which the refinement of large
societies was almost entirely unknown. On a summer evening he might be
distinguished on a neighbouring green as the best bowler at cricket; and
at the annual revel he could try a fall with any lad of the surrounding
villages. But his chief delight was his proficiency as a flute-player.
He made himself master of the newest country-dances; and occasionally
astonished his friends with some more elaborate piece of harmony, which
required considerable science and taste in its execution. He was a
distinguished member of the band of volunteer performers at his parish
church; and had several times received the praises of the clergyman for
the skill with which he regulated the less practised abilities of his
companions. All these recreations were in themselves innocent: and Harry
Jones had sufficient sense and virtue not to permit them to divert his
attention from the duties of his occupation, nor to make him forget that
life had more important objects than the pursuit even of sinless
amusement.
By his industry and frugality, Harry, at the age of five and twenty, had
saved a little money. His master was kind and liberal towards him, and
having himself other occupations to attend to, resigned his little
interest as a cabinet-maker to the hero of our story. Harry became, if
possible, more assiduous; he did not want friends and customers, and
there was a particular object which gave an additional spur to his
industry; he naturally and properly desired a wife as soon as he had
acquired the means of maintaining one. In a neighbouring village he had
formed an acquaintance with a young woman, who possessed those
excellences which strongly recommended themselves to the prudential part
of his character. Her parents were honest and pious people, who had
brought up their daughter with the strictest attention to economy, and
with those habits of regularity which assign to every duty an exact time
and place for its fulfilment. These habits of order and punctuality had
become a second nature to Martha. She would not allow herself to deviate
from the prescribed path, nor could she endure any deviation in those by
whom she was surrounded. She had a sincere and affectionate heart; but
this precision had given something of coldness and formality to her
character. Harry, with the fondness of a lover’s eyes, saw every thing
to admire; he considered that her seriousness would properly regulate
his cheerfulness, and that the strict discipline which she exercised
over her own actions would control his inclination for hasty and various
modes of occupation. He was satisfied that he could not make a more
prudent choice, and the world thought so also. They married.
At the end of the first fortnight after their union, Harry sat down by
his evening fireside exceedingly fatigued; he felt incapable of
exertion, and remained for some time listless and dispirited. Martha
began to read aloud from a serious book;--but she did not choose the
most favourable moment for making a proper impression: Harry yawned and
almost fell asleep. Martha laid down her book, and recommended him to
look over his accounts: with every disposition to do right and oblige
his wife, Harry felt that the labours of the day were past. He thought
of his flute. The sense of fatigue was at once forgotten, as he again
placed his old book of tunes before him. He played his briskest
jigs--but Martha did not beat time: he tried his most pathetic airs--but
Martha remained unmoved. He discovered to his mortification that his
wife did not love music.
The next evening Harry did not forget the recreation of his flute; he
played in his very best style, and he appealed to Martha for
encouragement and approbation. Her praise was of a very negative
quality. Sunday came, and Harry, as usual, took his place in the music
gallery; he put forth all his powers, and exercised no common address to
make his associates play in tune. As they walked home he ventured to ask
Martha what she thought of their little band. She answered in a tone
between indifference and contempt. His pride was hurt, and he determined
to say no more upon the subject.
The flute continued to be produced every evening, and Harry ceased to
expect the praise, or ask the attention of his wife. But even this
indifference did not long continue. On one occasion he observed
something like a frown upon her brow; on another, he heard a pettish
expression pronounced in a whispered and hurried tone. At length
hostility was openly declared against the flute; and Martha wondered how
a man of any sense could waste his time, and annoy his family by such a
stupid pursuit.
Harry bore this exceedingly well; for the love of his wife came to the
aid of his naturally good temper. He locked up the flute. But he was
disappointed in expecting Martha would offer him any substitute for his
favourite amusement after his hours of labour. Her notions were those of
rigid and unsparing industry. She was never tired of her domestic
occupations, and she could not understand how a man who had his living
to get could ever tire in the pursuit of his calling. When the hour of
work was over, Harry sat down in his little parlour,--but his wife was
seldom with him. It was true that the boards of his house were cleaner
than the floor of any of his neighbours;--that the saucepans of his
kitchen shone with a brightness which all the good housewives of the
parish envied;--and that not a cinder deformed the neatness of his
hearth without calling forth the brush and the shovel for its instant
removal. But then it was also true that he sometimes caught cold at his
dinner-hour, from the wetness which the floor acquired from the
indefatigable cleanliness of his mate; that he sometimes made a fatal
error when he forgot to clean his shoes before he crossed the sanded
threshold; that while his wife was rubbing the skillets into
looking-glasses, he was desirous of the conversation of a friend and
companion; and that his well-swept hearth had no charms for his eyes
while he was left alone to enjoy its neatness. He was debarred too of
his favourite flute;--and it cannot therefore be wondered that he
sometimes said in his heart, “why did I marry?”
It was at this juncture that Harry met with an old companion who had
something of the vivacity, but nothing of the goodness which he himself
possessed. Harry appeared uneasy and dispirited;--the cause of his
discomfort was at length communicated. His companion told him, with the
common cant of libertines, that the way to make wives amiable was to
neglect them;--that his home was uncomfortable because he appeared too
fond of it;--and that he might find society where his merits would be
properly rated. Harry was persuaded to fetch his flute, to spend the
evening at a neighbouring ale-house.
The harmless vanity which had been so long pent up now broke forth
beyond its natural boundaries. Harry played well, and he played to a
late hour, for he was flattered and caressed. On his return home, Martha
was angry, and he was sullen.
The next night brought with it the same temptation. What was intended to
be a rare indulgence at length became a confirmed habit. The
public-house could not be frequented without expense; and late hours
could not be kept without diminishing the capacity for the performance
of ordinary duties. Harry, too, acquired the practice of drinking
freely; and, as his mind was ill at ease, the morning draught often
succeeded to the evening’s intoxication. He was not, as before, seen
constantly at his workshop, to receive orders with good temper, and to
execute them with alacrity. He was not distinguished for the brightest
shoes and the cleanest apron of any mechanic in the town: his habits
were idle, and his garb was slovenly. He slunk away from public
observation to bury himself in the haunts of drunkenness and profligacy.
As his business failed, he made to himself pretences for employment in
vagabond parties of anglers or lark-shooters. One by one every article
of furniture was pawned for present support. The fatal flute was the
last thing consigned to the grasp of the money-lender.
Martha did not want sense. She reflected deeply upon the causes of their
misery; and she at length perceived the error which she had committed in
opposing her own fixed habits to the equally confirmed inclinations of
her husband. She took her resolution. Honestly and impartially she
stated her distresses, and the cause of them, to the vicar of the
parish. He was a pious, a sensible, and a charitable pastor. He pointed
out to her, what she herself at length acknowledged, that a small
portion of time devoted to an innocent amusement is not incompatible
with the more serious duties of a citizen and a Christian; that the
engagements even of the most lowly might afford some leisure for
cheerful relaxation; and that religion did not require a course of
intense exertion and unbending gravity. The worthy clergyman furnished
Martha the means of realizing a plan which her own judgment had devised.
Martha expended the good pastor’s friendly loan in procuring the
restoration of their furniture; but she did not as yet bring it home.
Her husband had one evening returned without intoxication, and in a
temper which promised that the succeeding day would be one of industry.
She exerted herself to accomplish her plan at this favourable moment.
Before the next evening arrived her cottage was once more neat and
comfortable; and the flute, which she had also redeemed, lay upon the
table. Harry came in dejected, but his dejection became astonishment as
Martha threw her arms around him and pointed to the indications of their
future happiness. She confessed the error which had been the original
cause of their misery. He felt her generosity, and with bitter tears
made a vow of amendment. He was too much affected to take up his flute
that evening;--but on the next his wife pressed it upon him. She
listened to his performance;--she strove to fancy that she had a taste
for music; she praised him. By this effort of kindness on one part,
mutual kindness took the place of mutual discomfort. The hour of
flute-playing was succeeded by the hour of serious meditation on the
divine commands, and of humble prayer before the throne of grace. Their
tastes and their pursuits gradually became assimilated. A timely
concession saved Martha from hopeless misery, and a timely reformation
saved Harry from the wretched life and the miserable death of a vagabond
and a drunkard.
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