From my own Apartment, December 7.
My brother Tranquillus being gone out of town for some days, my sister
Jenny sent me word she would come and dine with me, and therefore
desired me to have no other company. I took care accordingly, and
was not a little pleased to see her enter the room with a decent and
matron-like behaviour, which I thought very much became her. I saw she
had a great deal to say to me, and easily discovered in her eyes, and
the air of her countenance, that she had abundance of satisfaction in
her heart, which she longed to communicate. However, I was resolved
to let her break into her discourse her own way, and reduced her to a
thousand little devices and intimations to bring me to the mention of
her husband. But, finding I was resolved not to name him, she began of
her own accord. "My husband," said she, "gives his humble service
to you;" to which I only answered, "I hope he is well;" and, without
waiting for a reply, fell into other subjects. She at last was out of
all patience, and said, with a smile and manner that I thought had more
beauty and spirit than I had ever observed before in her, "I did not
think, brother, you had been so ill-natured. You have seen, ever since I
came in, that I had a mind to talk of my husband, and you will not be
so kind as to give me an occasion."--"I did not know," said I, "but
it might be a disagreeable subject to you. You do not take me for so
old-fashioned a fellow as to think of entertaining a young lady with
the discourse of her husband. I know nothing is more acceptable than
to speak of one who is to be so; but to speak of one who is so! indeed,
Jenny, I am a better bred man than you think me." She showed a little
dislike at my raillery, and by her bridling up, I perceived she expected
to be treated hereafter not as Jenny Distaff, but Mrs. Tranquillus. I
was very well pleased with this change in her humour; and, upon talking
with her on several subjects, I could not but fancy that I saw a great
deal of her husband's way and manner in her remarks, her phrases, the
tone of her voice, and the very air of her countenance. This gave me
an unspeakable satisfaction, not only because I had found her a husband
from whom she could learn many things that were laudable, but also
because I looked upon her imitation of him as an infallible sign that
she entirely loved him. This is an observation that I never knew fail,
though I do not remember that any other has made it. The natural
shyness of her sex hindered her from telling me the greatness of her own
passion; but I easily collected it from the representation she gave me
of his. "I have everything," says she, "in Tranquillus that I can wish
for; and enjoy in him, what indeed you have told me were to be met with
in a good husband, the fondness of a lover, the tenderness of a parent,
and the intimacy of a friend." It transported me to see her eyes
swimming in tears of affection when she spoke. "And is there not, dear
sister," said I, "more pleasure in the possession of such a man than in
all the little impertinences of balls, assemblies, and equipage, which
it cost me so much pains to make you contemn?" She answered, smiling,
"Tranquillus has made me a sincere convert in a few weeks, though I am
afraid you could not have done it in your whole life. To tell you truly,
I have only one fear hanging upon me, which is apt to give me trouble
in the midst of all my satisfactions: I am afraid, you must know, that
I shall not always make the same amiable appearance in his eye that I do
at present. You know, brother Bickerstaff, that you have the reputation
of a conjurer; and if you have any one secret in your art to make your
sister always beautiful, I should be happier than if I were mistress of
all the worlds you have shown me in a starry night." "Jenny," said I,
"without having recourse to magic, I shall give you one plain rule that
will not fail of making you always amiable to a man who has so great
a passion for you, and is of so equal and reasonable a temper, as
Tranquillus. Endeavour to please, and you must please; be always in the
same disposition as you are when you ask for this secret, and you
may take my word you will never want it. An inviolable fidelity,
good-humour, and complacency of temper outlive all the charms of a fine
face, and make the decays of it invisible."
We discoursed very long upon this head, which was equally agreeable
to us both; for I must confess, as I tenderly love her, I take as much
pleasure in giving her instructions for her welfare as she herself does
in receiving them. I proceeded, therefore, to inculcate these sentiments
by relating a very particular passage that happened within my own
knowledge.
There were several of us making merry at a friend's house in a country
village, when the sexton of the parish church entered the room in a
sort of surprise, and told us "that, as he was digging a grave in the
chancel, a little blow of his pick-axe opened a decayed coffin, in
which there were several written papers." Our curiosity was immediately
raised, so that we went to the place where the sexton had been at work,
and found a great concourse of people about the grave. Among the rest
there was an old woman, who told us the person buried there was a lady
whose name I did not think fit to mention, though there is nothing
in the story but what tends very much to her honour. This lady lived
several years an exemplary pattern of conjugal love, and, dying soon
after her husband, who every way answered her character in virtue and
affection, made it her death-bed request, "that all the letters which
she had received from him both before and after her marriage should be
buried in the coffin with her." These I found, upon examination, were
the papers before us. Several of them had suffered so much by time that
I could only pick out a few words; as my soul! lilies! roses! dearest
angel! and the like. One of them, which was legible throughout, ran
thus:
"MADAM,
"If you would know the greatness of my love, consider that of your
own beauty. That blooming countenance, that snowy bosom, that graceful
person return every moment to my imagination; the brightness of your
eyes hath hindered me from closing mine since I last saw you. You may
still add to your beauties by a smile. A frown will make me the most
wretched of men, as I am the most passionate of lovers."
It filled the whole company with a deep melancholy to compare the
description of the letter with the person that occasioned it, who was
now reduced to a few crumbling bones and a little mouldering heap of
earth. With much ado I deciphered another letter, which began with, "My
dear, dear wife." This gave me a curiosity to see how the style of
one written in marriage differed from one written in courtship. To my
surprise, I found the fondness rather augmented than lessened, though
the panegyric turned upon a different accomplishment. The words were as
follows:
"Before this short absence from you, I did not know that I loved you so
much as I really do; though, at the same time, I thought I loved you as
much as possible. I am under great apprehensions lest you should have
any uneasiness whilst I am defrauded of my share in it, and cannot think
of tasting any pleasures that you do not partake with me. Pray, my dear,
be careful of your health, if for no other reason but because you know
I could not outlive you. It is natural in absence to make professions
of an inviolable constancy; but towards so much merit it is scarce a
virtue, especially when it is but a bare return to that of which you
have given me such continued proofs ever since our first acquaintance. I
am," etc.
It happened that the daughter of these two excellent persons was by when
I was reading this letter. At the sight of the coffin, in which was the
body of her mother near that of her father, she melted into a flood of
tears. As I had heard a great character of her virtue, and observed
in her this instance of filial piety, I could not resist my natural
inclination of giving advice to young people, and therefore addressed
myself to her. "Young lady," said I, "you see how short is the
possession of that beauty in which nature has been so liberal to you.
You find the melancholy sight before you is a contradiction to the first
letter that you heard on that subject; whereas you may observe, the
second letter, which celebrates your mother's constancy, is itself,
being found in this place, an argument of it. But, madam, I ought to
caution you not to think the bodies that lie before you your father and
your mother. Know, their constancy is rewarded by a nobler union than
by this mingling of their ashes, in a state where there is no danger or
possibility of a second separation."