Chapter XV: Part IV (3)

_May_ 1.--Just three months to-day since William and I were married. What a happy time it has been, and how quickly it has passed! I am determined to begin and keep a journal again as I used to do before I married, if it be only to mark how the days go by--one happier than the other. How different from the days of our long courtship, when there was always something to be anxious about; whilst now, nothing but death can ever part us, and it seems to me as if all the trials of life must be easy to bear when borne together. Dear William! How kind he has been to me, and how cheerful and good-tempered he always is. He was saying only this morning that he did not think we had had a single _tiff_ since we married; and I am sure it would have been my fault if we had. Gratitude alone ought to keep me from quarrelling with William, if nothing else would, considering all he has done for me. How nice he made this place ready for me when we married! I cannot think how he ever contrived to save enough out of his salary to buy such handsome furniture. To be sure he always says that it is my setting it off so well that makes it look better than it is; and yet, except the muslin curtains to the window, and the table-cover, and my work-box, and the flowers, I have not done much. I almost wish he had left me more to do, for time does hang heavy on my hands sometimes when he is away. I wish that some of my neighbours would make acquaintance with me; for I know no one hereabouts. That Mrs. Smith who lives next door, looked towards the window as she passed this morning, and seemed inclined to stop--I only wish she would; it would be so pleasant to have a neighbour occasionally coming in for a chat, and I should pick up a bit of news perhaps to tell William in the evening. Now I think of it, I will just go up stairs and take a look at his shirts; it is just possible that there may be a button off, though they were all new when he married; or perhaps his stockings want running at the heels. I wonder I did not think of that before. There is nothing like preventing holes from coming.

_May_ 2.--Told William last night of my plan of keeping a diary, and he thinks it a good one, and has given me the old ledger, in which he says I can scribble away as much as I like. And really, after writing so much as I used for Aunt Morris, it is easier I believe for me than for most people to write down what happens each day and what passes in my mind. To my great surprise, who should come in this morning but Mrs. Smith, from next door! One would think she had peeped over my shoulder, and seen what I wrote about her yesterday--but she says that she has long been thinking of coming in, only she did not know whether I should be inclined to be sociable. She seems a most respectable and pleasant kind of person, and really quite superior to the other people in the lane. She said she felt sure by my looks as she had seen me going to church on Sunday with William, that I was not a common sort of person, and said moreover that William was a very genteel-looking young man, and remarkably like a nephew of hers who is in quite a large way of business in Manchester. Mrs. Smith admires my room very much, only she says her house has an advantage over ours, in having a passage, instead of the front door opening into the room. She had, in fact, a partition put up after she came, to divide one off, and says it is astonishing how much more comfortable it makes the place, besides looking more genteel. I have often wondered myself that William did not choose a house that had this convenience, and I am sure it will be cold in winter to have the door opening right into one's room in this way, besides making the chimney smoke. Mrs. Smith has asked me to look in, as often as I can, and says it will be quite a charity to sit with her now and then, she is so lonely.

_May_ 3.--I think William is glad that I am at liberty to have a friendly neighbour--only he says he is afraid that Mrs. Smith is rather above us in the world, and might not suit our humble ways. I do not think this, however; but if it were so, I would rather associate with those who are above me than below me. I mentioned to William what she told me about the alteration she had made in her house, but he did not seem as if he thought it would be so great an improvement. After breakfast I put on my bonnet and shawl, and went in to Mrs. Smith's. She keeps a little maid-servant, I find, which I had no idea of before. I found her sitting at work quite in style, and really it is quite astonishing how snug her house seems in consequence of the alteration she has made. The sitting-room is of course so much smaller, but that is nothing compared to the comfort of the passage; I should not have thought that the houses could ever have been built alike, hers is so superior to ours. To be sure the style of her furniture is perhaps better than ours, and the papering handsomer, and her carpet goes all over her room, and she has a very handsome hearth-rug. Altogether I could not help fancying our place looked quite mean and shabby after I came back. But then I said to myself, that William and I were after all only beginning the world, and who knows what we may not be able to do by-and-by. Nothing is more likely than that William should have his salary raised in a year or two, and perhaps some day go into business himself.

_May_ 4.--William got home nice and early last night, and read aloud to me for more than an hour. It was very kind of him, and the book was very interesting, but somehow or other I think I would rather have talked to him. I wanted to tell him several things that Mrs. Smith had said to me--especially about the putting up of that partition being such a trifling expense. I did get it said at last; but it is astonishing how little he seems to care about what would be such a great improvement to our place. Of course he cannot understand as well as I do how disagreeable it is for people to be coming to the door, and lifting the latch and looking straight in at me as I sit at work--just the same as in any cottage in the country. I think William rather forgets that I never was accustomed to this kind of thing at home. Last night even, when the postman came; if he had not been so anxious to read his letter, he might have noticed how the draught from the open door made the candle flare, and the tallow ran down all over my nice bright candlestick. The letter was from his father, asking him to give a couple of pounds toward's fitting out his brother George for Australia. William means to send it, I see, and really I am very glad that he can assist his relations, and should never think of saying a word against it--only it shows that he has plenty of spare money, and that it is not so much the expense of the thing that makes him seem to dislike the idea of altering our place. He keeps saying, "My dear, I think it is very well as it is," and "My dear, it seems very comfortable to me;" but that is no reason why it should not be better, as I tell him.

_May_ 5.--Mrs. Smith came in this morning and brought her work, to have, as she said, a friendly gossip with me. She is really a most pleasant and sociable person, and says she is sure we shall suit each other uncommonly well. I told her that I had mentioned to William about the passage she had contrived to her house, but that he did not seem to think it would be so great an improvement. "I dare say not," said she, laughing; "husbands very often don't like new plans unless they are themselves the first to propose them; but such a young wife as you ought to have your way in such a matter." I took care to tell her that William was the kindest and most good-natured creature in the world, and that no husband could be more anxious to please a wife. "Then," said she, "if that be the case, take my word for it he will end by making the alteration you want." This quite emboldens me to say a little more to William about our having this partition put up; because I should not like Mrs. Smith to fancy that my wishes have no weight with him. I will see what I can do to-night when he comes home.

_May_ 6.--I am afraid I vexed William last night, and only wish I could unsay two or three things that I said about the making of this passage. I begin to think I was foolish to get such a fancy into my head. After tea, just as he was going to open out his book, I ventured to say, "I wish you would talk to-night, dear William, instead of read, for I have so little of your company." In a minute he had shut his book, and drawn his chair up to mine, and said so good-naturedly, "Well, little Fanny, and what shall we talk about?" that I felt quite afraid of beginning upon the subject I had in my mind. By-and-by, however, I broached it, and said I really had set my heart upon having our room altered like Mrs. Smith's, and that I was sure it would be done for very little expense, even supposing our landlord would not do it for us. William said he could not think of even asking him to do it, after having put the house into such complete repair when we came here; and he added, that he had fancied that I was pleased with the place, and thought it comfortable. "So I was, dear William," said I; "but I had no idea till I tried, how uncomfortable it is to sit in a room with a front door opening into it in this way--it is like sitting in the street." William looked so vexed as I said this, I did not speak for some time. Then all at once he said, "Well, Fanny, as I wish you to be happy and comfortable, I suppose you must have your way in this matter. I cannot exactly say that I cannot afford it, because you know I do not spend all my salary upon housekeeping; but there were some books that I thought of buying, that, after all, I can wait for very well:--So if you like to speak to John Wilson, I dare say he would do the job as cheaply as any one--he can make an estimate of what it would cost, and let me know." I thanked William, most heartily, for his consent, and I am sure that when the passage is once made, he will be as pleased as any one with the improvement. And yet I do not feel quite satisfied at the idea of his going without his books, and only wish he had the money for them as well.

_May_ 7.--Happening to see John Wilson passing down the lane on the way to his work, I called him in to consult him about putting up the partition. He made a very careful measurement, and then after calculating wood-work, and paint, and time, he said he thought he could do it for two pounds ten. I thought it would not have been more than two pounds at most; but I had forgotten about the inner door, with its handle and hinges, &c. It seems a great deal of money, I must say. William's books I know would only have cost thirty shillings, for I have a list of them that he made one evening.

_May_ 8.--Somehow or other I could hardly make up my mind after all, last night, to tell William about John Wilson's estimate; but when I did get it said, he made me feel quite at ease by the open way in which he talked about it with me, and planned it all just as if he thought it as desirable as I do. This is particularly kind of him, because I know he thinks all the time that we could do very well without it. Before we went to bed, too, he took out the little purse in which he keeps his savings (the very purse I made him before we married), and taking out the L2 10s., told me to keep the money myself ready to pay John Wilson, as he said he might be spending it perhaps if it was not out of his way. "You know," said he, laughing, "I pass the book-shop every evening on my way home, and I cannot answer for myself." I could not help feeling very much this kindness of William's in giving up his wishes so readily to mine in the matter, and I told him so--and really it quite kept me awake half the night thinking about it. I think the very sight of that purse brought back to my remembrance how I used to say to myself that when once I was William's wife I would try so hard to make him happy, and sacrifice all my wishes to his. I began to feel that after all it would not make me half as happy to have my own way as for him to be pleased with me; and in spite of his trying not to let me see it, I cannot help fancying that he was a little hurt at my being discontented with my little home, that had given me such satisfaction at first and in which we have been so happy. I begin to think that I was foolish in being persuaded by Mrs. Smith that my snug little house wanted anything to complete my happiness. Happiness! How ridiculous it seems to write that word in connexion with such a trifle as this. As if William and I were not too happy to care about whether our house is as good as our neighbour's! I am determined after all to give up this affair of the passage altogether. I have half a mind--nay, I am quite, resolved, to spend the money instead upon those books for William. How surprised he will be!

_Afternoon of the same day_.--After coming to the decision I did this morning, I put on my things, and set off into the town. I don't think I ever walked faster than I did to that bookseller's shop. Luckily they had all the books I wanted, or if they are not quite right William has only to change them afterwards. They did not cost as much as I had calculated, too, and with the discount that they gave me I had enough left for the little hanging bookshelves that William took such a fancy to at the cabinet-maker's the other day. I got them all home this afternoon--books as well as shelves--and in less than an hour after their arrival, the nail was knocked into the wall opposite the fire-place; the shelves hung, and all the books arranged upon them. How nice they look, and how pleased will dear William be when he returns! I declare I would not exchange the happiness I now feel in giving him pleasure for the finest house, with the grandest entrance to it too, that ever was built. Six o'clock: and William will be home at seven!

HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS.

AND first, let us speak to the young husband, in the words of the author of that excellent little volume, "A Whisper to a Newly-Married Pair."

'Earnestly endeavour to obtain among your acquaintance the character of a _good husband_; and abhor that _would-be_ wit, which I have sometimes seen practised among men of the world--a kind of coarse jesting on the bondage of the _married state_, and a laugh at the shackles which a _wife_ imposes. On the contrary, be it your pride to exhibit to the world that sight on which the wise man passes such an encomium: _Beautiful before God and men are a man and his wife that agree together._ (Ecclus. xxv, 10)

Make it an established rule to consult your wife on all occasions. _Your_ interest is _hers_: and undertake _no_ plan contrary to her advice and approbation. Independent of better motives, what a responsibility does it free you from! for, if the affair turn out ill, you are spared reproaches both from her and from your own feelings. But the fact is, she who ought to have most influence on her husband's mind, is often precisely the person who has least; and a man will frequently take the advice of a stranger who cares not for him nor his interest, in preference to the cordial and sensible opinion of his wife. A due consideration of the domestic evils such a line of conduct is calculated to produce, might, one would think, of itself be sufficient to prevent its adoption; but, independent of these, policy should influence you; for there is in woman an intuitive quickness, a sagacity, a penetration, and a foresight into the probable consequences of an event, that make her peculiarly calculated to give her opinion and advice.--"If I was making up a plan of consequences," said the great Lord Bolingbroke, "I should like first to consult with a sensible woman."

Have you any male acquaintance, whom, on reasonable grounds, your wife wishes you to resign? Why should you hesitate? Of what consequence can be the civilities, or even the friendship, of any one, compared with the wishes of her with whom you have to spend your life--whose comfort you have sworn to attend to; and who has a right to demand, not only such a trifling compliance, but great sacrifices, if necessary?

Never witness a tear from your wife with apathy or indifference. Words, looks, actions--all may be artificial; but a _tear_ is unequivocal; it comes direct from the _heart_, and speaks at once the language of truth, nature, and sincerity! Be assured, when, you see a tear on her cheek, her heart is touched; and do not, I again repeat it, do not behold it with coldness or insensibility!

It is very unnecessary to say that contradiction is to be avoided at all times: but when in the presence of others, be most particularly watchful. A look, or word, that perhaps, in _reality_, conveys no angry meaning, may at once lead people to think that their presence alone restrains the eruption of a discord, which probably has no existence whatsoever.

Some men, who are married to women of inferior fortune or connexion, will frequently have the meanness to upbraid them with the disparity. My good sir, allow me to ask what was your motive in marrying? Was it to oblige or please _your wife_? No, truly; it was to oblige and please _yourself_, your own dear self. Had she refused to marry you, you would have been (in lover's phrase) a very miserable man. Did you never tell her so? Therefore, really, instead of upbraiding her, you should be very grateful to her for rescuing you from such an unhappy fate.

It is particularly painful to a woman, whenever her husband is unkind enough to say a lessening or harsh word of any member of her family: invectives against herself are not half so wounding.

Should illness, or suffering of any kind, assail your wife, your tenderness and attention are then peculiarly called for; and if she be a woman of sensibility, believe me, a look of love, a word of pity or sympathy, will, at times, have a better effect than the prescriptions of her physicians.

Perhaps some calamity, peculiarly her own, may befall her. She may weep over the death of some dear relative or friend; or her spirits and feelings may be affected by various circumstances. Remember that your sympathy, tenderness, and attention, on such occasions, are particularly required.

A man would not, on any account, take up a whip, or a stick, and beat his wife; but he will, without remorse, use to her language which strikes much deeper to her heart than the lash of any whip he could make use of. "He would not, for the world," says an ingenious writer, "cut her with a _knife_, but he will, without the least hesitation, cut her with his _tongue_."

I have known some unfeeling husbands, who have treated their luckless wives with unvaried and unremitting unkindness, till perhaps the arrival of their last illness, and who then became all assiduity and attention. Bat when that period approaches, their remorse, like the remorse of a murderer, is felt too late; the die is cast; and kindness or unkindness can be of little consequence to the poor victim, who only waits to have her eyes closed in the long sleep of death!

Perhaps your wife may be destitute of youth and beauty, or other superficial attractions, which distinguish many of her sex: should this be the case, remember many a plain face conceals a heart of exquisite sensibility and merit; and her consciousness of the defect makes her peculiarly awake to the slightest attention or inattention from you: and just for a moment reflect--

"What is the blooming tincture of the skin,
To peace of mind and harmony within?
What the bright sparkling of the finest eye,
To the soft soothing of a calm reply?
Can loveliness of form, or look, or air,
With loveliness of words or deeds compare?
No: those at first the unwary heart may gain;
But these, these only, can the heart retain."

Your wife, though a gentle, amiable creature, may be deficient in mental endowments, and destitute of fancy or sentiment; and you, perhaps a man of taste and talents, are inclined to think lightly of her. This is unjust, unkind and unwise. It is not, believe me, the woman most gifted by nature, or most stored with literary knowledge, who always makes the most comfortable wife; by no, means: _your_ gentle, amiable helpmate may contribute much more to your happiness, more to the regularity, economy, and discipline of your houses and may make your children a much better mother, than many a brilliant dame who could trace, with Moore, Scott, and Byron, every line on the map of taste and sentiment, and descant on the merits and demerits of poetry, as if she had just arrived fresh from the neighbourhood of Parnassus.

Should your wife be a woman of sense, worth, and cultivation, yet not very expert at cutting out a shirt, or making paste, pies, and puddings (though I would not by any means undervalue this necessary part of female knowledge, or tolerate ignorance in my sex respecting them), yet pray, my good sir, do not, on this account _only_, show discontent and ill-humour towards her. If she is qualified to be your bosom friend, to advise, to comfort, and to soothe you;--if she can instruct your children, enliven your fireside by her conversation, and receive and entertain your friends in a manner which pleases and gratifies you;--be satisfied: we cannot expect to meet in a wife, or indeed in any one, exactly all we could wish. "I can easily," says a sensible friend of mine, "hire a woman to make my linen and dress my dinner, but I cannot so readily procure a _friend_ and _companion_ for myself, and a preceptress for my children." The remark was called forth by his mentioning that he had heard a gentleman, the day before, finding fault with his wife, an amiable, sensible well-informed woman, because she was not clever at pies, puddings, and needle-work! On the other hand, should she be sensible, affectionate, amiable, domestic, yet prevented by circumstances in early life from obtaining much knowledge of books, or mental cultivation, do not therefore think lightly of her; still remember she is your companion, the friend in whom you may confide at all times, and from whom you may obtain counsel and comfort.

Few women are insensible of tender treatment; and I believe the number of those is small indeed who would not recompense it with the most grateful returns. They are naturally frank and affectionate; and, in general, there is nothing but austerity of look and distance of behaviour, that can prevent those amiable qualities from being evinced on every occasion. There are, probably, but few men who have not experienced, during the intervals of leisure and reflection, a conviction of this truth. In the hour of absence and of solitude, who has not felt his heart cleaving to the wife of his bosom? who has not been, at some seasons; deeply impressed with a sense of her amiable disposition and demeanour, of her unwearied endeavours to promote and perpetuate his happiness, and of its being his indispensable duty to show, by the most unequivocal expressions of attachment and of tenderness, his full approbation of her assiduity and faithfulness? But lives not he that has often returned to his habitation fully determined to requite the kindness he has constantly experienced, yet, notwithstanding, has beheld the woman of his heart joyful at his approach without even attempting to execute his purpose?--who has still withheld the rewards of esteem and affection; and, from some motive, the cause of which I never could develop, shrunk from the task of duty, and repressed those soft emotions which might have gladdened the breast of her that was ever anxious to please, always prompt to anticipate his desires, and eager to contribute everything that affection could suggest, or diligence perform, in order to promote and perpetuate his felicity?

When absent, let your letters to your wife be warm and affectionate. A woman's heart is peculiarly formed for tenderness; and every expression of endearment from the man she loves is flattering and pleasing to her. With pride and pleasure does she dwell on each assurance of his affection: and, surely, it is a cold, unmanly thing to deprive her virtuous heart of such a cheap and easy mode of gratifying it. But, really, a man should endeavour not only for an affectionate, but an agreeable manner of writing to his wife. I remember hearing a lady say, "When my husband writes to me, if he can at all glean out any little piece of good news, or pleasing intelligence, he is sure to mention it." Another lady used to remark, "My husband does not intend to give me pain, or to say anything unpleasant when he writes; and yet, I don't know how it is, but I never received a letter from him, that I did not, when I finished it, feel comfortless and dissatisfied."

I really think a husband, whenever he goes from home, should always endeavour, if possible, to bring back some little present to his wife. If ever so trifling or valueless, still the attention gratifies her; and to call forth a smile of good-humour should be always a matter of importance.

Every one who knows anything of the human mind, agrees in acknowledging the power of _trifles_, in imparting either pain or pleasure. One of our best writers, speaking on this subject, introduces the following sweet lines:--

"Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from those trifles springs,
O! let the ungentle spirit learn from thence,
A _small_ unkindness is a _great_ offence.
To give rich gifts perhaps we wish in vain,
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain."

So much of happiness and comfort in the wedded life depends upon the wife, that we cannot too often nor too earnestly engage her thoughts on the subject of her duties. Duty, to some, is a cold, repulsive word, but only in the discharge of duties that appertain to each condition in life, is happiness ever secured. From the "Whisper" we copy again:--

'Endeavour to make your husband's habitation alluring and delightful to him. Let it be to him a sanctuary to which his heart may always turn from the ills and anxieties of life. Make it a repose from his cares, a shelter from the _world_, a _home_ not for his person only, but for his _heart_. He may meet with _pleasure_ in other houses, but let him find _happiness_ in his _own_. Should he be dejected, soothe him; should he be silent and thoughtful, or even peevish, make allowances for the defects of human nature, and, by your sweetness, gentleness, and good humour, urge him continually to _think_, though he may not _say_ it, "This woman is indeed a comfort to me. I cannot but love her, and requite such gentleness and affection as they deserve."

I know not two female attractions so captivating to men as delicacy and modesty. Let not the familiar intercourse which marriage produces, banish such powerful charms. On the contrary, this very familiarity should be your strongest incitement in endeavouring to preserve them; and, believe, me, the modesty so pleasing in the _bride_, may always, in a great degree, be supported by the _wife_.

"If possible, let your husband suppose you think him a _good_ husband and it will be a strong stimulus to his being so. As long as he thinks he possesses the character, he will take some pains to deserve it: but when he has once lost the name, he will be very apt to abandon the reality altogether." I remember at one time being acquainted with a lady who was married to a very worthy man. Attentive to all her comforts and wishes, he was just what the world calls a very good husband; and yet his manner to his wife was cold and comfortless, and he was constantly giving her _heart_, though never her _reason_, cause to complain of him. But she was a woman of excellent sense, and never upbraided him. On the contrary, he had every cause for supposing she thought him the best husband in the world; and the consequence was, that instead of the jarring and discord which would have been inevitably produced had she been in the habit of finding fault with him, their lives passed on in uninterrupted peace.

I know not any attraction which renders a woman at all times so agreeable to her husband, as cheerfulness or good humour. It possesses the powers ascribed to magic: it gives charms where charms are not; and imparts beauty to the plainest face. Men are naturally more thoughtful and more difficult to amuse and please than women. Full of cares and business, what a relaxation to a man is the cheerful countenance and pleasant voice of the gentle mistress of his home! On the contrary, a gloomy, dissatisfied manner is a poison of affection; and though a man may not seem to notice it, it is chilling and repulsive to his feelings, and he will be very apt to seek elsewhere for those smiles and that cheerfulness which he finds not in his own house.

In the article of dress, study your husband's taste, and endeavour to wear what he thinks becomes you best. The opinion of others on this subject is of very little consequence, if _he_ approves.

Make yourself as useful to him as you can, and let him see you employed as much as possible in _economical_ avocations.

At dinner, endeavour to have his favourite dish dressed and served up in the manner he likes best. In, observing such trifles as these, believe me, gentle lady, you study your own comfort just as much as his.

Perhaps your husband may occasionally bring home an unexpected guest to dinner. This is not at all times convenient. But beware, gentle lady, beware of frowns. Your fare at dinner may be scanty, but make up for the deficiency by smiles and good humour. It is an old remark, "Cheerfulness in the _host_ is always the surest and most agreeable mode of welcome to the guest." Perhaps, too, unseasonable visiters may intrude, or some one not particularly welcome may come to spend a few days with you. Trifling as these circumstances may be, they require a command of feeling and temper: but remember, as you journey on, inclination must be continually sacrificed; and recollect also, that the _true_ spirit of hospitality lies (as an old writer remarks), not in giving great dinners and sumptuous entertainments, but in receiving with kindness and cheerfulness those who _come_ to you, and those who _want_ your assistance.

Endeavour to feel pleased with your husband's bachelor friends. It always vexes and disappoints a man when his wife finds fault with his favourites--the favourites and companions of his youth, and probably those to whom he is bound not only by the ties of friendship, but by the cords of gratitude.

Encourage in your husband a desire for reading aloud at night. When the window curtains are drawn, the candles lighted, and you are all seated after tea round the fire, how can his time be better employed? _You_ have your work to occupy you: _he_ has nothing to do but to sit and to think; and perhaps to think too that this family scene is extremely stupid. Give interest to the monotonous hour, by placing in his hand some entertaining but useful work. The pleasure which you derive from it will encourage him to proceed; while remarks on the pages will afford improving and animating topics for conversation.

Is he fond of music? When an appropriate moment occurs, sit down with cheerfulness to your piano or harp; recollect the airs that are wont to please him most, and indulge him by playing those favourite tunes. Tell me, gentle lady, when was your time at this accomplishment so well devoted? While he was your _lover_, with what readiness, and in your very best manner, would you touch the chords; and on every occasion what pains did you take to captivate! And now that he is become your _husband_ (me thinks at this moment I see a blush mantling in your cheek), now that he is your husband, has pleasing him become a matter of indifference to you?

Particularly shun what the world calls in ridicule, "Curtain lectures." When you both enter your room at night, and shut to your door, endeavour to shut out at the same moment all discord and contention, and look on your chamber as a retreat from the vexations of the world, a shelter sacred to peace and affection.

I cannot say I much approve of man and wife at all times opening each other's letters. There is more, I think, of vulgar familiarity in this than of delicacy or confidence. Besides, a sealed letter is sacred; and every one likes to have the first reading of his or her own letters.

Perhaps your husband may be fond of absenting himself from home, and giving to others that society which you have a right to expect: clubs, taverns, &c., &c., may be his favourite resort. In this case it may perhaps be necessary to have recourse to mild reasoning; but never--I again repeat--never to clamorous dispute. And the fonder he seems of quitting his home, the greater should be your effort to make yourself and your fireside agreeable to him. This may appear a difficult task; but I recommend nothing that I have not myself seen successfully practised. I once knew a lady who particularly studied her husband's character and disposition; and I have seen her, when he appeared sullen, fretful, and inclined to go out, invite a friend, or perhaps a few friends, to spend the evening, prepare for him at dinner the dish she knew he liked best, and thus, by her kind, cheerful manner, make him forget the peevishness which had taken possession of him. Believe it from me, and let it take deep root, gentle lady, in your mind, that a good-humoured deportment, a comfortable fireside, and a smiling countenance, will do more towards keeping your husband at home than a week's logic on the subject.

Is he fond of fishing, fowling, &c.? When those amusements do not interfere with business or matters of consequence, what harm can result from them? Strive then to enter into his feelings with regard to the pleasure which they seem to afford him, and endeavour to feel interested in his harmless accounts and chat respecting them. Let his favourite dog be your favourite also; and do not with a surly look, as I have seen some wives put on, say, in his hearing, "That Cato, or Rover, or Ranger, is the most troublesome dog and the greatest pest in the world."

If the day he goes out on these rural expeditions be cold or wet, do not omit having his shirt and stockings aired for him at the fireside. Such little attentions never fail to please; and it is well worth your while to obtain good humour by such easy efforts.

Should he be obliged to go to some distant place or foreign land, at once and without indecision, if circumstances render it at all practicable, let your determination be made in the beautiful and expressive language of Scripture: _Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me._ (Ruth i. 16, 17.) If his lot be comfortless, why not lessen those discomforts by your society? and if pleasure and gayety await him, why leave him exposed to the temptations which pleasure and gayety produce? A woman never appears in so respectable a light, never to no much advantage, as when under the protection of her husband.

Even occasional separations between man and wife I am no friend to, when they can be avoided. It is not to your advantage, believe me, gentle lady, to let him see how well he can do without you. You may probably say, "Absence is at times unavoidable." Granted: I only contend such intervals of absence should be short, and occur as seldom as possible.

Perhaps it may be your luckless lot to be united to an unkind husband--a man who cares not whether he pleases or displeases, whether you are happy or unhappy. If this be the case, hard is your fate, gentle lady, very hard! But the die is cast; and you must carefully remember that no neglect of duty on _his_ part can give a legitimate sanction to a failure of duty on _yours_. The sacredness of those ties which bind you as a wife remain equally strong and heavy, whatever be the conduct of your husband; and galling as the chain may be, you must only endeavour for resignation to bear it, till the Almighty, by lightening it, pleases to crown your gentleness and efforts with success.

When at the Throne of Grace (I address you as a religious woman), be fervent and persevering in your prayers for your husband; and by your example endeavour to allure him to that heaven towards which you are yourself aspiring: that, if your husband _obey not the word_, as the sacred writer says, _he may, without the word_, be won by the conversation (or conduct) of the wife.

Your husband, perhaps, may be addicted to gambling, horse-racing, drinking, &c. These are serious circumstances; and mild remonstrances must be occasionally used to oppose them; but do not let your argument rise to loud or clamorous disputing. Manage your opponent like a skilful general, and constantly watching the appropriate moment for retreat. To _convince_ without _irritating_, is one of the most difficult as well as most desirable points of argument. Perhaps this may not be in your power: at all events, make the attempt, first praying to God for direction, and then leaving to him the result.

Or, gentle lady, you may, perhaps, be united to a man of a most uncongenial mind, who, though a very good sort of husband, differs from you in every sentiment. What of this? You must only make the best of it. Look around. Numbers have the same and infinitely worse complaints to make; and, truly, when we consider what real misery there is in the world, it seems the height of folly fastidiously and foolishly to refine away our happiness, by allowing such worthless trifles to interfere with our comfort.

There are very few husbands so bad as to be destitute of good qualities, and probably, very decided ones. Let the wife search out and accustom herself to dwell on those good qualities, and let her treat _her own_ errors, not _her husband's_, with severity. I have seldom known a dispute between man and wife in which faults _on both sides_ were not conspicuous; and really it is no wonder; for we are so quick-sighted to the imperfections of others, so blind and lenient to our own, that in cases of discord and contention, we throw all the blame on the opposite party, and never think of accusing ourselves. In general, at least, this is the case.

I was lately acquainted with a lady, whose manner to her husband often attracted my admiration. Without appearing to do so, she would contrive to lead to those subjects in which he appeared to most advantage. Whenever he spoke, she seemed to listen as if what he was saying was of importance. And if at any time she differed from him in opinion, it was done so gently as scarcely to be perceived even by himself. She was quite as well informed (perhaps more so) and as sensible as himself, and yet she always appeared to think him superior in every point. On all occasions she would refer to him, asking his opinion, and appearing to receive information at the very moment, perhaps, she was herself imparting it. The consequence was, there never was a happier couple, and I am certain he thought her the most superior woman in the world.

I repeat, it is amazing how trifles--the most insignificant trifles--even a word, even a look,--yes, truly, a look, a glance--completely possess the power, at times, of either pleasing, or displeasing. Let this sink deep into your mind: remember, that to endeavour to keep a husband in constant good humour is one of the first duties of a wife.

Perhaps, on some occasion or other, in the frolic of the moment, without in the least degree intending to annoy you, your husband may toy, and laugh, and flirt, while in company, with some pretty girl present. This generally makes a wife look foolish; and it would be as well, nay, much better, if he did not do so. But let not a shade of ill humour cross your brow, nor even by a glance give him or any one present, reason to think his behaviour annoys you. Join in the laugh and chat, and be not outdone in cheerfulness and good humour by any of the party. But remember, gentle lady, there must be no _acting_ in this affair: the effort must extend to your _mind_ as well as your _manner_; and a moment's reasoning on the subject will at once restore the banished sunshine. The incomparable Leighton says, "The human heart is like a reservoir of clear water, at the bottom of which lies a portion of _mud_: stir the mud, and the water gets all sullied. In like manner does some strong passion or peevish feeling rise in the heart, and stain and darken it as the mud does the water." But should there be a prospect of your husband often meeting with this lady in question, endeavour at once to break off the intimacy by bringing forward some pretext consistent with truth (for to _truth_ everything must be sacrificed), such as, You do not like her; The intimacy is not what you would wish, &c. Never, however, avow the _real_ reason: it will only produce discord, and make your husband think you prone to jealousy--a suspicion a woman cannot too carefully guard against. And there is often in men an obstinacy which refuses to be conquered of all beings in the world _by a wife_. A jealous wife (such is the erroneous opinion of the ill-judging world) is generally considered a proper subject for ridicule; and a woman ought assiduously to conceal from her husband, more than from any one else, any feeling of the kind. Besides, after all, gentle lady, your suspicions _may_ be totally groundless; and you may possibly be tormenting yourself with a whole train of imaginary evils. As you value your peace, then, keep from you, if possible, all such vexatious apprehensions, and remember, a man can very ill bear the idea of being suspected of inconstancy even when _guilty_; but when _innocent_, it is intolerable to him.'

Dr. Boardman, in his excellent "Hints on Domestic Happiness," has uttered a timely warning against the depraving influence of Clubs, to which some young married men resort, to their own injury and the destruction of domestic peace.

'I have to do, at present,' he says, 'with certain "avocations and habits which contravene the true idea of home, and are prejudicial to domestic happiness." I have spoken at some length, in this view, of a life of fashionable dissipation, particularly in its influence upon the female sex. The whole range of public amusements might fairly be considered as within the sweep of my subject; but there is one topic which it will not do to pass by. Equal justice ought, in a series of lectures like this, to be meted out to both sexes; and I feel bound to say a few words in respect to CLUBS.

One reason why I do this ha's been given. A second is, that in so far as large cities are concerned, one can hardly sever the mental association which links together Clubs and domestic happiness--or unhappiness. I bring against these institutions no wholesale denunciation. I neither say nor believe that all who belong to them are men of profligate character. I cannot doubt that they comprise individuals not only of high social standing, but of great personal worth. But in dealing with the institutions themselves, I must be permitted to express the conviction that they are unfavourable to the culture of the domestic affections, and hurtful to the morals and manners of society. That this is the common opinion respecting them is beyond a question. Of the respectable people who pass by any fashionable Club-House in an evening, the thoughts of a very large proportion are probably directed, for the moment, with the most intensity, to the homes of its tenantry, with the feeling, "Those would be happier homes if this establishment were out of the way."

The mildest conception of these associations which any one can insist upon, is that given by Mr. Addison, who says, "Our modern celebrated Clubs are founded upon eating and drinking, which are points wherein most men agree, and in which the learned and the illiterate, the dull and the airy, the philosopher and the buffoon, can all of them bear a part." They must be greatly scandalized if billiards and cards do not enter as largely into the recreations they supply, as eating and drinking. There must be _some_ potent attractions which can draw a set of gentlemen away from all other scenes and engagements, domestic and social, moral and religious, literary and political, and hold them together to a late hour, for many nights in succession. If it is social reading, the authors they read may well be flattered with the honours paid them. If it is conversation,

"The feast of reason and the flow of soul."

the talkers must have rare conversational powers. If it is politics, the country must have zealous patriots among her sons. If it is science, no wonder that under the pressure of this prodigious research, the lightning lends its wings to knowledge, that the subjugated earth hastens to reveal its deep _arcana_ to mortal eyes, and that planet after planet should come forth out of the unfathomable abyss of space, and submit to be measured, and weighed, and chronicled, as their older sisters have been. But this is going too far even for the charity which "believeth all things." Those who have never been initiated into the _penetralia_ of these institutions, know enough of them to be satisfied that they are not precisely schools of science--or, if they are, that the sciences they exult in, are not those which soar towards heaven, but those which have to do with the auriferous bowels of the earth, and the full-fed cattle upon its surface.

To come more directly to the point, the allegation made against these Clubs--made in the name of ten thousand injured wives and mothers and children--is, that they become a sort of RIVAL HOME to the home _they_ occupy; that the influence they exert over their members, loosens their domestic ties, indisposes them to their domestic duties, and not unfrequently seduces them into habits of intemperance and gambling. The clients I represent in this argument contend that they are an unnecessary institution--that where gentlemen wish to associate together for literary purposes, there are always within their reach lyceums, athenaeums, libraries, and societies without number; and that as to a social relaxation, it can be had without setting up a quasi-monastery. They urge with truth that any course of social amusements pursued systematically and earnestly by a combination of gentlemen, to the exclusion of ladies, will as really tend to impair, as the companionship of cultivated women does to refine, the manners, and the sensibilities of the heart; that, as a matter of fact, those who become addicted to these coarser pleasures, lose their relish for the best female society; and that the old home sinks in their esteem, as the new one rises. These charges, which cannot be gainsayed, bear not only upon married men, but young men; for the tastes and habits fostered by the Clubs, are precisely those which go to alienate them from the paternal roof, and to unfit them to become heads of families.