Life and Literature Part 145

--_By John Greenleaf Whittier._

2015

Who sows thorns should not go barefoot.

--_French._

2016

_Advice to a Wife._--O woman! thou knowest the hour when the goodman of the house will return, when the heat and burden of the day are past; do not let him at such time, find upon his coming to his habitation, that the foot which should hasten to meet him is wandering at a distance, that when he is weary with toil and jaded with discouragement, the soft hand which should wipe the sweat from his brow, is knocking at the door of other houses.

--_W. Irving._

2017

A stubborn wife is a mat rolled up--i. e., useless.

--_Chinese._

2018

ADVICE TO A WIFE.

Fie! fie! unknit that threat'ning, unkind brow, And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor; It blots thy beauty, as frost bite the meads; Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds; And in no sense is meet or amiable.

A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it.

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land; To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe, And craves no other tribute at thy hands, But love, fair looks, and true obedience: Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as one owes a prince, Even such, a woman oweth to her husband: And when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will, What is she but a foul contending rebel And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war, where they should kneel for peace; Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

--_Shakespeare._

2019

I AM YOUR WIFE.

Oh, let me lay my head to-night upon your breast, And close my eyes against the light, I fain would rest, I'm weary, and the world looks sad; this worldly strife Turns me to you; and, oh I'm glad to be your wife!

Though friends may fail or turn aside, yet I have you And in your love I may abide, for you are true-- My only solace in each grief and in despair, Your tenderness is my relief; it soothes each care.

If joys of life could alienate this poor weak heart From yours, then may no pleasure great enough to part Our sympathies fall to my lot. I'd e'er remain Bereft of friends, though true or not, just to retain Your true regard, your presence bright, thro' care and strife And, oh! I thank my G.o.d to-night, I am your wife!

--_Old Clipping._

2020

THE WIFE.

I have often had occasion to remark the fort.i.tude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer s.e.x, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while threading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune and abiding with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity.

As the vine which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunder-bolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so it is beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man, falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant.

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample; and he delighted in the antic.i.p.ation of indulging her in elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the s.e.x.--"Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale."

The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious combination; he was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on a flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity.

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations; and he had not been married many months when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced to almost penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness.

She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul.

The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will banish from that cheek--the song will die away from those lips--the l.u.s.tre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow--and the happy heart which now beats lightly in that bosom will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world.

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?" At the question he burst into an agony of tears. "For G.o.d's sake!" cried he, "if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to distraction!"

"And why not?" said I:--"She must know it sooner or later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together--an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind; and true love will not brook reserve: it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it."

"Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects--how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar!--that she is to forego all the elegancies of life--all the pleasures of society--to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness--the light of every eye--the admiration of every heart!--How can she bear poverty? She has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence * * *"

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively.

"But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circ.u.mstances. You must change your style of living--nay," observing a pang to pa.s.s across his countenance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you never placed your happiness in outward show--you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged; and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary--" "I could be happy with her," cried he convulsively, "in a hovel! *"

"Believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, "she can be the same with you. Ay, more: it will be a source of pride and triumph to her--it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity." I finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife.

I must confess, notwithstanding all I have said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fort.i.tude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward path of low humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto reveled.

In short, I could not meet Leslie next morning without trepidation. He had made the disclosure.

"And how did she bear it?"

"Like an Angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for she threw her arms around my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy."

Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busy all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind.

All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said was too closely a.s.sociated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband.

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him.

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing.

"Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips.

"And what of her," asked I, "has anything happened to her?"

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation--to be caged in a miserable cottage--to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation?"