The Wedding Guest Part 8

Endeavour to make your husband's evenings at home as pleasant as you are able; call forth your powers of pleasing; bring up his favourite topics of conversation; amuse him with music; do all that you can to convince him that he has a most delightful wife, and trust me, dear girl, you will never fail to make his own "ingle side" the happiest spot in the world to him.

I once knew a wife who complained to me, with many tears, that her husband left her, evening after evening, to pa.s.s his time in the reading-room of a hotel. Rallying the husband upon his desertion of so pleasant a wife, he replied to me, that he had commenced his married life with the determination to be a kind, domestic husband, but that he had actually been driven from his home and for what, do you imagine, my dear Lizzie? Why, because he had not the simple privilege of enjoying a cigar! Yes, his wife actually would not allow him to smoke in the parlour where their evenings were pa.s.sed, because, forsooth, she was afraid of spoiling her new curtains!

They, it seems, were of more importance to her than the comfort of her husband. He had been confirmed in the habit of smoking for years, and could not pa.s.s an evening without it. He did not feel inclined to sit alone in a cold, cheerless room, so he went to a neighbouring hotel, which he found so lively and pleasant that he came to the conclusion, for the future, to enjoy his cigars there.

You may smile, and look upon this as a trifle, and so it was; yet was it of sufficient importance to drive a man from his own fireside, and render a woman lonely and unhappy.

Life is made up of trifles, and it is by paying attention to opportunities of winning love by _little things_ that a wife makes her husband and herself happy. Are such means, then, to be neglected when they lead to such results?

I must bid you adieu now for a while, dear Lizzie. I think of you very, very often, and pray most fervently that you may be enabled so to perform your duties as a wife as to be a blessing to your husband and an example to all womankind.

Ever your friend.

THE WIFE.

BEHOLD, how fair of eye, and mild of mien Walks forth of marriage yonder gentle queen; What chaste sobriety whene'er she speaks, What glad content sits smiling on her cheeks, What plans of goodness in that bosom glow, What prudent care is throned upon her brow, What tender truth in all she does or says, What pleasantness and peace in all her ways!

For ever blooming on that cheerful face, Home's best affections grow divine in grace; Her eyes are rayed with love, serene and bright; Charity wreathes her lips with smiles of light; Her kindly voice hath music in its notes; And Heaven's own atmosphere around her floats!

BE GENTLE WITH THY WIFE.

BE gentle! for you little know How many trials rise; Although to thee they may be small, To her, of giant size.

Be gentle! though perchance that lip May speak a murmuring tone, The heart may beat with kindness yet, And joy to be thine own.

Be gentle! weary hours of pain 'Tis woman's lot to bear; Then yield her what support thou canst, And all her sorrows share.

Be gentle! for the n.o.blest hearts At times may have some grief, And even in a pettish word May seek to find relief.

Be gentle! none are perfect here-- Thou'rt dearer far than life, Then husband, bear and still forbear-- Be gentle to thy wife.

A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.

IN one of the New England States, the little church-bell in Chester village rung merrily in the clear morning air of a bright summer's day. It was to call the people together, and they all obeyed its summons--for who among the aged, middle-aged, or the young, did not wish to fitness the marriage ceremonies of their favourite, Ellen Lawton? Ere the tolling of the bell had ceased, the gray-haired man was leaning on the finger-worn ball of his staff, in the corner of his antiquated pew; the hale, healthy farmer came next; and then the seat was filled with rosy-cheeked boys and girls, till the dignified matron brought up the rear at the honourable head. The church became quiet, eager eyes were fastened upon the door. Presently a tall form entered, that of a handsome man, apparently about thirty years of age, on whose arm was leaning, in sweet childlike smiling trust, the young and loved Ellen Lawton, whose rose-cheek delicately shaded the pale face, and who looked more beautiful in her angel loveliness than ever before, even to the eyes of the humble villagers, to whom she ever was but a "thing of beauty" and "a joy for ever." If thus she looked to familiar eyes, how transcendently beautiful must she have appeared to him, who this hour was to make her his own chosen bride, the wife of his bosom, the pride, the priceless jewel of his heart. They stood before the altar; he cast his dark eye upon her--she raised hers, beaming in their blue depths, all full of love and tenderness, and as they met his, the orange blossoms trembled slightly in her auburn tresses, and the rose-tint, deepened on her cheek. The voice of the man of G.o.d was heard, and soon Frederic Gorton had promised to "love, cherish, and protect," and Ellen Lawton to "love, honour, and obey." As it ever is, so it was _there_, an interesting occasion--one that might well cause the eye to fill with tears, the heart to hope, fearfully but earnestly hope, that that young girl's dreams may not too soon fade, that in him to whom she has given her heart she may ever find a firm friend, a ready counsellor, a kind and forbearing spirit, a sympathizing interest in all her thoughts and emotions. On this occasion many criticising glances were thrown upon the handsome stranger, and many whispers were circulated.

"I fear," said one of the deacon's good ladies, "that he is too proud and self-willed for our gentle Ellen;" and she took off her spectacles, which she wiped with her silk handkerchief, as if she thought they were wearied of the long scrutiny as her own very eyes.

Is there truth in the good lady's suspicion? Look at Frederic Gorton, as he stands there in his stateliness, towering above his bride, like the oak of the forest above the flower at its foot. His eye is very dark and very piercing, but how full of tenderness as he casts it upon Ellen's up-turned face! His brow is lofty, and pale, and stern, but partially covered with long dark hair, with which lady's finger had never toyed. His cheek was as if chiselled from marble, so perfect had the hand of nature formed it. His mouth--another s.p.a.ce of Ellen's unpenetrating discernment, would have been reminded of Shakspeare's

"O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip."

There was about it that compression, so indicative of firmness, which, while it commands respect, as often wins love.

A perfect contrast to him, was the fairy thing at his side; gentle as the floating breeze of evening, trusting as true-hearted woman ever is, lovely, amiable, and beautiful, she was just one to win a strong man's love; for there is something grateful to a proud man in having a delicate, gentle, confiding girl place all her love and trust in him and making all her happiness derivable from his will and wish. Heaven's blessing rest upon him who fulfils faithfully that trust reposed in him, but woe be unto him who remembers not his vows to love and to cherish!

The marriage service over, the friends of Ellen pressed eagerly around her, offering their many wishes for her long life and happiness. The gray-haired man, and aged mother in Israel, laid their hands on the young bride's fair head, and fervently prayed "G.o.d bless thee;" and not a few there were who gave glances upward to Frederic Gorton, and impressively said,

"Love as we have loved the treasure G.o.d transfers to thee."

The widowed mother of Ellen gazed upon the scene with mingled emotions. Ellen was her eldest child, and had been her pride, her joy, and delight since the death of her husband, many years before.

She was giving her to a stranger, whose reputation as a man of talent, of worth, and honourable position in the world was unquestioned; but of whose private character she had no means of acquiring a knowledge. It was all uncertainty if a stern, business man of the world, should supply the tenderness and devoted love of a fond mother, to her whose wish had been hitherto scarcely ever disregarded. Yet it might be--she could only hope, and her trust was in "Him who doeth all things well."

For the two previous years Ellen had been at a female boarding school in a neighbouring state, on the anniversaries of which she had taken an active part in the examinatory exercises. Frederic Gorton, who was one of the board, was so much pleased with her, that he made of the teachers minute inquiries in regard to her character, which were answered entirely satisfactorily--for Ellen had been a general favourite at school, as well as in her own village.

Afterward he called on her frequently, and on her final return home, Frederic Gorton, who had ever been so confident in his eternal old bachelorship, accompanied her, and sought her from her mother as his bride. Seldom does one so gifted seek favour of lady in vain; and Ellen Lawton, hitherto unsought and unwon, yielded up in silent worship her whole heart, that had involuntarily bowed itself in his presence, and became as a child in reverence.

But Frederic Gorton had lived nearly thirty-five years of his life among men. His mother had died in his infancy, his father soon after, and he, an only child, had been educated in the family of an old bachelor uncle.

The influence of woman had never been exerted on his heart. In his boyhood he had formed, from reading works of fiction, an idea of woman as perfection in all things; but as he grew in years and in wisdom, and learned the falsity of many youthful ideas and dreams, he discarded that which he had entertained of woman, and knowing nothing of her, but by her general appearance of vanity and love of pleasure, he cherished for her not much respect, and regarded her as an inferior, to whom, he thought in his pride, he at least would never level himself by marriage. He smiled scornfully, on learning his appointment as trustee of the female school, and laughingly said to an old bachelor companion:--

"They will make me to have care of the gentle weak ones, whether I will or no."

"O, yes," replied his friend, who was somewhat disposed to be satiric, "cla.s.sically speaking, '_pulchra faciant te prole parentum_.' Depend upon it this will be your initiation; you will surely, upon attendance there, be caught by the smiling graces of some pretty Venus--but, be careful; remember there is no escape when once caught. Ah, my friend, I consider you quite gone. I shall soon see in the morning daily--'Married, on the 12th, Hon. Frederic Gorton, of M--, to Miss Isabella, Mary, or Ellen Somebody, and then, be a.s.sured, my best friend, Fred, that I shall heave a sigh _imo pectore_, not for myself only, but for you."

Some prophecies, jestfully uttered, are fulfilled--so were those of Frederic's friend; and when they next met, only one was a bachelor.

But we will return to that bright morning when the bell had rung merrily--when Ellen Lawton had returned from the village church to her childhood home as Ellen Gorton, and was to leave it for a new home. After entering the parlour, Mr. Gorton said,

"Now, Ellen, we will be ready to start in as few moments as possible."

"Yes," answered Ellen, "but I wish to go over to Aunt Mary's, just to bid her good-bye."

"But my dear," answered Frederic, "there is not time;" looking at his watch.

"Just a moment," persisted Ellen, "I will hurry. I promised Aunt Mary; she is sick and cannot leave her room."

And, as Frederic answered not, and as Ellen's eyes were brimful of tears, she could but half see the impatience expressed on his countenance, and hastily departed.

But, Aunt Mary had innumerable kisses to bestow upon her favourite, and many words and wishes to utter, brokenly, in a voice choked with tears; and it was many minutes ere she could tear herself away, and on her return she met several loiterers from the church, who stopped her to look, as they said, upon her sweet face once more, and list to her sweet voice again. She hurried on--Mr. Gorton met her at the door, and taking her hand, said, sternly,

"Ellen, I wish you not to delay a moment in bidding adieu to your friends--you have already kept me waiting too long."

There was no tenderness in his voice as he uttered this, and it fell as a weight upon Ellen's heart, already saddened at the thought of the parting with her mother and home friends, which must be now, and which was soon over.

As the carriage rolled away, Ellen grieved bitterly. Mr. Gorton, who really loved Ellen sincerely and fondly, encircled her waist with his arm, and said, kindly,

"Do you feel, Ellen, that you have made too great a sacrifice in leaving home and friends for me?"

"O, no," answered Ellen, raising to his her love-lit countenance, "no sacrifice could be too great to make for you; but do you not know I have left all I had to love before I loved you? And they will miss me too at home, and will think of me, how often, too, when I shall be thinking of you only! Think it not strange that I weep."