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the key that unlocks the storehouse of creation, and opens to us the treasures of the universe!
It would be tedious to detail the arguments offered by Emily, to prove that a husband who truly loves, should not spend his evenings from home; and the logical reasoning by which Richard endeavored to convince her, that he was discharging his duty as a fellow man, and reaping abundant instruction from the debates and lectures that he had listened to. They did not fail to enlarge his understanding, to render him a more agreeable companion, and to exalt virtue. I will rather leave the thoughts of both parties to the imaginations of those readers who may honor this story with a perusal; and if they have suffered from the same causes, they will better picture the circumstances than I can narrate them; if they only know them from theory, my wish is that they may never otherwise find them true.
Notwithstanding the arguments and the many tears of Emily, the husband still persisted in attending the meetings of the institute. There arose a lukewarmness on the part of the wife, which led to a result that furnished cause for future dissension. This consciousness, that a cold reception awaited Richard at home, induced him one night that the society had not members enough to constitute a quorum, to yield to the request of an old friend to accompany him to his dwelling and partake in the enjoyment of some innocent pleasure. Seven of the members composed the company.
Richard found his companions so agreeable that he did not return home until twelve o'clock. The wife met him with a countenance as pale as monumental marble. Her pallid cheeks, on which the effects of her late vigil and anxiety might be traced in legible characters, were a reproach that his conscience whispered he had merited. Men are seldom disposed to pity the sufferings they have caused, until conscience tells them they have been in the wrong. The husband offered consolation for the anxiety he had occasioned, but the wife bathed her pillow with tears that stole down her cheeks, as she continued to ponder on his conduct, long after the husband had tasted the balm of sleep denied Jp her. She contrasted this night's absence with the unruffled current of their lives before marriage, when an hour passed away from her, was considered an affliction not bearable. Oh! who can trace the workings of the human heart? Who can tell where its rushing thoughts will bear us? Like the fixed stars, we see and feel their influence— they warn us of our destiny—but are lodged so deeply, that they cannot be told—the heart is as unfathomable as the depths of either.
It was so with Emily. When she first saw Richard, his image, as an idol, she enthroned upon the altar of her heart; and there it still remained, and would until the shrine on which it rested was crumbled or crushed.
Trivial as these errors may appear to some readers, they aimed blows that are fatal to conjugal happiness. The husband thought that this mode of life was compulsory and consequent, owing to the absurd exigence of his wife. How many men have similarly reasoned, and how many women have provoked the same results by their imprudent expectations and resentments, when such expectations have been disappointed. The consequent attendant on such conduct is mutual dissatisfaction, which owes its bitterness and existence to an ill-regulated affection which lead husband and wife to expect in each other that freedom from error, rarely, if ever, accorded to weak mortals.
Many days passed, and Richard and Emily were more disagreeable toward each other. They dreaded a recurrence to the late hours that the husband stayed away from home, yet they could think of no other subject. How to avoid those frequent aberrations from domestic peace, which proceed from the continual clash of inclinations, is a question of daily importance. In those marriages which have been uniformly productive of the greatest sum of happiness, wives have, at least appeared to be, altogether swayed by the opinions of their husbands. By such yielding, the confidence of the husband is increased, and the attachment of the wife is confirmed. His desire to contribute to the increase of his wife's happiness becomes ha bitual, and prompts him to afford her every indulgence within his power ; till, at length, it may be doubted which is the governed individual. The silken cord of true love, which compel them both to pursue together the same path, may not, it is certain, always be efficient in checking the wayward humors of human nature; but when these have had their course, they will then be effectual in drawing closer, and even in uniting more firmly, the married couple, who, while they feel unshaken confidence in each other, cannot altogether overcome the frailties of life. Duty will not be an appalling word to those whose minds are properly framed. The consciousness of having well performed it, will afford tranquillity to the mind, not only under the minor trials and disappointments of life, but even under the pressure of heavier misfortunes, proving the superiority of inward peace, to external enjoyments. A happy couple! How honored, and how honorable the term! They who discharge faithfully the offices of love, fidrlity and personal attentions which the responsibilities of the matrimonial relation involve, are worthy of the appellation.
Richard received a letter from a friend, at Washington, who stated that his brother, younger by four years, was dangerously ill, and wished to see him before leaving this world. Although no one related to him was in that city, every thing that friends could do was done, and notwithstanding the attendance of the most skilful physician, it seemed evident that his pilgrimage here was short.
There is something inexpressively painful in the idea of dyingaway from our kindred— of having our eyes closed in death by a stranger hand—and of being denied the privilege, when the pulse grows more weak, and our hold upon existence is constantly wearing away, of breathing our last thoughts into the ear of one, who has been our guardian for years, and who has become acquainted with all the peculiarities of our disposition. Every attention may be paid to our little wants and desires, every exertion made to minister to our necessities—yet if a relation be not near, to watch by our side, to place the pillow softly beneath our head, and wilh a soothing voice to calm the troubled mind, all is in vain : although some gentle spirit essay to perform these kindnesses, yet where is a hand like that of a wife, or sister, or brother, —where is the voice that soothes like that of a mother! This letter was a relief to Richard, as he would be some time from home, which was daily becoming more irksome to him ; but to the wife it was painful, as she would be deprived of the sight of him whom she dearly loved. The husband prepared to depart; he muttered a few words of regret at the necessity of leaving her. His lips slightly pressed her cheek, which she silently and passively received, without returning his caress. There was a time when they would fondly loiter, if they had to part even for an hour, unwilling to tear themselves from each other's presence, and the wife would as fondly urge him to stay. But now what a change! They felt, but dared not revert to the alteration. The tears, repressed in his presence, flowed abundantly when he left the house to take the Baltimore steamboat, thence the cars for Washington. These tears were the bitterest she had ever shed, for they mourned the death of young and romantic hopes of happiness.
In the afternoon Emily went into the library to find some book, the reading of which would interest her. The first one that attracted her attention was written by a woman, who had been married five years. The first chapter was an autobiography of the writer, in which she lays before the reader that experience which is the inevitable result of a constant intercourse with society. She too,
had, during the first months of her marriage, wept over the destruction of those illusions peculiar to the young and romantic: illusions fated to be dissolved by the sober realities of life—and had learned to value the steady affection of the husband, which supersedes the more animated, but brief devotion of the lover. She had passed through the phases of the honey-moon, and noted the barometer of love, from extreme heat to variable, and found the quicksilver to remain steadily fixed at temperature. Nevertheless, though she might sometimes give a sigh to the memory of departed illusions, she was satisfied, nay more, was happy in her domestic life. Her husband had frequented a club, tri-weekly, and she counted thelong,dull hours, that she thought interminable, while her husband was at the meetings. Often did she resist the attacks of the drowsy god, Morpheus, for the praiseworthy purpose of being able to tell her husband what a sleepless, wretched night she had passed. Often did she feel angry when her husband exclaimed—
"Why not go to sleep? You would then be unconscious of the tardy flight of time. I see you can hardly keep your eyes open."
She did learn wisdom from this oft-repeated rebuke, and did go to sleep, and acquired sufficient philosophy by looking cheerful at her husband the next morning after he had frequented the club, and not uttering reproaches for his having occasioned her such long vigils.
As Emily perused this part of the book, her brow was elevated into an angular curve, indicative of displeasure and surprise; she continued reading, however, and dwelt long upon the portion which makes known the pleasure the writer evinced on every demonstration of her husband's affection, without exacting a single one. It is the false notions engendered during the days of courtship and the honey-moon, that lay the foundation for many, if not all the dissensions that too frequently embitter married life. Men forego their prerogatives when they stoop to sue and propitiate those whom they believe themselves born to protect, if not to command. The object attained for which this sacrifice was offered, they quickly resume their natural and ill-concealed sense of superiority, and begin to treat her, whom they seemed to consider as perfection, a being sent into this world, to contribute to their wants and wishes. A deposed monarch driven from the throne where he commanded universal homage from his subjects, is not placed in a more false position, by expecting similar demonstrations of respect in exile, than a wife is, who exacts in the staid and unromantic position of a matron, the devoted attentions offered to her during the delusive hours of courtship and the first bridal clays. Let then both thedepos-' ed, resign with "decent dignity" the homage they can no longer command, and they will best insure that continued- regard, which, though more homely, is not less precious.
These words made a deep impression on the mind of Emily; she often read that book which chance threw in her way, and she made the firm resolve of seeking content and of conferring happmess in the discharge of her duties. During her husband's stay at Washington, letters were sent and received. After the lapse of three weeks he returned, his heart filled win grief by the demise of his uncle, and his thoughts bordering on the uncertainty of a warm or cold welcome.
He returned home; it was eleven o'clock. The servant admitted him. He repaired to his chamber and found his young wife asleep;' her cheeks still retammg the traces of recent tears: he heard his own name uttered by the lips of the sleeper, followed by a deep sigh. That sigh was more powerful than the most eloquent speech, and he reproached himself severely for having caused it.
"Poor Emily," thought he, "remembers me in her dreams. And can I be so unfeeling as to blame her that she is dissatisfied at finding me so much less faultless than she expected! To-morrow's sun shall shine on our happiness, which shall end when the lamp of life is extinguished."
These salutary refl ctions pnduceda happy result. On the following day the hu-band explained the sacrifices entailed on young men who possessed minds similar to his,— the necessity of occasionally submitting; the expediency of a wife's cheerfully yielding to these unavoidable interruptions to domestic} bliss,—and she would be happy by having a! perfect confidence in her husband, which would exempt him from the painful necessity of concealment or prevarication. The tenderness with which Richard bestowed this advice, insured its adoption. From that day forth E nily learned to bear seeing her husband behave with the courtesy practised by every gentleman toward women, without feeling any jealousy: submitted without uneasiness to his frequently engaging his old friends to dinnet, nay, could smile at the mention of his bachelor frolics, and hear of the to idness of younvr ladies for him before marriage. Emily studiously guarded against having a! dispute with her hi^band, considering it as a demon which should never again enter heri home of hallowed affection, where domestic peace, unimpaired confidence, and heartfelt affection reigned. When he brought home a friend, she gave to her husband and company a hearty welcome, which acted as a powerful ch irm, and gave to her humble fare a zest superior to all that luxuries could boast.:
Her goodness now wore a new lustre. It was the oil that prevented discontent and even quarrels; it removed asperities, and gave to every thing a smoothe, even, and pleasing movement.
Written for the Ladies' Garland.
"WHO WOULD NOT STRIKE THE T K E M B LI N G LYRE?"
BY REV. J. ALLEN.
Come, gentle muse, and me inspire,
Could I but in thy chariot stand,
Mennd'ring streams that gently flow,
Sweet groves where softest zephyrs play,
Written for the Ladies' Garland.
LINES, On receiving some Roses, <J-c, from trees once belonging to a friend.
BY SUSAN WILSON.
Sweet is your ministry, flowers of earth!
Your fraura ce arid bloom are of heavenly birth,'
Ye wreathe the fair brow of the youthful bride,
Ye lie in the coffin the dead beside,
And in mournful beauty, above the grave,
By the hand of affection are taught to wave.
In other climes they may " talk in flowers,"
Witness. ye fading ones,—yours is the power
For me wreathed life's fragrant and beautiful flowers.
That home ske has left for a distant one, where
Though sweet is your ministry, flowers of earth!
THE LADIES' GARLAND.
Written for the Ladies' Gailand.
THE TWO APPRENTICES: OR, THE EDUCATION FINISHED.
A TALE —BEING THE THIRD OF THE SERIES OF THE TWO SISTERS. BY PROFESSOR J. H. INGRAHAM.
The first appearance in society of two beautiful and wealthy girls, like Ann and Caroline Marshall, created not a little sensation in the aristocratic circle in which they had made their debut. Their beauty, fortune, fashionable appearance and finished education, (for all the world knew they had
just left Madame 's school,) was the talk
of scheming mothers with marrying sons, of marrying sons with fortunes yet to make, with economical—yet still gay—bachelors, and widowers with broken estates to repair.
"Mrs. Marshall will throw her house open and give drawing-rooms, now," said Mrs. Col. Bisbee to Mrs. Dr. Leigh, at Col. Whartons' party. "What a match the girls will be. I only wish Henry was of age!"
"I am told Mr. Marshall is worth three hundred thousand dollars, and these are his only children;" remarked Mrs. Dr. Leigh back again to Mrs. Col. Bisbee. "They will be splendid fortunes."
The morning after "The Trial," these "fine matches" and "splendid fortunes" made their appearance in the library at the hour of appointment. Ann, who was really a sensible and good girl, felt excessively mortified to find her education had proved so deficient, but she was most hurt that her father should have received such a disappointment. She entered the library sad and thoughtful, wondering what her father had to propose, and prepared in her heart to acquiesce fully in his wishes, even if it was to return to school for three years longer. Caroline was more vexed than grieved, at the exposure of her
Voi. VI.—No. 3.—Sept. 1842.
ignorance, and her pride coming to her aid, she had the preceding night internally resolved not to go into society for a full year, but remain at home and devote the whole time to study. With these commendable dispositions, the two sisters came into their father's presence.
Mr. Marshall was reading when they entered, but laid the book down and received them with a kind, paternal smile.
"Good morning, my dear children," he said, as he seated one on each side of him; "I am glad to see you are so punctual to our appointment; it argues favourably for the issue of my wishes. I need not ask whether you are now quite convinced that your education is not a useful one—that, with all your knowledge of various elegancies of scholarship, there is nothing you know perfectly, or which you could make use of towards supporting yourselves in case any reverse of fortune should happen to you!"
The young ladies were silent; but their heightened colour and down cast eyes spoke eloquently the reply their lips could not be trusted with.
"My motive, dear Ann and Caro," he continued, "in soliciting this interview with you, proceeds from the kindest and most anxious affection. I have long suspected the usefulness of a fashionable modern education, and have lately been made aware that you were throwing away your best years in frivolous acquisitions. I saw that, though your minds and manners had improved, it was owing more to your innate taste and refine
ment, than any instructions you derived from' Madame 's, whose whole system I began to have reason to suspect was hollow and superficial; one unfitted for training an individual either for usefulness in this World, or happiness in the next. I saw you had acquired only the tinsel of education, and that the solid foundation was almost altogether wanting. I waited patiently till your last year was up, and when you returned home "finished," I put you to the ordeal; not so much to convince myself as to prove to yourselves your own deficiencies. The trial has passed and the result I need not repeat."
"No, sir—spare us, father," cried both at once; "we are sufficiently vexed and mortified, and feel deeply grateful to you for so early making us sensible of our deficiencies. But neither of us ever expected what we learned at school would be called for in the world."
"Every kind of learning is useful at some period of life or another. Now I am glad to find you so humble, and trust to find you willing to retrieve your lost time."
"Indeed we are," said Caroline, warmly. "I am willing to renounce the society we have just appeared in, and again become a school girl."
"And will you, Ann, at your age, return to school?"
"Cheerfully, dear father, though I confess it would be mortifying; but I feel I cannot be more mortified in the eyes of others, than I am now at myself."
"But I should not like to return to Madame 's school," said Caroline. "We have gone through all the classes, and learnt
every no—not every thing," she added,
correcting herself and blushing.
"Were I to return you to school, it would not be Madame 's," replied Mr. Marshall ; "but it is not my intention you shall go to school again. The purpose I have in view for you, is to provide you proper instructors in music and French, and let you study at home; leaving it to your own pride and sense of duty, after the mortification you have lately experienced, to upply yourselves."
Both young ladies were delighted at this indulgence of their kind and sensible parent; and in contemplating the improvement they should make, they quite forgot the loss of the pleasures of the gay society into which they had just been introduced. Ann began to feel her self-respect restored, and Caroline was all happiness and hope. Their father was rejoiced to see this state of mind in the two young ladies who were so willing to sacrifice pleasure to duty. But the consciousness of their shameful deficiencies in the branches of study they ought to have known, spurred
them on to make themselves masters of them. Ft were well if other young ladies when convinced of the errors of their education would be us ready to make the effort to retrieve them. Perhaps few who now leave school "finished" could on trial succeed better than our heroines.
"My dear children," said Mr. Marshall, gravely, " I have yet another object in view, which I fear you will be less ready to embrace. It has always been my opinion that every person, of either sex, whatever be their wealth and station at the present time, should know some current occupation, by which, in pecuniary distress, they might maintain themselves. You both remember the story of the nobleman, who, paying suit to a young lady, received her father's consent only on condition he first made himself master of some trade. Being deeply attached to her, the young noble went and learned the trade of a basket-maker. He then gave the lady's father proof of his perfect skill in the art, and received his daughter in marriage. A few years elapsed, his country was convulsed with revolutions, and he fled with his wife to England, where he would have been reduced to the utmost indigence, but for the knowledge of his trade of basket-making, to which he resorted, and by which he supported himself and family, until a change of government restored him to his country and his possessions. The father of the lady, as the result shows, was a wise man. Every parent who wishes his children to be independent of poverty, should give them the knowledge of some handicraft or occupation. Every gentleman's son can in a short time learn bookkeeping, and in case of misfortune he has a clerkship to resort to for support. Every young lady should be taught, before she quits the maternal roof, the trade of millinery, or mantua-making. No young lady's education can be complete, until she acquires such a trade. You smile, Caroline. I am sorry to see that my child is infected with the ignorant prejudices against trades, that so shamefully exist in this country. How much misery would have been averted in the world, if females had been educated to be more independent! Neitherof you can form a conception of it. I have had my heart bleed at suffering. I have witnessed that which might have been prevented, if parents had properly done their duty. A father or mother that suffers a son or daughter to leave the paternal roof without the knowledge of some pursuit by which they can be independent, is guilty in the sight of God of the evils and crimes which in consequence may befal them. I do not feel, therefore, my children, that I shall have performed my duty to you, if I suffer you to marry and enter upon life without an inde