 | Mosses from an old manse |  |
MRS. BULLFROG.
It makes me melancholy to see how like fools some very sensible
people act, in the matter of choosing wives. They perplex their
judgments by a most undue attention to little niceties of personal
appearance, habits, disposition, and other trifles, which concern
nobody but the lady herself. An unhappy gentleman, resolving
to wed nothing short of perfection, keeps his heart and hand till
both get so old and withered, that no tolerable woman will accept
them.—Now, this is the very height of absurdity. A kind Providence
has so skilfully adapted sex to sex, and the mass of individuals
to each other, that, with certain obvious exceptions, any
male and female may be moderately happy in the married state.
The true rule is, to ascertain that the match is fundamentally a
good one, and then to take it for granted that all minor objections,
should there be such, will vanish, if you let them alone. Only
put yourself beyond hazard, as to the real basis of matrimonial
bliss, and it is scarcely to be imagined what miracles, in the way
of reconciling smaller incongruities, connubial love will effect.
For my own part, I freely confess, that, in my bachelorship, I
was precisely such an over-curious simpleton, as I now advise
the reader not to be. My early habits had gifted me with a
feminine sensibility, and too exquisite refinement. I was the
accomplished graduate of a dry-goods store, where, by dint of
ministering to the whims of fine ladies, and suiting silken hose to
delicate limbs, and handling satins, ribbons, chintzes, calicoes,
sort of a gentleman. It is not assuming too much to affirm, that
the ladies themselves were hardly so lady-like as Thomas Bullfrog.
So painfully acute was my sense of female imperfection,
and such varied excellence did I require in the woman whom I
could love, that there was an awful risk of my getting no wife at
all, or of being driven to perpetrate matrimony with my own
image in the looking-glass. Besides the fundamental principle,
already hinted at, I demanded the fresh bloom of youth, pearly
teeth, glossy ringlets, and the whole list of lovely items, with the
utmost delicacy of habits and sentiments, a silken texture of mind,
and above all, a virgin heart. In a word, if a young angel, just
from Paradise, yet dressed in earthly fashion, had come and
offered me her hand, it is by no means certain that I should have
taken it. There was every chance of my becoming a most
miserable old bachelor, when, by the best luck in the world, I
made a journey into another State, and was smitten by, and smote
again, and wooed, won, and married the present Mrs. Bullfrog, all
in the space of a fortnight. Owing to these extempore measures,
I not only gave my bride credit for certain perfections, which have
not as yet come to light, but also overlooked a few trifling defects,
which, however, glimmered on my perception long before the
close of the honey-moon. Yet, as there was no mistake about the
fundamental principle aforesaid, I soon learned, as will be seen,
to estimate Mrs. Bullfrog's deficiencies and superfluities at
exactly their proper value.
The same morning that Mrs. Bullfrog and I came together as
a unit, we took two seats in the stage-coach, and began our journey
towards my place of business. There being no other passengers,
we were as much alone, and as free to give vent to our
raptures, as if I had hired a hack for the matrimonial jaunt. My
bride looked charmingly, in a green silk calash, and riding-habit
of pelisse cloth, and whenever her red lips parted with a smile,
passionate warmth, that—we had rattled out of the village, gentle
reader, and were lonely as Adam and Eve in Paradise—I plead
guilty to no less freedom than a kiss!—The gentle eye of Mrs.
Bullfrog scarcely rebuked me for the profanation. Emboldened
by her indulgence, I threw back the calash from her polished
brow, and suffered my fingers, white and delicate as her own, to
stray among those dark and glossy curls, which realized my day-dreams
of rich hair.
“My love,” said Mrs. Bullfrog, tenderly, “you will disarrange
my curls.”
“Oh, no, my sweet Laura!” replied I, still playing with the
glossy ringlet. “Even your fair hand could not manage a curl
more delicately than mine.—I propose myself the pleasure of
doing up your hair in papers, every evening, at the same time
with my own.”
“Mr. Bullfrog,” repeated she, “you must not disarrange my
curls.”
This was spoken in a more decided tone than I had happened
to hear, until then, from my gentlest of all gentle brides. At the
same time, she put up her hand and took mine prisoner, but
merely drew it away from the forbidden ringlet, and then immediately
released it. Now, I am a fidgetty little man, and always
love to have something in my fingers; so that, being debarred
from my wife's curls, I looked about me for any other plaything.
On the front seat of the coach, there was one of those
small baskets in which travelling ladies, who are too delicate to
appear at a public table, generally carry a supply of gingerbread,
biscuits and cheese, cold ham, and other light refreshments,
merely to sustain nature to the journey's end. Such airy diet
will sometimes keep them in pretty good flesh, for a week together.
Laying hold of this same little basket, I thrust my hand under
the newspaper, with which it was carefully covered.
“What's this, my dear?” cried I; for the black neck of a
bottle had popped out of the basket.
“A bottle of Kalydor, Mr. Bullfrog,” said my wife, coolly
taking the basket from my hands, and replacing it on the front seat.
There was no possibility of doubting my wife's word; but I
never knew genuine Kalydor, such as I use for my own complexion,
to smell so much like cherry-brandy. I was about to
express my fears that the lotion would injure her skin, when an
accident occurred, which threatened more than a skin-deep injury.
Our Jehu had carelessly driven over a heap of gravel, and fairly
capsized the coach, with the wheels in the air, and our heels
where our heads should have been. What became of my wits,
I cannot imagine; they have always had a perverse trick of deserting
me, just when they were most needed; but so it chanced,
that, in the confusion of our overthrow, I quite forgot that there
was a Mrs. Bullfrog in the world. Like many men's wives, the
good lady served her husband as a stepping-stone. I had scrambled
out of the coach, and was instinctively setting my cravat,
when somebody brushed roughly by me, and I heard a smart
thwack upon the coachman's ear.
“Take that, you villain!” cried a strange, hoarse voice. “You
have ruined me, you blackguard! I shall never be the woman
I have been!”
And then came a second thwack, aimed at the driver's other
ear, but which missed it, and hit him on the nose, causing a
terrible effusion of blood. Now, who, or what fearful aparition,
was inflicting this punishment on the poor fellow, remained
an impenetrable mystery to me. The blows were given by a
person of grisly aspect, with a head almost bald, and sunken
cheeks, apparently of the feminine gender, though hardly to be
classed in the gentler sex. There being no teeth to modulate the
voice, it had a mumbled fierceness, not passionate, but stern, which
absolutely made me quiver like calves-foot jelly. Who could
is yet to be told; for this ogre, or whatever it was, had a riding-habit
like Mrs. Bullfrog's, and also a green silk calash, dangling
down her back by the strings. In my terror and turmoil of mind,
I could imagine nothing less, than that the Old Nick, at the moment
of our overturn, had annihilated my wife and jumped into
her petticoats. This idea seemed the more probable, since I could
nowhere perceive Mrs. Bullfrog alive, nor, though I looked very
sharp about the coach, could I detect any traces of that beloved
woman's dead body. There would have been a comfort in giving
her Christian burial!
“Come, sir, bestir yourself! Help this rascal to set up the
coach,” said the hobgoblin to me; then, with a terrific screech to
three countrymen, at a distance—“Here, you fellows, an't you
ashamed to stand off, when a poor woman is in distress?”
The countrymen, instead of fleeing for their lives, came running
at full speed, and laid hold of the topsy-turvy coach. I, also,
though a small-sized man, went to work like a son of Anak. The
coachman, too, with the blood still streaming from his nose, tugged
and toiled most manfully, dreading, doubtless, that the next blow
might break his head. And yet, bemauled as the poor fellow had
been, he seemed to glance at me with an eye of pity, as if my
case were more deplorable than his. But I cherished a hope that
all would turn out a dream, and seized the opportunity, as we
raised the coach, to jam two of my fingers under the wheel, trusting
that the pain would awaken me.
“Why, here we are all to rights again!” exclaimed a sweet
voice, behind. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. My
dear Mr. Bullfrog, how you perspire! Do let me wipe your face.
Don't take this little accident too much to heart, good driver. We
ought to be thankful that none of our necks are broken!”
“We might have spared one neck out of the three,” muttered
the driver, rubbing his ear and pulling his nose, to ascertain
witch!”
I fear that the reader will not believe, yet it is positively a fact,
that there stood Mrs. Bullfrog, with her glossy ringlets curling on
her brow, and two rows of orient pearls gleaming between her
parted lips, which wore a most angelic smile. She had regained
her riding-habit and calash from the grisly phantom, and was, in
all respects, the lovely woman who had been sitting by my side,
at the instant of our overturn. How she had happened to disappear,
and who had supplied her place, and whence she did now
return, were problems too knotty for me to solve. There stood
my wife. That was the one thing certain among a heap of mysteries.
Nothing remained, but to help her into the coach, and
plod on, through the journey of the day and the journey of life,
as comfortably as we could. As the driver closed the door upon
us, I heard him whisper to the three countrymen—
“How do you suppose a fellow feels, shut up in the cage with
a she-tiger?”
Of course, this query could have no reference to my situation.
Yet, unreasonable as it may appear, I confess that my feelings
were not altogether so ecstatic as when I first called Mrs. Bullfrog
mine. True, she was a sweet woman, and an angel of a wife;
but what if a gorgon should return, amid the transports of our
connubial bliss, and take the angel's place! I recollected the
tale of a fairy, who half the time was a beautiful woman, and
half the time a hideous monster. Had I taken that very fairy to
be the wife of my bosom? While such whims and chimeras
were flitting across my fancy, I began to look askance at Mrs.
Bullfrog, almost expecting that the transformation would be wrought
before my eyes.
To divert my mind, I took up the newspaper which had covered
the little basket of refreshments, and which now lay at the bottom
of the coach, blushing with a deep-red stain, and emitting a potent
The paper was two or three years old, but contained an article
of several columns, in which I soon grew wonderfully interested.
It was the report of a trial for breach of promise of marriage,
giving the testimony in full, with fervid extracts from both the
gentleman's and lady's amatory correspondence. The deserted
damsel had personally appeared in court, and had borne energetic
evidence to her lover's perfidy, and the strength of her blighted
affections.—On the defendant's part, there had been an attempt,
though insufficiently sustained, to blast the plaintiff's character,
and a plea, in mitigation of damages, on account of her unamiable
temper. A horrible idea was suggested by the lady's name.
“Madam,” said I, holding the newspaper before Mrs. Bullfrog's
eyes—and, though a small, delicate, and thin-visaged man,
I feel assured that I looked very terrific—“Madam,” repeated I,
through my shut teeth, “were you the plaintiff in this cause?”
“Oh, my dear Mr. Bullfrog,” replied my wife, sweetly, “I
thought all the world knew that!”
“Horror! horror!” exclaimed I, sinking back on the seat.
Covering my face with both hands, I emitted a deep and deathlike
groan, as if my tormented soul were rending me asunder. I,
the most exquisitely fastidious of men, and whose wife was to
have been the most delicate and refined of women, with all the
fresh dew-drops glittering on her virgin rosebud of a heart! I
thought of the glossy ringlets and pearly teeth—I thought of the
Kalydor—I thought of the coachman's bruised ear and bloody
nose—I thought of the tender love-secrets, which she had whispered
to the judge and jury, and a thousand tittering auditors—
and gave another groan!
“Mr. Bullfrog,” said my wife.
As I made no reply, she gently took my hands within her
own, removed them from my face, and fixed her eyes steadfastly
on mine.
“Mr. Bullfrog,” said she, not unkindly, yet with all the decision
of her strong character, “let me advise you to overcome this
foolish weakness, and prove yourself, to the best of your ability,
as good a husband as I will be a wife. You have discovered,
perhaps, some little imperfections in your bride. Well—what
did you expect? Women are not angels. If they were, they
would go to Heaven for husbands—or, at least, be more difficult
in their choice on earth.”
“But why conceal those imperfections?” interposed I, tremulously.
“Now, my love, are not you a most unreasonable little man?”
said Mrs. Bullfrog, patting me on the cheek. “Ought a woman
to disclose her frailties earlier than the wedding-day? Few husbands,
I assure you, make the discovery in such good season, and
still fewer complain that these trifles are concealed too long.
Well, what a strange man you are! Poh! you are joking.”
“But the suit for breach of promise!” groaned I.
“Ah! and is that the rub?” exclaimed my wife. “Is it possible
that you view that affair in an objectionable light? Mr.
Bullfrog, I never could have dreamt it! Is it an objection, that I
have triumphantly defended myself against slander, and vindicated
my purity in a court of justice? Or, do you complain,
because your wife has shown the proper spirit of a woman, and
punished the villain who trifled with her affections?”
“But,” persisted I—shrinking into a corner of the coach, however;
for I did not know precisely how much contradiction the
proper spirit of a woman would endure—“but, my love, would
it not have been more dignified to treat the villain with the silent
contempt he merited?”
“That is all very well, Mr. Bullfrog,” said my wife, slily;
“but, in that case, where would have been the five thousand dollars,
which are to stock your dry-goods store?”
“Mrs. Bullfrog, upon your honor,” demanded I, as if my life
dollars?”
“Upon my word and honor, there is none,” replied she. “The
jury gave me every cent the rascal had—and I have kept it all
for my dear Bullfrog!”
“Then, thou dear woman,” cried I, with an overwhelming
gush of tenderness, “let me fold thee to my heart! The basis
of matrimonial bliss is secure, and all thy little defects and frailties
are forgiven. Nay, since the result has been so fortunate, I
rejoice at the wrongs which drove thee to this blessed lawsuit.
Happy Bullfrog that I am!”
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