University of Virginia Library

THE WIFE.

I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude 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 sex, 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 treading 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 in sunshine, will,
when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling
round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered
boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence,
that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament
of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace
when smitten with sudden 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 anticipation of indulging
her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those
delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery
about the sex.—“Her life,” said he, “shall be like a fairy
tale.”

The very difference in their characters produced an
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 favour 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
burthen for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set
forward on the 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 almost to 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 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 vanish from that cheek—the song will
die away from those lips—the lustre 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 heard
him through, I inquired, “Does your wife know all this?”
—At the question he burst into an agony of tears. “For
God'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 madness!”

“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 refinement
of opulence- How can she bear neglect? she has

been the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart—
it will break her heart!—”

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 circumstances. You
must change your style of living—nay,” observing a
pang to pass across his countenance, “don't let that afflict
you. I am sure you have 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!—I could go down with her into poverty and
the dust!—I could—I could—God bless her!—God bless
her!” cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness.

“And believe me, my friend,” said I, stepping up, and
grasping him warmly by the hand, “believe me 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. No man knows what the
wife of his bosom is—no man knows what a ministering
angel she is—until he has gone with her through the
fiery trials of this world.”

There was something in the earnestness of my manner,
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the
excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had
to deal with; and following up the impression I had
made, I finished by persuading him to go home and unburden
his sad heart to his wife.

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt
some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate

on the fortitude 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 revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable
life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to
which in other ranks it is a stranger.—In short, I could
not meet Leslie the 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 round my neck, and
asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy.—
But, poor girl,” added he, “she cannot realize the change
we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the
abstract; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is
allied to love. She feels as yet no privation; she suffers
no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When
we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its
paltry wants, its petty humiliations—then will be the
real trial.”

“But,” said I, “now that you have got over the severest
task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let
the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may
be mortifying; but then it is a single misery, and soon
over: whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation,
every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as
pretence, that harasses a ruined man—the struggle between
a proud mind and an empty purse—the keeping
up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have
the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its
sharpest sting.” On this point I found Leslie perfectly
prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his
wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered
fortunes.

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 busied 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 associated 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 any thing 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?”

“Has she then repined at the change?”

“Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and
good humour. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than
I have ever known her; she has been to me all love, and
tenderness and comfort!”

“Admirable girl!” exclaimed I. “You call yourself
poor, my friend; you never were so rich—you never knew
the boundless treasure of excellence you possessed in that
woman.”

“Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this
is her first day of real experience; she has been introduced
into a humble dwelling—she has been employed all
day in arranging its miserable equipments—she has, for
the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employment
—she has, for the first time, looked round her on a home
destitute of every thing elegant,—almost of every thing
convenient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and
spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty.”

There was a degree of probability in this picture that
I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence.

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane,
so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete
air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was
humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral
poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine

had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few
trees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed
several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the
door, and on the grass-plat in front. A small wicket gate
opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery
to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the
sound of music—Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and
listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the
most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband
was peculiarly fond.

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped
forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise
on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out
at the window and vanished—a light footstep was heard
—and Mary came tripping forth to meet us; she was in
a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were
twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek;
her whole countenance beamed with smiles—I had never
seen her look so lovely.

“My dear George,” cried she, “I am so glad you are
come! I have been watching and watching for you; and
running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've
set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage;
and I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries,
for I know you are fond of them—and we have
such excellent cream—and we have every thing so sweet
and still here—Oh!” said she, putting her arm within his,
and looking up brightly in his face, “Oh, we shall be so
happy!”

Poor Leslie was overcome—He caught her to his bosom
—he folded his arms round her—he kissed her again and
again—he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his
eyes; and he has often assured me that though the world
has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has,
indeed, been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a
moment of more exquisite felicity.