University of Virginia Library

2. 'TIS ONLY MY HUSBAND.[1]

“Goodness, Mrs. Pumpilion, it's a gentleman's voice,
and me such a figure!” exclaimed Miss Amanda Corntop,
who had just arrived in town to visit her friend,
Mrs. Pumpilion, whom she had not seen since her marriage.

“Don't disturb yourself, dear,” said Mrs. Pumpilion,
quietly, “it's nobody—'tis only my husband. He'll
not come in; but if he does, 'tis only my husband.”

So Miss Amanda Corntop was comforted, and her
agitated arrangements before the glass being more coolly
completed, she resumed her seat and the interrupted conversation.
Although, as a spinster, she had a laudable
and natural unwillingness to be seen by any of the masculine
gender in that condition so graphically described
as “such a figure,” yet there are degrees in this unwillingness.
It is by no means so painful to be caught a
figure by a married man as it is to be surprised by a
youthful bachelor; and, if the former be of that peculiar
class known as “only my husband,” his unexpected
arrival is of very little consequence. He can never
more, “like an eagle in a dove cote, flutter the Volsces.”

It is, therefore, evident that there exists a material difference
between “my husband” and “only my husband;”
a difference not easily expressed, though perfectly understood;
and it was that understanding which restored
Miss Amanda Corntop to her pristine tranquillity.

“Oh!” said Miss Corntop, when she heard that the
voice in question was that of Mr. Pumpilion. “Ah!”
added Miss Corntop, intelligently and composedly, when
she understood that Pumpilion was “only my husband.”
She had not paid much attention to philology,
but she was perfectly aware of the value of that diminutive
prefix “only.”

“I told you he would not come in, for he knew there
was some one here,” continued Mrs. Pumpilion, as the
spiritless footsteps of “only my husband” passed the
door, and slowly plodded up stairs. He neither came
in, nor did he hum, whistle, or bound three steps at a
time; “only my husband” never does. He is simply a
transportation line; he conveys himself from place to
place according to order, and indulges not in episodes
and embellishments.

Poor Pedrigo Pumpilion! Have all thy glories shrunk
to this little measure? Only my husband! Does that
appellation circumscribe him who once found three
chairs barely sufficient to accommodate his frame, and
who, in promenading, never skulked to the curb or
hugged the wall, but, like a man who justly appreciated
himself, took the very middle of the trottoir, and kept it?

The amiable, but now defunct, Mrs. Anguish was
never sure that she was perfectly well, until she had
shaken her pretty head to ascertain if some disorder were
not lying in ambush, and to discover whether a headache
were not latent there, which, if not nipped in the
bud, might be suddenly and inconveniently brought into

action. It is not too much to infer that the same reasoning,
which applies to headaches and to the physical constitution,
may be of equal force in reference to the moral
organization. Headaches being latent, it is natural to
suppose that the disposition to be “only my husband”
may likewise be latent, even in him who is now as fierce
and as uncontrollable as a volcano; while the desire to be
“head of the bureau” may slumber in the mildest of the
fair. It is by circumstance alone that talent is developed;
the razor itself requires extraneous aid to bring it to an
edge; and the tact to give direction, as well as the facility
to obey, wait to be elicited by events. Both grey-mareism
and Jerry-Sneakery are sometimes latent, and
like the derangements of Mrs. Anguish's caput, only
want shaking to manifest themselves. If some are born
to command, others must certainly have a genius for submission—we
term it a genius, submission being in many
cases rather a difficult thing.

That this division of qualities is full of wisdom, none
can deny. It requires both flint and steel to produce a
spark; both powder and ball to do execution; and,
though the Chinese contrive to gobble an infinity of rice
with chopsticks, yet the twofold operation of knife and
fork conduces much more to the comfort of a dinner.
Authority and obedience are the knife and fork of this
extensive banquet, the world; they are the true divide
et impera; that which is sliced off by the one is harpooned
by the other.

In this distribution, however, nature, when the “latents”
are made apparent, very frequently seems to act
with caprice. It is by no means rare to find in the form
of a man, a timid, retiring, feminine disposition, which,
in the rough encounters of existence, gives way at once,
as if, like woman, “born to be controlled.” The proportions

of a Hercules, valenced with the whiskers of a tiger,
often cover a heart with no more of energy and boldness
in its pulsations than the little palpitating affair which
throbs in the bosom of a maiden of bashful fifteen;
while many a lady fair, before marriage—the latent
condition—all softness and graceful humility, bears
within her breast the fiery resolution and the indomitable
will of an Alexander, a Hannibal, or a Doctor
Francia. The temperament which, had she been a
man, would, in an extended field, have made her a conqueror
of nations, or, in a more contracted one, a distinguished
thief-catching police officer, by being lodged
in a female frame renders her a Xantippe—a Napoleon
of the fireside, and pens her hapless mate, like a conquered
king, a spiritless captive in his own chimney
corner.

But it is plain to be seen that this apparent confusion
lies only in the distribution. There are souls enough of
all kinds in the world, but they do not always seem properly
fitted with bodies; and thus a corporal construction
may run the course of life actuated by a spirit in
every respect opposed to its capabilities; as at the
breaking up of a crowded soirée, a little head waggles
home with an immense castor, while a pumpkin pate
sallies forth surmounted by a thimble; which, we take
it, is the only philosophical theory which at all accounts
for the frequent acting out of character with which
society is replete.

Hence arises the situation of affairs with the Pumpilions.
Pedrigo Pumpilion has the soul which legitimately
appertains to his beloved Seraphina Serena, while
Seraphina Serena Pumpilion has that which should
animate her Pedrigo. But, not being profound in their
researches, they are probably not aware of the fact, and

perhaps would not know their own souls if they were to
meet them in the street; although, in all likelihood, it
was a mysterious sympathy—a yearning of each physical
individuality to be near so important a part of itself,
which brought this worthy pair together.

Be that, however, as it may, it is an incontrovertible
fact that, before they did come together, Pedrigo Pumpilion
thought himself quite a model of humanity; and
piqued himself upon possessing much more of the
fortiter in re than of the suaviter in modo—a mistake,
the latter quality being latent, but abundant. He dreamed
that he was brimming with valour, and fit, not only to
lead squadrons to the field, but likewise to remain with
them when they were there. At the sound of drums and
trumpets, he perked up his chin, stuck out his breast,
straightened his vertebral column, and believed that he,
Pedrigo, was precisely the individual to storm a fortress
at the head of a forlorn hope—a greater mistake. But
the greatest error of the whole troop of blunders was his
making a Pumpilion of Miss Seraphina Serena Dolce,
with the decided impression that he was, while sharing
his kingdom, to remain supreme in authority. Knowing
nothing of the theory already broached, he took her for
a feminine feminality, and yielded himself a victim to
sympathy and the general welfare. Now, in this, strictly
considered, Pedrigo had none but himself to blame;
he had seen manifestations of her spirit; the latent energy
had peeped out more than once; he had entered unexpectedly,
before being installed as “only my husband,” and
found Miss Seraphina dancing the grand rigadoon on a
luckless bonnet which did not suit her fancy,—a species
of exercise whereat he marvelled; and he had likewise
witnessed her performance of the remarkable feat of
whirling a cat, which had scratched her hand, across the

room by the tail, whereby the mirror was infinitesimally
divided into homœopathic doses, and whereby pussy, the
patient, was most allopathically phlebotomised and scarified.
He likewise knew that her musical education terminated
in an operatic crash, the lady having in a fit of
impatience demolished the guitar over the head of her
teacher; but, in this instance, the mitigating plea must
be allowed that it was done because the instrument
“wouldn't play good,” a perversity to which instruments,
like lessons “which won't learn,” are lamentably
liable.

These little escapades, however, did not deter Pumpilion.
Confiding in his own talent for governing, he
liked his Seraphina none the less for her accidental displays
of energy, and smiled to think how, under his
administration, his reproving frown would cast oil upon
the waves, and how, as he repressed her irritability, he
would develope her affections, results which would both
save the crockery and increase his comforts.

Of the Pumpilion tactique in courtship some idea may
be formed from the following conversation. Pedrigo
had an intimate associate, some years his senior,—Mr.
Michael Mitts, a spare and emaciated bachelor, whose
hawk nose, crookedly set on, well represented the eccentricity
of his conclusions, while the whistling pucker in
which he generally wore his mouth betokened acidity
of mind rendered sourer by indecision. Mitts was addicted
to observation, and, engaged in the drawing of
inferences and in generalizing from individual instances,
he had, like many others, while trimming the safety
lamp of experience, suffered the time of action to pass
by unimproved. His cautiousness was so great as to
trammel up his “motive power,” and, though long intending
to marry, the best part of his life had evaporated

in the unproductive employment of “looking about.”
His experience, therefore, had stored him with that
species of wisdom which one meets with in theoretical
wooers, and he had many learned saws at the service
of those who were bolder than himself, and
were determined to enter the pale through which he
peeped.

As every one in love must have a confidant, Pedrigo
had selected Mitts for that office, knowing his peculiar
talent for giving advice, and laying down rules for others
to act upon.

“Pedrigo,” said Mitts, as he flexed his nose still further
from the right line of conformity to the usages of the
world, and slacked the drawing strings of his mouth to
get it out of pucker; “Pedrigo, if you are resolved upon
marrying this identical individual—I don't see the use, for
my part, of being in a hurry—better look about a while;
plenty more of 'em—but if you are resolved, the first
thing to be done is to make sure of her. That's undeniable.
The only difference of opinion, if you won't
wait and study character—character's a noble study—
is as to the modus operandi. Now, the lady's not sure
because she's committed; just the contrary,—that's the
very reason she's not sure. My experience shows me
that when it's not so easy to retract, the attention,
especially that of young women, is drawn to retraction.
Somebody tells of a bird in a cage that grumbled
about being cooped up. It's clear to me that the bird
did not complain so much because it was in the cage, as
it did because it couldn't get out—that's bird nature, and
it's human nature too.”

“Ah, indeed!” responded Pumpilion, with a smile of
confidence in his own attractions, mingled, however,
with a look which spoke that the philosophy of Mitts,

having for its object to render “assurance double sure,”
did not pass altogether unheeded.

“It's a fact,” added Mitts; “don't be too secure.
Be as assiduous and as mellifluous as you please before
your divinity owns the soft impeachment; but afterwards
comes the second stage, and policy commands that it
should be one rather of anxiety to her. You must
every now and then play Captain Grand, or else she
may perform the part herself. Take offence frequently;
vary your Romeo scenes with an occasional touch of the
snow storm, and afterwards excuse yourself on the score
of jealous affection; that excuse always answers. Nothing
sharpens love like a smart tiff by way of embellishment.
The sun itself would not look so bright if it were
not for the intervention of night; and these little agitations
keep her mind tremulous, but intent upon yourself.
Don't mothers always love the naughtiest boys best?
haven't the worst men always the best wives? That
exemplifies the principle; there's nothing like a little
judicious bother. Miss Seraphina Serena will never
change her mind if bothered scientifically.”

“Perhaps so; but may it not be rather dangerous?”

“Dangerous! not at all; it's regular practice, I tell
you. A few cases may terminate unluckily; but that must
be charged to a bungle in the doctor. Why, properly
managed, a courtship may be continued, like a nervous
disease, or a suit at law, for twenty years, and be as
good at the close as it was at the beginning. In nine
cases out of ten, you must either perplex or be perplexed;
so you had better take the sure course, and play the
game yourself. Them's my sentiments, Mr. Speaker,”
and Michael Mitts caused his lithe proboscis to oscillate
like a rudder, as he concluded his oracular speech, and
puckered his mouth to the whistling place to show that

he had “shut up” for the present. He then walked
slowly away, leaving Pumpilion with a “new wrinkle.”

Seraphina Serena, being both fiery and coquettish
withal, Pumpilion, under the direction of his preceptor,
tried the “Mitts system of wooing,” and although it
gave rise to frequent explosions, yet the quarrels, whether
owing to the correctness of the system or not, were productive
of no lasting evil. Michael Mitts twirled his
nose and twisted his mouth in triumph at the wedding;
and set it down as an axiom that there is nothing like a
little insecurity for rendering parties firm in completing
a bargain; that, had it not been for practising the system,
Pumpilion might have become alarmed at the indications
of the “latent spirit;” and that, had it not been for the
practice of the system, Seraphina's fancy might have
strayed.

“I'm an experimenter in mental operations, and there's
no lack of subjects,” said Mitts to himself; “one fact
being established, the Pumpilions now present a new
aspect.”

There is, however, all the difference in the world
between carrying on warfare where you may advance
and retire at pleasure, and in prosecuting it in situations
which admit of no retreat. Partisan hostilities are one
thing, and regular warfare is another. Pumpilion was
very well as a guerilla, but his genius in that respect
was unavailing when the nature of the campaign did not
admit of his making an occasional demonstration, and of
evading the immediate consequences by a retreat. In a
very few weeks, he was reduced to the ranks as “only
my husband,” and, although no direct order of the day
was read to that effect, he was “respected accordingly.”
Before that retrograde promotion took place, Pedrigo

Pumpilion cultivated his hair, and encouraged its sneaking
inclination to curl until it woollied up quite fiercely; but
afterwards his locks became broken-heartedly pendent,
and straight with the weight of care, while his whiskers
hung back as if asking counsel and comfort from his
ears. He twiddled his thumbs with a slow rotary motion
as he sat, and he carried his hands clasped behind him
as he walked, thus intimating that he couldn't help it,
and that he didn't mean to try. For the same reason,
he never buttoned his coat, and wore no straps to the
feet of his trousers; both of which seemed too energetically
resolute for “only my husband.' Even his hat,
as it sat on the back part of his head, looked as if Mrs.
Pumpilion had put it on for him, (no one but the wearer
can put on a hat so that it will sit naturally,) and as if he
had not nerve enough even to shake it down to its characteristic
place and physiognomical expression. His personnel
loudly proclaimed that the Mitts method in matrimony
had been a failure, and that the Queen had given
the King a check-mate. Mrs. Pumpilion had been
triumphant in acting upon the advice of her friend, the
widow, who, having the advantage of Mitts in combining
experience with theory, understood the art of breaking
husbands à merveille.

“My dear madam,” said Mrs. Margery Daw, “you
have plenty of spirit; but spirit is nothing without steadiness
and perseverance. In the establishment of authority
and in the assertion of one's rights, any intermission
before success is complete requires us to begin again.
If your talent leads you to the weeping method of softening
your husband's heart, you will find that if you give
him a shower now and a shower then, he will harden in
the intervals between the rain; while a good sullen cry
of twenty-four hours' length may prevent any necessity

for another. If, on the contrary, you have genius for
the tempestuous, continued thunder and lightning for the
same length of time is irresistible. Gentlemen are great
swaggerers, if not impressively dealt with and early
taught to know their places. They are much like
Frisk,” continued the widow, addressing her lap-dog.
“If they bark, and you draw back frightened, they are
sure to bite; stamp your foot, and they soon learn to run
into a corner. Don't they, Frisky dear?”

“Ya-p!” responded the dog: and Mrs. Pumpilion,
tired of control, took the concurrent advice.

“To-morrow,” said Pumpilion, carelessly and with
an of-course-ish air, as he returned to tea from a stroll
with his friend Michael Mitts, who had just been urging
upon him the propriety of continuing the Mitts method
after marriage, “to-morrow, my love, I leave town for
a week to try a little trout fishing in the mountains.”

“Mr. Pumpilion!” ejaculated the lady, in an awful
tone, as she suddenly faced him. “Fishing?”

“Y-e-e-yes,” replied Pumpilion, somewhat discomposed.

“Then I shall go with you, Mr. Pumpilion,” said
the lady, as she emphatically split a muffin.

“Quite onpossible,” returned Pumpilion, with decisive
stress upon the first syllable; “it's a buck party, if
I may use the expression—a back party entirely;—
there's Mike Mitts, funny Joe Mungoozle—son of old
Mungoozle's,—Tommy Titcomb, and myself. We intend
having a rough and tumble among the hills to beneficialise
our wholesomes, as funny Joe Mungoozle has it.”

“Funny Joe Mungoozle is not a fit companion for any
married man, Mr. Pumpilion; and it's easy to see, by
your sliding back among the dissolute friends and dissolute

practices of your bachelorship, Mr. Pumpilion—by
your wish to associate with sneering and depraved Mungoozles,
Mitts's, and Titcombs, Mr. Pumpilion, that the
society of your poor wife is losing its attractions,” and
Mrs. Pumpilion sobbed convulsively at the thought.

“I have given my word to go a fishing,” replied
Pedrigo, rather ruefully, “and a fishing I must go.
What would Mungoozle say?—why, he would have a
song about it, and sing it at the `free and easies.”'

“What matter? let him say—let him sing. But it's
not my observations—it's those of funny Joe Mungoozle
that you care for—the affections of the `free and easy'
carousers that you are afraid of losing.”

“Mungoozle is a very particular friend of mine, Seraphina,”
replied Pedrigo, rather nettled. “We're going
a fishing—that's flat!”

“Without me?”

“Without you,—it being a buck party, without exception.”

Mrs. Pumpilion gave a shriek, and falling back, threw
out her arms fitfully—the tea-pot went by the board, as
she made the tragic movement.

“Wretched, unhappy woman!” gasped Mrs. Pumpilion,
speaking of herself.

Pedrigo did not respond to the declaration, but alternately
eyed the fragments of the tea-pot and the untouched
muffin which remained on his plate. The coup
had not been without its effect; but still he faintly whispered,
“Funny Joe Mungoozle, and going a fishing.”

“It's clear you wish to kill me—to break my heart,”
muttered the lady in a spasmodic manner.

“'Pon my soul, I don't—I'm only going a fishing.”

“I shall go distracted!” screamed Mrs. Pumpilion,
suiting the action to the word, and springing to her feet

in such a way as to upset the table, and roll its contents
into Pedrigo's lap, who scrambled from the debris, as
his wife, with the air of the Pythoness, swept rapidly
round the room, whirling the ornaments to the floor, and
indulging in the grand rigadoon upon their sad remains.

“You no longer love me, Pedrigo; and without your
love what is life? What is this, or this, or this,” continued
she, a crash following every word, “without mutual
affection?—Going a fishing!”

“I don't know that I am,” whined Pumpilion. “Perhaps
it will rain to-morrow.”

Now it so happened that there were no clouds visible
on the occasion, except in the domestic atmosphere; but,
the rain was adroitly thrown in as a white flag, indicative
of a wish to open a negotiation and come to terms.
Mrs. Pumpilion, however, understood the art of war better
than to treat with rebels with arms in their hands.
Her military genius, no longer “latent,” whispered her
to persevere until she obtained a surrender at discretion.

“Ah, Pedrigo, you only say that to deceive your
heart-broken wife. You intend to slip away—you and
your Mungoozles—to pass your hours in roaring iniquity,
instead of enjoying the calm sunshine of domestic
peace, and the gentle delights of fireside felicity. They
are too tame, too flat, too insipid for a depraved taste.
That I should ever live to see the day!” and she relapsed
into the intense style by way of a specimen of calm delight.

Mr. and Mrs. Pumpilion retired for the night at an
early hour; but until the dawn of day, the words of reproach,
now passionate, now pathetic, ceased not; and
in the very gray of the morning, Mrs. P. marched down
stairs en dishabille, still repeating ejaculations about the
Mungoozle fishing party. What happened below is not

precisely ascertained; but there was a terrible turmoil in
the kitchen, it being perfectly clear a whole “kettle of
fish” was in preparation, that Pedrigo might not have the
trouble of going to the mountains on a piscatorial expedition.

He remained seated on the side of the bed, like Marius
upon the ruins of Carthage, meditating upon the
situation of affairs, and balancing between a surrender to
petticoat government and his dread of Mongoozle's song
at the “free and easies.” At length he slipped down.
Mrs. Pumpilion sat glooming at the parlour window.
Pedrigo tried to read the “Saturday News” upside
down.

“Good morning, Mr. Pumpilion! Going a fishing,
Mr. Pumpilion! Mike Mitts, funny Joe Mungoozle, and
Tommy Titcomb must be waiting for you—you know,”
continued she with a mocking smile, “you're to go this
morning to the mountains on a rough and tumble for the
benefit of your wholesomes. The elegance of the phraseology
is quite in character with the whole affair.”

Pedrigo was tired out; Mrs. Margery Daw's perseverance
prescription had been too much for the Mitts
method; the widow had overmatched the bachelor.

“No, Seraphina my dearest, I'm not going a fishing,
if you don't desire it, and I see you don't.”

Not a word about its being likely to rain—the surrender
was unconditional.

“But,” added Pedrigo, “I should like to have a little
breakfast.”

Mrs. Pumpilion was determined to clinch the nail.

“There's to be no breakfast here—I've been talking
to Sally and Tommy in the kitchen, and I verily believe
the whole world's in a plot against me. They're gone,
Mr. Pumpilion—gone a fishing, perhaps.”

The battle was over—the victory was won—the nail
was clinched. Tealess, sleepless, breakfastless, what
could Pedrigo do but sue for mercy, and abandon a contest
waged against such hopeless odds? The supplies
being cut off, the siege-worn garrison must surrender.
After hours of solicitation, the kiss of amity was reluctantly
accorded; on condition, however, that “funny Joe
Mungoozle” and the rest of the fishing party should be
given up, and that he, Pedrigo, for the future should
refrain from associating with bachelors and widowers,
both of whom she tabooed, and consort with none but
staid married men.

From this moment the individuality of that once free
agent, Pedrigo Pumpilion, was sunk into “only my husband”—the
humblest of all humble animals. He fetches
and carries, goes errands, and lugs band-boxes and bundles;
he walks the little Pumpilions up and down the
room when they squall o' nights, and he never comes in
when any of his wife's distinguished friends call to visit
her. In truth, Pedrigo is not always in a presentable
condition; for as Mrs. Pumpilion is de facto treasurer,
he is kept upon rather short allowance, her wants being
paramount and proportioned to the dignity of head of the
family. But, although he is now dutiful enough, he at
first ventured once or twice to be refractory. These
symptoms of insubordination, however, were soon
quelled—for Mrs. Pumpilion, with a significant glance,
inquired,—

“Are you going a fishing again, my dear?”