Chide, and she melted into floods of tears;
Fondly she pleaded, and would gently sigh,
For very pity, or she knew not why;
One whom to govern none could be afraid -
Hold up the finger, this meek thing obey’d;
Her happy husband had the easiest task -
Say but his will, no question would she ask;
She sought no reasons, no affairs she knew,
Of business spoke not, and had nought to do.
Oft he exclaim’d, “How meek! how mild! how kind!
With her ’twere cruel but to seem unkind;
Though ever silent when I take my leave,
It pains my heart to think how hers will grieve;
’Tis heaven on earth with such a wife to dwell,
I am in raptures to have sped so well;
But let me not, my friend, your envy raise,
No! on my life, your patience has my praise.”
His Friend, though silent, felt the scorn implied -
“What need of patience?” to himself he cried:
“Better a woman o’er her house to rule,
Than a poor child just hurried from her school;
Who has no care, yet never lives at ease;
Unfit to rule, and indisposed to please.
What if he govern, there his boast should end;
No husband’s power can make a slave his friend.”
It was the custom of these Friends to meet
With a few neighbours in a neighbouring street;
Where Counter ofttimes would occasion seize
To move his silent Friend by words like these:
“A man,” said he, “if govern’d by his wife,
Gives up his rank and dignity in life;
Now, better fate befalls my Friend and me.” -
He spoke, and look’d th’ approving smile to see.
The quiet partner, when he chose to speak,
Desired his friend “another theme to seek;
When thus they met, he judged that state-affairs
And such important subjects should be theirs:”
But still the partner, in his lighter vein,
Would cause in Clubb affliction or disdain;
It made him anxious to detect the cause
Of all that boasting: - “Wants my friend applause?
This plainly proves him not at perfect ease,
For, felt he pleasure, he would wish to please.
These triumphs here for some regrets atone -
Men who are bless’d let other men alone.”
Thus made suspicious, he observed and saw
His friend each night at early hour withdraw;
He sometimes mention’d Juliet’s tender nerves,
And what attention such a wife deserves:
“In this,” thought Clubb, “full sure some mystery lies -
He laughs at me, yet he with much complies,
And all his vaunts of bliss are proud apologies.”
With such ideas treasured in his breast,
He grew composed, and let his anger rest;
Till Counter once (when wine so long went round,
That friendship and discretion both were drown’d)
Began, in teasing and triumphant mood,
His evening banter: - “Of all earthly good,
The best,” he said, “was an obedient spouse,
Such as my friend’s - that every one allows:
What if she wishes his designs to know?
It is because she would her praise bestow;
What if she wills that he remain at home?
She knows that mischief may from travel come.
I, who am free to venture where I please,
Have no such kind preventing checks as these;
But mine is double duty, first to guide
Myself aright, then rule a house beside;
While this our friend, more happy than the free,
Resigns all power, and laughs at liberty.”
“By heaven!” said Clubb, “excuse me if I swear,
I’ll bet a hundred guineas, if he dare,
That uncontroll’d I will such freedoms take
That he will fear to equal - there’s my stake.”
“A match!” said Counter, much by wine inflamed;
“But we are friends - let smaller stake be named:
Wine for our future meeting, that will I
Take and no more - what peril shall we try?”
“Let’s to Newmarket,” Clubb replied; “or choose
Yourself the place, and what you like to lose:
And he who first returns, or fears to go,
Forfeits his cash.” - Said Counter, “Be it so.”
The friends around them saw with much delight
The social war, and hail’d the pleasant night;
Nor would they further hear the cause discuss’d,
Afraid the recreant heart of Clubb to trust.
Now sober thoughts return’d as each withdrew,
And of the subject took a serious view:
“’Twas wrong,” thought Counter, “and will grieve my love;”
“’Twas wrong,” thought Clubb, “my wife will not approve:
But friends were present; I must try the thing,
Or with my folly half the town will ring.”
He sought his lady - “Madam, I’m to blame,
But was reproach’d, and could not bear the shame;
Here in my folly - for ’tis best to say
The very truth - I’ve sworn to have my way;
To that Newmarket - (though I hate the place,
And have no taste or talents for a race,
Yet so it is - well, now prepare to chide) -
I laid a wager that I dared to ride:
And I must go: by heaven, if you resist
I shall be scorn’d, and ridiculed, and hiss’d;
Let me with grace before my friends appear,
You know the truth, and must not be severe:
He too must go, but that he will of course:
Do you consent? - I never think of force.”
“You never need,” the worthy Dame replied;
“The husband’s honour is the woman’s pride:
If I in trifles be the wilful wife,
Still for your credit I would lose my life.
Go! and when fix’d the day of your return,
Stay longer yet, and let the blockheads learn
That though a wife may sometimes wish to rule,
She would not make th’ indulgent man a fool;
I would at times advise - but idle they
Who think th’ assenting husband must obey.”
The happy man, who thought his lady right
In other cases, was assured to-night;
Then for the day with proud delight prepared,
To show his doubting friends how much he dared.
Counter - who grieving sought his bed, his rest
Broken by pictures of his love distress’d -
With soft and winning speech the fair prepared:
“She all his councils, comforts, pleasures shared:
She was assured he loved her from his soul,
She never knew and need not fear control;
But so it happen’d - he was grieved at heart
It happen’d so, that they awhile must part
A little time - the distance was but short,
And business called him - he despised the sport;
But to Newmarket he engaged to ride
With his friend Clubb:” and there he stopp’d and sigh’d.
Awhile the tender creature look’d dismay’d,
Then floods of tears the call of grief obeyed: -
“She an objection! No!” she sobb’d, “not one:
Her work was finish’d, and her race was run;
For die she must - indeed she would not live
A week alone, for all the world could give;
He too must die in that same wicked place;
It always happen’d - was a common case;
Among those horrid horses, jockeys, crowds,
’Twas certain death - they might bespeak their shrouds.
He would attempt a race, be sure to fall -
And she expire with terror - that was all;
With love like hers she was indeed unfit
To bear such horrors, but she must submit.”
“But for three days, my love! three days at most,”
“Enough for me; I then shall be a ghost.”
“My honour’s pledged!” - “Oh! yes, my dearest life,
I know your honour must outweigh your wife;
But ere this absence have you sought a friend?
I shall be dead - on whom can you depend?
Let me one favour of your kindness crave,
Grant me the stone I mention’d for my grave.”
“Nay, love, attend - why, bless my soul! I say
I will return - there, weep no longer, nay!”
“Well! I obey, and to the last am true,
But spirits fail me; I must die; adieu!”
“What, Madam! must? - ’tis wrong - I’m angry - zounds
Can I remain and lose a thousand pounds?”
“Go then, my love! it is a monstrous sum,
Worth twenty wives - go, love! and I am dumb;
Nor be displeased - had I the power to live,
You might be angry, now you must forgive:
Alas! I faint - ah! cruel - there’s no need
Of wounds or fevers - this has done the deed.”
The lady fainted, and the husband sent
For every aid - for every comfort went;
Strong terror seized him: “Oh! she loved so well,
And who th’ effect of tenderness could tell?”
She now recover’d, and again began
With accent querulous - “Ah! cruel man!”
Till the sad husband, conscience-struck, confess’d,
’Twas very wicked with his friend to jest;
For now he saw that those who were obey’d,
Could like the most subservient feel afraid:
And though a wife might not dispute the will
Of her liege lord, she could prevent it still.
The morning came, and Clubb prepared to ride
With a smart boy, his servant, and his guide;
When, ere he mounted on his ready steed,
Arrived a letter, and he stopped to read.
“My friend,” he read, “our journey I decline,
A heart too tender for such strife is mine;
Yours is the triumph, be you so inclined;
But you are too considerate and kind:
In tender pity to my Juliet’s fears
I thus relent, o’ercome by love and tears;
She knows your kindness; I have heard her say,
A man like you ’tis pleasure to obey:
Each faithful wife, like ours, must disapprove
Such dangerous trifling with connubial love;
What has the idle world, my friend, to do
With our affairs? they envy me and you:
What if I could my gentle spouse command -
Is that a cause I should her tears withstand?
And what if you, a friend of peace, submit
To one you love - is that a theme for wit?
’Twas wrong, and I shall henceforth judge it weak
Both of submission and control to speak:
Be it agreed that all contention cease,
And no such follies vex our future peace;
Let each keep guard against domestic strife,
And find nor slave nor tyrant in his wife.”
“Agreed,” said Clubb, “with all my soul agreed;” -
And to the boy, delighted, gave his steed.
“I think my friend has well his mind express’d,
And I assent; such things are not a jest.”
“True,” said the Wife, “no longer he can hide
The truth that pains him by his wounded pride:
Your friend has found it not an easy thing,
Beneath his yoke this yielding soul to bring:
These weeping willows, though they seem inclined
By every breeze, yet not the strongest wind
Can from their bent divert this weak but stubborn kind;
Drooping they seek your pity to excite,
But ’tis at once their nature and delight;
Such women feel not; while they sigh and weep,
’Tis but their habit - their affections sleep;
They are like ice that in the hand we hold,
So very melting, yet so very cold;
On such affection let not man rely,
The husbands suffer, and the ladies sigh:
But your friend’s offer let us kindly take,
And spare his pride for his vexation’s sake;
For he has found, and through his life will find,
’Tis easiest dealing with the firmest mind -
More just when it resists, and, when it yields, more kind.”
TALE XIX.
THE CONVERT.
A tapster is a good trade, and an old cloak makes a new jerkin;
a withered serving-man, a fresh tapster.
SHAKESPEARE, Merry Wives of Windsor.
A fellow, Sir, that I have known go about with troll-my-dames.
A Winter’s Tale.
I myself, sometimes leaving the fear of Heaven on the left hand,
and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am forced to shuffle, to
hedge, and to lurch.
Merry Wives of Windsor.
Yea, and at that very moment,
Consideration like an angel came,
And whipp’d th’ offending Adam out of him.
Henry V.
I have lived long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have.
Macbeth.
--------------------------
Some to our Hero have a hero’s name
Denied, because no father’s he could claim;
Nor could his mother with precision state
A full fair claim to her certificate;
On her own word the marriage must depend -