MATCHES IN TEENS.
"To marry!—Why, every man plays the fool once in his life—but to marry is playing the fool all one's life long."—CONGREVE.
There is something so satisfactory in knowing at once the limit of your fortunes—in making yourself secure in the first instance of that happiness to which all your exertions are directed,—which is in fact the end and aim of your worldly existence, and of all your worldly toils—the enjoyment of domestic peace and love;—in quenching that restless, burning anxiety, which is ever busy within the bosom of the young and the aspiring. Marrying early, in fact, is taking time by the forelock, and leading your future destinies after you, instead of suffering yourself to be led and tossed about by them,—it is tearing away the black veil from the brow of futurity, and perusing all her lineaments in her own despite. It is [he continued with an oratorical attitude] building your fate upon a rock—"
"Ah!" I exclaimed, "stop there—that rock is so commonplace."
Harry laughed and went on with his argument.—"Besides, there is the gratification of making yourself considered in society—which no single man is. A single man is a kind of protected or licensed vagabond—rambling to and fro without stamp or mark, as Witwould might say,—like a sheep that has been overlooked at tarring time. His home is a desert to him,—and the love of social converse, which is so natural, and so amiable at the same time keeps him eternally in a state of fidgetty restlessness, which precludes all possibility of serious and persevering labour. Only think of the horrors of a house without a queen—Yawning servants, negligent housekeepers, extorting tradespeople,—these and a thousand other annoyances, for which you have no relief, because you cannot stoop to meddle or make in such transactions—are the agitations which perpetually infest the domestic commonwealth of a bachelor.—But turn your eyes into the house of 'Benedick, the married man'—He wears his rue with a difference, indeed!—There is a sense of life, bustle, mirth, and happiness, in the very air of the dwelling. To be greeted with smiles at your going forth and coming in—to know that there is at least one who serves you without a self-interest—to hear the joyous, feminine laugh, delicate and temperate in the very whirlwind of its ecstacy, ring through the mansion from hour to hour—to hear the little foot pattering about you as you sit at your philosophic studies—to have a friend with whom you can converse freely and without fear of present offence or future disadvantage—and whose presence is not without its influence and its charm, even when the call of a worldly ambition summons you to—
"——Pursue
Your tasks, in social silence too,"
with just sense enough to understand all you can say to her—and nothing so wise as to mortify you at any time by setting you right. Then, instead of the natty primness of your bachelor's apartment, you have your eyes feasted by that elegant confusion of the little sanctuary—the charm of which cannot, unseen, be apprehended, and is only known to those who are privileged to enter, by the passport of Hymen. A bit of bobbin here—a thread-paper there—here a hat feather—there a scrap of silk.—Besides," [drawing his chair closer to mine and looking very tender] "when you love her, you know—." He paused and sighed, and I groaned strenuously.—
"And is this all you have to say in defence of an elopement with a girl of sixteen." ["A beautiful girl," he passionately interrupted] "well! a beautiful girl—so young, that it is perfectly impossible for you to form any judgment on her inclinations or her temper—at a time when her character is undecided—unformed—when that which is mere caprice, frequently assumes the hue of passion, and wears all its fervour and intensity. Or if it should continue unabated—as I must confess [observing him turn himself with an air before a pier glass,] I see no reason why it should not—you will find the unsophistication of the young lady as quickly tending to domestic disquiet, as might have been her inconstancy—She will be unreasonable in her exactions on your confidence, and you will be compelled to take refuge in fits of sullenness—perhaps rudeness;—and then what becomes of that blissful state, where like you, every body expects, and so very—very few find happiness?—to secure which the most perfect union of taste and feeling—the utmost kindliness of manner, and a politeness as habitual as motion itself, are absolute requisites?—Have you no further arguments to offer in favour of this measure of yours?—"
"Oh, yes," said he, very dryly, "I have one more."
"What may that be?"
"That I WILL marry her."
"Oh!..." said I.
And without exchanging another word, I put on my great coat, and we sallied forth together to the rendezvous of the lovers. The fair fugitive was true to her appointment, and at the first sound of the expected footfall, glided from her concealment into the happy scoundrel's arms. The action which followed I could not see (though it was a bright moonlight,) for a breeze lifted the large veil which hung over the lady's shoulder, in such a manner as to envelope the countenances of both. What the action ought to have been, perhaps you, madam, or you, mademoiselle, may inform me?—I only know that when the modest zephyr passed, and the veil fell back again, the fair cheek that it revealed glowed with
"A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't,
Might well have warm'd old Saturn."
Harry gave me his hand (heartily) as he stood on the carriage step, and the bride wafted me a farewell with the prettiest action of her fan from the window, and murmured,—"Give me a good wish for the tobacconist."
"Yes," said I; "may you never have occasion to say of the love that now leads you to him, that
"'Its beacon light is quench'd in smoke.'"
[For although naturally grave, and silently given, I often catch myself endeavouring to sport a bad pun, when I have got the ear of a fair damsel] The only effect which the witticism produced in the present instance, however, was an enormous groan, in which the fellows on the dickey participated. Even the postilion who stood near, set up a crowing laugh—and the very horses by their snorting and neighing, seemed to be sensible of the utter and deplorable failure.
And away they went—and they were hotly pursued, and overtaken, just in time to be too late—which left no other course but that of reconciliation;—and where there is no choice to be made, every body knows there is but one part to be taken.
That occurrence is now three years since, and it was only the other day that I again met the pair of turtles. Dropping in rather late at a card-party, I beheld them sitting vis-a-vis at one of the tables, playing together against an old lady and gentleman, before whom Mrs. L—— thought, perhaps, it was not necessary to appear very fashionable towards dear Harry. With the requisite ceremonious unceremoniousness so popular at present, I took a chair behind him, and annoyed him every moment by remarks upon his wife; of course all highly nattering to both.
"My love, you have played that card wrong—very wrong."
"Did I, my dear?" replied Mrs. L. smiling languidly, and looking in his face more as if she was admiring the elegant turn of his forehead, and the spirited expression of his dark eye, than as if she minded what he was saying—"'tis indeed—very."
"'Tis what?"
"Oh! were you not speaking of something? I beg pardon, love—I thought you spoke."
"And so I did, my dear. I told you that card was played most abominably."
"I dare say, my love;—[still gazing in his eyes and smiling]—I know I'm very stupid,"—[playing a card.]
"Well, you have taken a curious way to mend matters—that last play was a thousand degrees worse than the other."
"I dare say, my love,—[looking in his face, and continuing to drawl and simper in the manner which we might imagine of Shakspeare's little shepherdess—
"'Sweet youth chide on—I had rather hear thee chide
Than others woo—'">[
"But tell me, love, when I play wrong," [playing again without taking her eyes from his, even to look at her card.]
"I had much better leave you to yourself," said L.
"'You will be compelled to take refuge in fits of sullenness,'" muttered I, quoting from my former prophecy.
"My dear,"—[pronounced just in the same way as he might have said, 'you fool,']—pray open your eyes."
"Perhaps in rudeness," I continued.
"There again!" cried poor L——, who seemed in danger of being ruined by the admiration of his wife. "It is not possible for a card to be played worse than that. Your head, my dear, must be as confused as your boudoir."
"A bit of bobbin here—a hat feather there," I continued, growing malicious.
"Sir," cried L——, starting round in a passion. Fixing his eyes for a moment on my wooden phiz, however, he burst into a fit of laughter, and then as suddenly assuming a most doleful change of countenance, he squeezed my hand and said to me apart, in a tragic tone, "Ah, my dear friend, you were right—you were right."
"He that would lead a happy married life,
First learn to rule, and then to have, a wife,"
say Beaumont and Fletcher—and a pleasant aphorism it is too—and a wise and useful—but with a slight alteration, a periphrasis comprehending advice not less to the purpose may be presented—
"He that would lead a happy wedded life,
Beware of marrying a too youthful wife."