Reveries of a Bachelor; or, A Book of the Heart

by Donald Grant Mitchell

Heaven help you (I brush the ashes from my cigar) when you begin to regard marriage as only a respectable institution, and under the advices of staid old friends, begin to look about you for some very respectable wife. You may admire her figure, and her family; and bear pleasantly in mind the very casual mention which has been made by some of your penetrating friends—that she has large expectations. You think that she would make a very capital appearance at the head of your table; nor, in the event of your coming to any public honor, would she make you blush for her breeding. She talks well, exceedingly well; and her face has its charms; especially under a little excitement. Her dress is elegant, and tasteful, and she is constantly remarked upon by all your friends, as a “nice person.” Some good old lady, in whose pew she occasionally sits on a Sunday, or to whom she has sometime sent a papier maché card-case, for the show-box of some Dorcas benevolent society, thinks—with a sly wink—that she would make a fine wife for—somebody.

She certainly has an elegant figure; and the marriage of some half dozen of your old flames warns you that time is slipping and your chances failing. And in the pleasant warmth of some after-dinner mood, you resolve—with her image in her prettiest pelisses drifting across your brain—that you will marry. Now comes the pleasant excitement of the chase; and whatever family dignity may surround her only adds to the pleasurable glow of the pursuit. You give an hour more to your toilette, and a hundred or two more, a year, to your tailor. All is orderly, dignified, and gracious. Charlotte is a sensible woman, everybody says; and you believe it yourself. You agree in your talk about books, and churches, and flowers. Of course she has good taste—for she accepts you. The acceptance is dignified, elegant, and even courteous.

You receive numerous congratulations; and your old friend Tom writes you—that he hears you are going to marry a splendid woman; and all the old ladies say—what a capital match! And your business partner, who is a married man, and something of a wag—“sympathizes sincerely.” Upon the whole, you feel a little proud of your arrangement. You write to an old friend in the country, that you are to marry presently Miss Charlotte of such a street, whose father was something very fine, in his way; and whose father before him was very distinguished; you add, in a postscript, that she is easily situated, and has “expectations.” Your friend, who has a wife that he loves, and that loves him, writes back kindly—“hoping you may be happy;” and hoping so yourself, you light your cigar—one of your last bachelor cigars—with the margin of his letter.

The match goes off with a brilliant marriage; at which you receive a very elegant welcome from your wife’s spinster cousins—and drink a great deal of champagne with her bachelor uncles. And as you take the dainty hand of your bride—very magnificent under that bridal wreath, and with her face lit up by a brilliant glow—your eye, and your soul, for the first time, grow full. And as your arm circles that elegant figure, and you draw her toward you, feeling that she is yours—there is a bound at your heart, that makes you think your soul-life is now whole, and earnest. All your early dreams, and imaginations, come flowing on your thought, like bewildering music; and as you gaze upon her—the admiration of that crowd—it seems to you, that all that your heart prizes is made good by the accident of marriage.

—Ah—thought I, brushing off the ashes again—bridal pictures are not home pictures; and the hour at the altar is but a poor type of the waste of years!

Your household is elegantly ordered; Charlotte has secured the best of housekeepers, and she meets the compliments of your old friends who come to dine with you with a suavity that is never at fault. And they tell you—after the cloth is removed, and you sit quietly smoking in memory of the olden times—that she is a splendid woman. Even the old ladies who come for occasional charities, think madame a pattern of a lady; and so think her old admirers, whom she receives still with an easy grace, that half puzzles you. And as you stand by the ball-room door, at two of the morning, with your Charlotte’s shawl upon your arm, some little panting fellow will confirm the general opinion, by telling you that madame is a magnificent dancer; and Monsieur le Comte will praise extravagantly her French. You are grateful for all this; but you have an uncommonly serious way of expressing your gratitude.

You think you ought to be a very happy fellow; and yet long shadows do steal over your thought; and you wonder that the sight of your Charlotte in the dress you used to admire so much, does not scatter them to the winds; but it does not. You feel coy about putting your arm around that delicately-robed figure—you might derange the plaiting of her dress. She is civil toward you; and tender toward your bachelor friends. She talks with dignity—adjusts her lace cap—and hopes you will make a figure in the world, for the sake of the family. Her cheek is never soiled with a tear; and her smiles are frequent, especially when you have some spruce young fellows at your table.

You catch sight of occasional notes, perhaps, whose superscription you do not know; and some of her admirers’ attentions become so pointed, and constant, that your pride is stirred. It would be silly to show jealousy; but you suggest to your “dear”—as you sip your tea—the slight impropriety of her action.

Perhaps you fondly long for some little scene, as a proof of wounded confidence; but no—nothing of that; she trusts (calling you “my dear”), that she knows how to sustain the dignity of her position.

You are too sick at heart for comment, or for reply.