A MODEL MARRIED MAN.
Cobbett says that for two years after his marriage he retained his disposition to flirt with pretty women; but at last his wife—probably having lost all hope of his reforming himself—gently tapped him upon the arm, and remarked—
“Don’t do that. I do not like it.”
Cobbett says:—“That was quite enough. I had never thought on the subject before; one hair of her head was more dear to me than all other women in the world; and this I knew that she knew; but now I saw that this was not all that she had a right to from me. I saw that she had the further claim upon me that I should abstain from everything that might induce others to believe that there was any other woman for whom, even if I were at liberty, I had any affection.”
Now I suppose most women, on reading that, would roll up their eyes and think unutterable things of Mr. Cobbett! But, had I borne his musical name, and had that fine speech been addressed to me, I should immediately have dismissed the—house-maid!
It is not in any masculine to get on his knees that way, without a motive! I tell you that man was a humbug! overshot the mark, entirely; promised ten times as much as a sinful masculine could ever perform. If he had said about a quarter part of that, you might have believed him. His affection for Mrs. Cobbett was skin-deep. He would have flirted with every one of you, the minute her back was turned, to the end of the electrical chapter!
A man who is magnetized as he ought to be, don’t waste his precious time making such long-winded, sentimental speeches. You never need concern yourself, when such a glib tongue makes love to you. Go on with your knitting; he’s convalescent! getting better of his complaint fast. Now mind what I tell you; that Cobbett was a humbug!
MEDITATIONS OF PAUL PRY, JUN.
Not a blessed bit of gossip have I heard for a whole week! Nobody’s run off with anybody’s wife; not a single case of “Swartwouting;” no minister’s been to the theatre; and my friend Tom, editor of the “Sky Rocket,” (who never cares whether a rumour be true or false, or where it hits, so that it makes a paragraph), is quite in despair. He’s really afraid the world is growing virtuous—says it would be a hundred dollars in his pocket, to get hold of a bit of scandal in such a dearth of news; and if the accused party gets obstreperous, he’d just as lief publish one side as the other! The more fuss the better; all he’s afraid of is, they won’t think it worth noticing!
Ah! we’ve some new neighbours in that house; pretty woman there, at the window; glad of that! In the first place, it rests my eyes to look at them; in the next place, when there’s a pretty woman, you may be morally certain there’ll be mischief, sooner or later, i. e. if they don’t have somebody like me to look after them; therefore I shall keep my eye on her. That’s her husband in the room, I’m certain of it (for all the while she is talking to him, she’s looking out of the window!) There he goes down street to his business—a regular humdrum, hen-pecked, “ledger” looking Lilliputian. Was not cut out for her, that’s certain! Well, my lady’s wide awake enough! Look at her eye! No use in pursing up that pretty mouth!—that eye tells the story! Nice little plump figure; coquettish turn of the head, and a spring to her step. Well, well, I’ll keep my eyes open.