“Wrong, Betsy; for it is your fault, and yours alone.”
“There,” cries Betsy; “the cruel injustice of the thing!” And then she would go on for nearly half-an-hour, and tell all the neighbours what we have said. But we must stop her. So, go to, Betsy, thou wife of the British working man, for in hundreds, nay, thousands of cases, it is your fault, and yours alone; and, where it is not, I say, may the great God help and pity you! for yours is indeed a pitiful case.
Come, now, listen to a few words, and don’t frown. There’s the trace as yet of that bonny face that won poor Tom. He’ll come back cross and surly to-night. Never mind: try and bring back that same old smile that used to greet him. Smooth that tangled hair and drive some of the wrinkles out of your forehead—all will not go; make the best of the common cotton dress—in short, as of old, “clean yourself” of an afternoon; and, if you’ve a trace, a spark of love for your husband and yourself, hide away and stuff into a corner—under the bed—anywhere—that household demon, the wash-tub or pan; while, as to the rubbed-out clothes, bundle them up anywhere till he is out of sight again. Think of the old times, and start with new rules. It will be hard work, but you will reap such a smiling, God-blessed harvest that tears of thanksgiving will some day come to your eyes, and you will weep and bless the change. You have children; well, thank God for them. You were a child once yourself; you are a child now in the hands of a great and patient Father who bears with your complaining. Well; those children; they are dirty and noisy, but there are cures—simple remedies for both evils. If their precious little fasts are only broken on bread and treacle, let them be broken at regular hours decently and in order, and don’t have them crumbling the sticky bread all over the floor, running about the room, or up and down the stairs, or in the street. Get them to bed at regular times, and manage them kindly, firmly; and don’t snarl and strike one day, and spoil and indulge the next. Make the best of your home, however beggarly; but, in spite of all, in your efforts to have it clean, don’t let Tom see you cleaning.
Now, don’t think after years of neglect, that because you have now made no end of improvement all is going to be as it used. Don’t think it. You let in the thin end of the wedge over that stray hair, and things have gone gradually wrong. Just so: and you must by slow, painful degrees, get that wedge gradually worked back a little bit and a little bit, while all your patience and perseverance will be so sorely tried, that in sheer despair you’ll often say, “There: it’s of no use!” But it is of use, and of the greatest of use, and even though he may not show it, Tom can see the difference and feel those household spirits tugging at his heart-strings, and saying, when at public-house, “Come away!” in tones that he finds it hard to resist. Brutal men there are in plenty, we know, but, God be thanked for it! how many of our men have the heart in the right place, and you women of England can touch it if you will.
Say your home, through long neglect, has become bare and beggarly. Never mind; make the best of it. It’s wonderful what a ha’porth of hearthstone, a ha’porth of blacklead, and a good heart will do. And that isn’t all, you foolish woman; for there’s a bright and glorious light that can shine out of a loving woman’s face and make the humblest home a palace with its happy radiance. Say your room is bare. What then? Does Tom go to a well-furnished place to spend his money? No; but to a room of hard, bare forms and settles, and common tables sticky and gum-ringed, while the floor, well sanded, grits beneath his feet. Go to, Betsy, never mind the bareness, for you have a glorifying sun within you, whose radiance can brighten the roughest, thorniest way.
Look out here at this bare court, dull, dingy, filthy, frowsy, misery stricken. The sun comes from behind yon cloud, and lo! the place is altered so that even your very heart leaps at the change, and your next breath is a sigh of pleasure. And have you not for years been shrouding your face in clouds and keeping them lingering about your home? Thousands of you have: take heart, and let the sun appear everywhere that Tom will cast his eye. Why, the reflection shall so gladden your own spirit that it shall leap for joy, while you know within yourself that you have done your duty.
Young wives, beware—take heed of the first stray hair and jealously prison it again, for by that single frail filament perhaps hangs yours, your husband’s, your children’s future welfare; so never let Tom be less proud of you than in the days of old.
What is a wife? The prop or stay of a man, the balance that shall steady him through life, and make him—the weaker vessel—give forth when struck a sonorous, honest, clear tone. He is the weaker vessel, and yours are the hands to hold him fast.
But it cannot always be so, for in spite of all a loving heart can do there are brutes—we won’t call them men—we won’t own them as belonging to our ranks, but drum them out—brutes, before whom the jewel of a true wife’s love is as the pearl cast before swine. But, there; leave we them to their wallow, for it is defiling paper to quote their evil ways.
What is a wife? A burden? a care? Oh no, she is what we choose to make her: a constant spring of bright refreshing water, ready for us at all times during our journey through life—a confidant—one we can turn to for help when stricken down by some disease, or the wounds met with in the battle of life, ready to smooth our pillow, and cool the weary, aching head. There; when looking upon some of the poor, dejected, neglected, half-forsaken women we see around, it is enough to make a man’s heart swell with indignation and scorn for those who have cast aside so great a treasure, and made of it a slave.