Let lovers see each other every week, every day, if you will, their main pastime is the repetition of their vows: they learn nothing of married life. The apprenticeship has to begin all over again the day after the wedding. Lovers may see each other every day, it is true, but every day is not all day. Lovers are always on their guard; they put a bridle on their tongues; before they meet, they are careful to look in the glass and see that nothing is amiss with their toilet; but when they are one each side of the bedroom fireplace, he in slippers and smoking-cap and she in curl-papers, then comes the test.
Familiarity breeds contempt, says the English proverb. The love that is not based on deep-rooted friendship, on solid virtues, on an amiable philosophy, and careful diplomacy, will not survive two years of matrimonial life. Scarcely any of these things are called into requisition during the courtship, and this is how mariages de convenance often turn out better than love-matches. Matrimony is a huge lottery in both cases.
I prefer the love-making and matrimonial processes of England and Scotland to our own French ones; but if I had a marriageable daughter, I should be sorry to see her give her heart to a man who could not marry her for several years.
The danger with long engagements is that they often do not end in matrimony, and in such a case a young girl's future is blighted.
I do not know if you are of my opinion, dear Reader, but, according to my taste, making love to a girl who has been engaged five or six years, is like sitting down to a dish of réchauffé. Seeing the liberty that British usage accords to engaged couples, I maintain that pure as the lady may be and is, she is none the less a flower that has been breathed upon and has lost some of its value. For my part, I should always be afraid to give her a kiss, for fear she should pout and seem to say:
"Jack's kisses were far nicer than that!"
I extract the following anecdote from the Memoirs of Doctor John Brown, a well-known Scotch divine.
The doctor, it appears, had for six years and a half been engaged to be married to a certain lady, when it occurred to him that matters were no further advanced than on the day when he had asked her for her heart and its dependencies. The position became intolerable: the doctor had not yet ventured on anything less ceremonious than shaking hands with his lady-love. To touch her hand was something, and perhaps the reverend gentleman thought, with our French poet:
Ce gage d'amitié plus qu'un autre me touche:
Un serrement de main vaut dix serments de bouche.