Nature and Human Nature

by Thomas Chandler Haliburton

Well, when a couple is married now, they give up a whole month to each other, what an everlastin’ sacrifice, ain’t it, out of a man’s short life? The reason is, they say, the metheglin gets sour after that, and ain’t palatable no more, and what is left of it is used for picklin’ cucumbers, peppers, and nastertions, and what not. Now, as Brother Eldad, the doctor, says, let us dissect this phrase, and find out what one whole moon means, and then we shall understand what this wonderful thing is. The new moon now, as a body might say, ain’t nothing. It’s just two small lines of a semicircle, like half a wheel, with a little strip of white in it, about as big as a cart tire, and it sets a little after sundown; and as it gives no light, you must either use a candle or go to bed in the dark: now that’s the first week, and it’s no great shakes to brag on, is it? Well, then there is the first quarter, and calling that the first which ought to be second, unless the moon has only three quarters, which sounds odd, shows that the new moon counts for nothin’. Well, the first quarter is something like the thing, though not the real genuine article either. It’s better than the other, but its light don’t quite satisfy us neither. Well, then comes the full moon, and that is all there is, as one may say. Now, neither the moon nor nothin’ else can be more than full, and when you have got all, there is nothing more to expect. But a man must be a blockhead, indeed, to expect the moon to remain one minute after it is full, as every night clips a little bit off, till there is a considerable junk gone by the time the week is out, and what is worse, every night there is more and more darkness afore it rises. It comes reluctant, and when it does arrive it hante long to stay, for the last quarter takes its turn at the lantern. That only rises a little afore the sun, as if it was ashamed to be caught napping at that hour—that quarter therefore is nearly as dark as ink. So you see the new and last quarter go for nothing; that everybody will admit. The first ain’t much better, but the last half of that quarter and the first of the full, make a very decent respectable week.

Well, then, what’s all this when it’s fried? Why, it amounts to this, that if there is any resemblance between a lunar and a lunatic month, that the honeymoon lasts only one good week.

Don’t be skeared, Sophy, when you read this, because we must look things in the face and call them by their right name.

Well, then, let us call it the honey-week. Now if it takes a whole month to make one honey-week, it must cut to waste terribly, mustn’t it? But then you know a man can’t wive and thrive the same year. Now wastin’ so much of that precious month is terrible, ain’t it? But oh me, bad as it is, it ain’t the worst of it. There is no insurance office for happiness, there is no policy to be had to cover losses—you must bear them all yourself. Now suppose, just suppose for one moment, and positively such things have happened before now, they have indeed; I have known them occur more than once or twice myself among my own friends, fact, I assure you. Suppose now that week is cold, cloudy, or uncomfortable, where is the honeymoon then? Recollect there is only one of them, there ain’t two. You can’t say it rained cats and dogs this week, let us try the next; you can’t do that, it’s over and gone for ever. Well, if you begin life with disappointment, it is apt to end in despair.

Now, Sophy, dear, as I said before, don’t get skittish at seeing this, and start and race off and vow you won’t ever let the halter be put on you, for I kinder sorter guess that, with your sweet temper, good sense, and lovin’ heart, and with the light-hand I have for a rein, our honeymoon will last through life. We will give up that silly word, that foolish boys and girls use without knowing its meanin’, and we will count by years and not by months, and we won’t expect, what neither marriage nor any other earthly thing can give, perfect happiness. It tante in the nature of things, and don’t stand to reason, that earth is Heaven, Slickville paradise, or you and me angels; we ain’t no such a thing. If you was, most likely the first eastwardly wind (and though it is a painful thing to confess it, I must candidly admit there is an eastwardly wind sometimes to my place to home), why you would just up wings and off to the sky like wink, and say you didn’t like the land of the puritans, it was just like themselves, cold, hard, uncongenial, and repulsive; and what should I do? Why most likely remain behind, for there is no marrying or giving in marriage up there.

No, no, dear, if you are an angel, and positively you are amazingly like one, why the first time I catch you asleep I will clip your wings and keep you here with me, until we are both ready to start together. We won’t hope for too much, nor fret for trifles, will we? These two things are the greatest maxims in life I know of. When I was a boy I used to call them commandments, but I got such a lecture for that, and felt so sorry for it afterwards, I never did again, nor will as long as I live. Oh, dear, I shall never forget the lesson poor dear old Minister taught me on that occasion.

There was a thanksgiving ball wunst to Slickville, and I wanted to go, but I had no clothes suitable for such an occasion as that, and father said it would cost more than it was worth to rig me out for it, so I had to stop at home. Sais Mr Hopewell to me,

“Sam,” said he, “don’t fret about it, you will find it ‘all the same a year hence.’ As that holds good in most things, don’t it show us the folly now of those trifles we set our hearts on, when in one short year they will be disregarded or forgotten?”

“Never fear,” said I, “I am not a going to break the twelfth commandment.”

“Twelfth commandment,” said he, repeatin’ the words slowly, laying down his book, taking off his spectacles, and lookin’ hard at me, almost onfakilised. “Twelfth commandment, did I hear right, Sam,” said he, “did you say that?”