But if the fatal word spring up, in its primitive [pg 669] freshness, at the head of the sentence, bow your head to the storm. It then assumes the majesty of “my” before it; is generally more than simple objurgation—it prefaces a sermon. My candor obliges me to confess that this is the mode in which the hateful monosyllable is more usually employed by the marital part of the one flesh; and has something about it of the odious assumption of the Petruchian pater-familias—the head of the family—boding, not perhaps “peace, and love, and quiet life,” but certainly “awful rule and right supremacy.” Ex. gr.
“My dear Jane—I wish you would just put by that everlasting tent-stitch, and listen to me for a few moments,” &c.
“My dear Jane—I wish you would understand me for once—don't think I am angry—no, but I am hurt. You must consider,” &c.
“My dear Jane—I don't know if it is your intention to ruin me; but I only wish you would do as all other women do who care three straws for their husbands' property,” &c.
“My dear Jane—I wish you to understand that I am the last person in the world to be jealous; but I'll be d—d if that puppy, Captain Prettyman,” &c.
Now, if that same “dear” could be thoroughly raked and hoed out of the connubial garden, I don't think that the remaining nettles would signify a button. But even as it was, Parson Dale, good man, would have prized his garden beyond all the bowers which Spenser and Tasso have sung so musically, though there had not been a single specimen of “dear,” whether the dear humilis, or the dear superba, the dear pallida, rubra, or nigra; the dear umbrosa, florens, spicata; the dear savis, or the dear horrida; no, not a single dear in the whole horticulture of matrimony which Mrs. Dale had not brought to perfection; but this, fortunately, was far from being the case. The dears of Mrs. Dale were only wild flowers, after all.
Chapter IX.
In the cool of the evening, Dr. Riccabocca walked home across the fields. Mr. and Mrs. Dale had accompanied him half way; and as they now turned back to the Parsonage, they looked behind, to catch a glimpse of the tall, outlandish figure, winding slowly through the path amidst the waves of the green corn.
“Poor man!” said Mrs. Dale, feelingly; “and the button was off his wristband! What a pity he has nobody to take care of him! He seems very domestic. Don't you think, Charles, it would be a great blessing if we could get him a good wife?”
“Um,” said the Parson; “I doubt if he values the married state as he ought.”