When once a woman is married, when once she has enlisted among the matrons of the land; let not her fancy dream of perpetual admiration; let her not be sketching out endless mazes of pleasure. The mistress of a family has ceased to be a girl. She can no longer be frivolous or childish with impunity. The angel of courtship has sunk into a woman; and that woman will be valued principally as her fondness lies in retirement, and her pleasures in the nursery of her children. And woe to the mother who is obliged to abandon her children during the greater part of the day to hirelings—no, not obliged; for there is no duty so imperious, no social convenience or fashionable custom so commanding, as to oblige her to such shameful neglect: for maternal care, let her remember, supercedes all other duties.
In the matrimonial character which you have now assumed, gentle lady, no longer let your fancy wander to scenes of pleasure or dissipation. Let home be now your empire, your world! Let home be now the sole scene of your wishes, your thoughts, your plans, your exertions. Let home be now the stage on which, in the varied character of wife, of mother, and of mistress, you strive to act and shine with splendour. In its sober, quiet scenes, let your heart cast its anchor, let your feelings and pursuits all be centred. And beyond the spreading oaks that shadow and shelter your dwelling, let not your fancy wander. Leave to your husband to distinguish himself by his valour or his talents. Do you seek for fame at home; and let the applause of your God, of your husband, of your children, and your servants, weave for your brow a never-fading chaplet.
An ingenious writer says, "If a painter wished to draw the very finest object in the world, it would be the picture of a wife, with eyes expressing the serenity of her mind, and a countenance beaming with benevolence; one hand lulling to rest on her bosom a lovely infant, the other employed in presenting a moral page to a second sweet baby, who stands at her knee, listening to the words of truth and wisdom from its incomparable mother."
I am a peculiar friend to cheerfulness. Not that kind of cheerfulness which the wise man calls the mirth of fools,—always laughing and talking, exhausting itself in jests and puns, and then sinking into silence and gloom when the object that inspired it has disappeared. No—no! The cheerfulness I would recommend must belong to the heart, and be connected with the temper, and even with the principles. Addison says, "I cannot but look on a cheerful state of mind as a constant, habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanksgiving to Providence under all its dispensations: it is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and a secret approval of the Divine Will in his conduct towards us." I think there is something very lovely in seeing a woman overcoming those little domestic disquiets which every mistress of a family has to contend with; sitting down to her breakfast-table in the morning with a cheerful, smiling countenance, and endeavouring to promote innocent and pleasant conversation among her little circle. But vain will be her amiable efforts at cheerfulness, if she be not assisted by her husband and the other members around; and truly it is an unpleasant sight to see at family when collected together, instead of enlivening the quiet scene with a little good-humoured chat, sitting like so many statues, as if each was unworthy of the attention of the other. And then, when a stranger comes in, O dear! such smiles, and animation, and loquacity! "Let my lot be to please at home," says the poet; and truly I cannot help feeling a contemptuous opinion of those persons, young or old, male or female, who lavish their good humour and pleasantry in company, and hoard up sullenness and silence for the sincere and loving group which compose their fireside.
They do not behold home with the same eyes as did the writer of the following lines:—
"'Home's the resort of love, of joy, of peace;''
So says the bard, and so say truth and grace;
Home is the scene where truth and candour move,
The only scene of true and genuine love.
'To balls, and routs for fame let others roam,
Be mine the happier lot to please at home.'
Clear then the stage: no scenery we require,
Save the snug circle round the parlour fire;
And enter, marshall'd in procession fair,
Each happier influence that governs there!
First, Love, by Friendship mellow'd into bliss,
Lights the warm glow, and sanctifies the kiss;
When, fondly welcomed to the accustom'd seat,
In sweet complacence wife and husband meet;
Look mutual pleasure, mutual purpose share,
Repose from labours to unite in care!
Ambition! Does Ambition there reside?
Yes: when the boy, in manly mood astride,
With ruby lip and eyes of sweetest blue,
And flaxen locks, and cheeks of rosy hue,
(Of headstrong prowess innocently vain),
Canters;—the jockey of his father's cane:
While Emulation in the daughter's heart
Bears a more mild, though not less powerful, part,
With zeal to shine her little bosom warms,
And in the romp the future housewife forms:
Think how Joy animates, intense though meek,
The fading roses on their grandame's cheek,
When, proud the frolic children to survey,
She feels and owns an interest in their play;
Tells at each call the story ten times told,
And forwards every wish their whims unfold."
"To be agreeable, and even entertaining, in our family circle," says a celebrated writer, "is not only a positive duty, but an absolute morality."
We cannot help quoting the following passage from Miss H. More, as an admirable illustration of true sweetness of temper, patience, and self-denial—qualities so essential in a wife and mistress of a family:—"Remember, that life is not entirely made up of great evils, or heavy trials, but that the perpetual recurrence of petty evils and small trials is the ordinary and appointed exercise of Christian graces. To bear with the feelings of those about us, with their infirmities, their bad judgments, their ill-breeding, their perverse tempers—to endure neglect where we feel we have deserved attention, and ingratitude where we expected thanks—to bear with the company of disagreeable people, whom Providence has placed in our way, and whom he has perhaps provided on purpose for the trial of our virtue—these are the best exercise; and the better because not chosen by ourselves. To bear with vexations in business, with disappointments in our expectations, with interruptions in our retirement, with folly, intrusion, disturbance, in short, with whatever opposes our will and contradicts our humour—this habitual acquiescence appears to be the very essence of self-denial. These constant, inevitable, but inferior evils, properly improved, furnish a good moral discipline, and might well, in the days of ignorance, have superseded pilgrimage and penance." Another remark of the same author is also excellent: "To sustain a fit of sickness may exhibit as true a heroism as to lead an army. To bear a deep affliction well, calls for as high exertion of soul as to storm a town; and to meet death with Christian resolution, is an act of courage in which many a woman has triumphed, and many a philosopher, and even some generals, have failed."
THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE.
"I allude to that false and contemptible kind of decision which we term obstinacy;—a stubbornness of temper which can assign no reasons but mere will, for a constancy which acts in the nature of dead weight, rather than strength-resembling less the reaction of a powerful spring, than the gravitation of a big stone."