"Land of love! there's many a woman dies of 'hope deferred.' Put that in her ear. Ask her what in mercy she thinks would have become of her, if you hadn't taken pity on her. Make her sensible of her beatified condition. Just tell her that any 'little favor' you do for her now, is an extra touch of philanthropy; that you may possibly go whole days without noticing her at all—except to stow away the food she prepares for you;—that, as to thanking her for every button she sews on, Cæsar! the boot is on the other foot! and should she lose her beauty or get sickly, of course she can't expect you'll care as much for her as when she was bran-new—the idea is absurd. She has no business to grow ugly; and as to sickness, it would be stepping off your pedestal to be puttering round, inquiring whether your wife's gruel was furnished at the right time or not; you've got other things to do, of more importance; such as betting on elections, peeping into concerts and theatres, and so forth.
"'He might take me, too.' You nonsensical little nuisance! In the first place—he—he—he—well, the upshot of it is, he don't want you! it would spoil all his fun. So just sit down in your rocking-chair and contemplate your stocking-basket; and if your spirits droop for change of scene, for a kind word, or a loving glance—that's nothing! You can die any time you get ready; he will stop mourning for you long before the weed on his hat gets rusty. Besides, the world is full of women—a real crowd of 'em; he knows that well enough; dare say he'd be obliged to you to pop off. 'Variety is the spice of life.'
"So there's the map before you, my dear. That's all there is of Life. If you've got married, you've climbed to the top of the hill—so now you can do as the rest of the wives do—stand still and crow a little while; and then commence your descent. No new discoveries to be made that I know of. Cry, if you feel like it—pocket handkerchiefs are only ninepence a-piece now."
LXXXIV.
FANNY'S IDEAS ABOUT MONEY MATTERS.
"'The Military Argus has a long and prosy article headed 'How to make Home Happy.' A friend of ours has now a work in preparation, which solves the question—'It is to give your wife as much money as she asks for.' This entirely abolishes the necessity of kisses and soft sawder.'
True Flag, Aug. 28.
"Betty! throw up the windows, loosen my belt, and bring me my vinaigrette!
"It's no use to faint, or go into hysterics, because there's nobody here just now that understands my case! but I'd have you to understand, sir——(fan me, Betty!) that——o-o-h!——that——(Julius Cæsar, what a Hottentot!) that if you have a wife as is a wife, neither 'kisses,' 'soft sawder,' or 'money,' can ever repay her for what she is to you!
"Listen to me! Do you remember when you were sick? Who tip-toe-d round your room, arranging the shutters and curtain-folds with an instinctive knowledge of light, to a ray, that your tortured head could bear? Who turned your pillow on the cool side, and parted the thick, matted locks from your hot temples? Who moved glasses and spoons and phials without collision or jingle? Who looked at you with a compassionate smile, when you persisted you 'wouldn't take your medicine because it tasted so bad;' and kept a sober face, when you lay chafing there like a caged lion, calling for cigars and newspapers, and mint-juleps, and whiskey punches? Who migrated, unceasingly and uncomplainingly, from the big baby before her to the little baby in the cradle, without sleep, food, or rest? Who tempted your convalescent appetite with some rare dainty of her own making, and got fretted at because there was 'not sugar enough in it?' Who was omnipresent in chamber, kitchen, parlor and nursery, keeping the domestic wheels in motion that there should be no jar in the machinery? Who oiled the creaking door, that set your quivering nerves in a twitter? Who ordered tan to be strewn before the house, that your slumbers might be unbroken by noisy carriage wheels? Who never spoke of weary feet or shooting pains in the side, or chest, as she toiled up and down stairs to satisfy imaginary wants, that 'nobody but wife' could attend to? and who, when you got well and moved about the house just as good as new, choked down the tears, as you poised the half dollar she asked you for, on your forefinger, while you inquired 'how she spent the last one?'