Transcribed from the 1903 Chapman and Hall _Sketches by Boz_ edition by
David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                        SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES


CONTENTS

                                              PAGE
An Urgent Remonstrance, &c.                    447
The Young Couple                               451
The Formal Couple                              455
The Loving Couple                              458
The Contradictory Couple                       463
The Couple Who Dote Upon Their Children        466
The Cool Couple                                471
The Plausible Couple                           474
The Nice Little Couple                         478
The Egotistical Couple                         481
The Couple Who Coddle Themselves               485
The Old Couple                                 489
Conclusion                                     493




An Urgent Remonstrance, &c.


                       TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND,
                      (BEING BACHELORS OR WIDOWERS,)

            THE REMONSTRANCE OF THEIR FAITHFUL FELLOW-SUBJECT,

SHEWETH,—

THAT Her Most Gracious Majesty, Victoria, by the Grace of God of the
United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith,
did, on the 23rd day of November last past, declare and pronounce to Her
Most Honourable Privy Council, Her Majesty’s Most Gracious intention of
entering into the bonds of wedlock.

THAT Her Most Gracious Majesty, in so making known Her Most Gracious
intention to Her Most Honourable Privy Council as aforesaid, did use and
employ the words—‘It is my intention to ally myself in marriage with
Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg and Gotha.’

THAT the present is Bissextile, or Leap Year, in which it is held and
considered lawful for any lady to offer and submit proposals of marriage
to any gentleman, and to enforce and insist upon acceptance of the same,
under pain of a certain fine or penalty; to wit, one silk or satin dress
of the first quality, to be chosen by the lady and paid (or owed) for, by
the gentleman.

THAT these and other the horrors and dangers with which the said
Bissextile, or Leap Year, threatens the gentlemen of England on every
occasion of its periodical return, have been greatly aggravated and
augmented by the terms of Her Majesty’s said Most Gracious communication,
which have filled the heads of divers young ladies in this Realm with
certain new ideas destructive to the peace of mankind, that never entered
their imagination before.

THAT a case has occurred in Camberwell, in which a young lady informed
her Papa that ‘she intended to ally herself in marriage’ with Mr. Smith
of Stepney; and that another, and a very distressing case, has occurred
at Tottenham, in which a young lady not only stated her intention of
allying herself in marriage with her cousin John, but, taking violent
possession of her said cousin, actually married him.

THAT similar outrages are of constant occurrence, not only in the capital
and its neighbourhood, but throughout the kingdom, and that unless the
excited female populace be speedily checked and restrained in their
lawless proceedings, most deplorable results must ensue therefrom; among
which may be anticipated a most alarming increase in the population of
the country, with which no efforts of the agricultural or manufacturing
interest can possibly keep pace.

THAT there is strong reason to suspect the existence of a most extensive
plot, conspiracy, or design, secretly contrived by vast numbers of single
ladies in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and now
extending its ramifications in every quarter of the land; the object and
intent of which plainly appears to be the holding and solemnising of an
enormous and unprecedented number of marriages, on the day on which the
nuptials of Her said Most Gracious Majesty are performed.

THAT such plot, conspiracy, or design, strongly savours of Popery, as
tending to the discomfiture of the Clergy of the Established Church, by
entailing upon them great mental and physical exhaustion; and that such
Popish plots are fomented and encouraged by Her Majesty’s Ministers,
which clearly appears—not only from Her Majesty’s principal Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs traitorously getting married while holding
office under the Crown; but from Mr. O’Connell having been heard to
declare and avow that, if he had a daughter to marry, she should be
married on the same day as Her said Most Gracious Majesty.

THAT such arch plots, conspiracies, and designs, besides being fraught
with danger to the Established Church, and (consequently) to the State,
cannot fail to bring ruin and bankruptcy upon a large class of Her
Majesty’s subjects; as a great and sudden increase in the number of
married men occasioning the comparative desertion (for a time) of
Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, will deprive the
Proprietors of their accustomed profits and returns.  And in further
proof of the depth and baseness of such designs, it may be here observed,
that all proprietors of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and
Gaming-Houses, are (especially the last) solemnly devoted to the
Protestant religion.

FOR all these reasons, and many others of no less gravity and import, an
urgent appeal is made to the gentlemen of England (being bachelors or
widowers) to take immediate steps for convening a Public meeting; To
consider of the best and surest means of averting the dangers with which
they are threatened by the recurrence of Bissextile, or Leap Year, and
the additional sensation created among single ladies by the terms of Her
Majesty’s Most Gracious Declaration; To take measures, without delay, for
resisting the said single Ladies, and counteracting their evil designs;
And to pray Her Majesty to dismiss her present Ministers, and to summon
to her Councils those distinguished Gentlemen in various Honourable
Professions who, by insulting on all occasions the only Lady in England
who can be insulted with safety, have given a sufficient guarantee to Her
Majesty’s Loving Subjects that they, at least, are qualified to make war
with women, and are already expert in the use of those weapons which are
common to the lowest and most abandoned of the sex.




THE YOUNG COUPLE


THERE is to be a wedding this morning at the corner house in the terrace.
The pastry-cook’s people have been there half-a-dozen times already; all
day yesterday there was a great stir and bustle, and they were up this
morning as soon as it was light.  Miss Emma Fielding is going to be
married to young Mr. Harvey.

Heaven alone can tell in what bright colours this marriage is painted
upon the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who has hardly slept
a wink all night with thinking of it, and now stands on the unswept
door-steps leaning upon her broom, and looking wistfully towards the
enchanted house.  Nothing short of omniscience can divine what visions of
the baker, or the green-grocer, or the smart and most insinuating
butterman, are flitting across her mind—what thoughts of how she would
dress on such an occasion, if she were a lady—of how she would dress, if
she were only a bride—of how cook would dress, being bridesmaid,
conjointly with her sister ‘in place’ at Fulham, and how the clergyman,
deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and respectful.  What
day-dreams of hope and happiness—of life being one perpetual holiday,
with no master and no mistress to grant or withhold it—of every Sunday
being a Sunday out—of pure freedom as to curls and ringlets, and no
obligation to hide fine heads of hair in caps—what pictures of happiness,
vast and immense to her, but utterly ridiculous to us, bewilder the brain
of the little housemaid at number six, all called into existence by the
wedding at the corner!

We smile at such things, and so we should, though perhaps for a better
reason than commonly presents itself.  It should be pleasant to us to
know that there are notions of happiness so moderate and limited, since
upon those who entertain them, happiness and lightness of heart are very
easily bestowed.

But the little housemaid is awakened from her reverie, for forth from the
door of the magical corner house there runs towards her, all fluttering
in smart new dress and streaming ribands, her friend Jane Adams, who
comes all out of breath to redeem a solemn promise of taking her in,
under cover of the confusion, to see the breakfast table spread forth in
state, and—sight of sights!—her young mistress ready dressed for church.

And there, in good truth, when they have stolen up-stairs on tip-toe and
edged themselves in at the chamber-door—there is Miss Emma ‘looking like
the sweetest picter,’ in a white chip bonnet and orange flowers, and all
other elegancies becoming a bride, (with the make, shape, and quality of
every article of which the girl is perfectly familiar in one moment, and
never forgets to her dying day)—and there is Miss Emma’s mamma in tears,
and Miss Emma’s papa comforting her, and saying how that of course she
has been long looking forward to this, and how happy she ought to be—and
there too is Miss Emma’s sister with her arms round her neck, and the
other bridesmaid all smiles and tears, quieting the children, who would
cry more but that they are so finely dressed, and yet sob for fear sister
Emma should be taken away—and it is all so affecting, that the two
servant-girls cry more than anybody; and Jane Adams, sitting down upon
the stairs, when they have crept away, declares that her legs tremble so
that she don’t know what to do, and that she will say for Miss Emma, that
she never had a hasty word from her, and that she does hope and pray she
may be happy.

But Jane soon comes round again, and then surely there never was anything
like the breakfast table, glittering with plate and china, and set out
with flowers and sweets, and long-necked bottles, in the most sumptuous
and dazzling manner.  In the centre, too, is the mighty charm, the cake,
glistening with frosted sugar, and garnished beautifully.  They agree
that there ought to be a little Cupid under one of the barley-sugar
temples, or at least two hearts and an arrow; but, with this exception,
there is nothing to wish for, and a table could not be handsomer.  As
they arrive at this conclusion, who should come in but Mr. John! to whom
Jane says that its only Anne from number six; and John says _he_ knows,
for he’s often winked his eye down the area, which causes Anne to blush
and look confused.  She is going away, indeed; when Mr. John will have it
that she must drink a glass of wine, and he says never mind it’s being
early in the morning, it won’t hurt her: so they shut the door and pour
out the wine; and Anne drinking lane’s health, and adding, ‘and here’s
wishing you yours, Mr. John,’ drinks it in a great many sips,—Mr. John
all the time making jokes appropriate to the occasion.  At last Mr. John,
who has waxed bolder by degrees, pleads the usage at weddings, and claims
the privilege of a kiss, which he obtains after a great scuffle; and
footsteps being now heard on the stairs, they disperse suddenly.

By this time a carriage has driven up to convey the bride to church, and
Anne of number six prolonging the process of ‘cleaning her door,’ has the
satisfaction of beholding the bride and bridesmaids, and the papa and
mamma, hurry into the same and drive rapidly off.  Nor is this all, for
soon other carriages begin to arrive with a posse of company all
beautifully dressed, at whom she could stand and gaze for ever; but
having something else to do, is compelled to take one last long look and
shut the street-door.

And now the company have gone down to breakfast, and tears have given
place to smiles, for all the corks are out of the long-necked bottles,
and their contents are disappearing rapidly.  Miss Emma’s papa is at the
top of the table; Miss Emma’s mamma at the bottom; and beside the latter
are Miss Emma herself and her husband,—admitted on all hands to be the
handsomest and most interesting young couple ever known.  All down both
sides of the table, too, are various young ladies, beautiful to see, and
various young gentlemen who seem to think so; and there, in a post of
honour, is an unmarried aunt of Miss Emma’s, reported to possess
unheard-of riches, and to have expressed vast testamentary intentions
respecting her favourite niece and new nephew.  This lady has been very
liberal and generous already, as the jewels worn by the bride abundantly
testify, but that is nothing to what she means to do, or even to what she
has done, for she put herself in close communication with the dressmaker
three months ago, and prepared a wardrobe (with some articles worked by
her own hands) fit for a Princess.  People may call her an old maid, and
so she may be, but she is neither cross nor ugly for all that; on the
contrary, she is very cheerful and pleasant-looking, and very kind and
tender-hearted: which is no matter of surprise except to those who yield
to popular prejudices without thinking why, and will never grow wiser and
never know better.

Of all the company though, none are more pleasant to behold or better
pleased with themselves than two young children, who, in honour of the
day, have seats among the guests.  Of these, one is a little fellow of
six or eight years old, brother to the bride,—and the other a girl of the
same age, or something younger, whom he calls ‘his wife.’  The real bride
and bridegroom are not more devoted than they: he all love and attention,
and she all blushes and fondness, toying with a little bouquet which he
gave her this morning, and placing the scattered rose-leaves in her bosom
with nature’s own coquettishness.  They have dreamt of each other in
their quiet dreams, these children, and their little hearts have been
nearly broken when the absent one has been dispraised in jest.  When will
there come in after-life a passion so earnest, generous, and true as
theirs; what, even in its gentlest realities, can have the grace and
charm that hover round such fairy lovers!

By this time the merriment and happiness of the feast have gained their
height; certain ominous looks begin to be exchanged between the
bridesmaids, and somehow it gets whispered about that the carriage which
is to take the young couple into the country has arrived.  Such members
of the party as are most disposed to prolong its enjoyments, affect to
consider this a false alarm, but it turns out too true, being speedily
confirmed, first by the retirement of the bride and a select file of
intimates who are to prepare her for the journey, and secondly by the
withdrawal of the ladies generally.  To this there ensues a particularly
awkward pause, in which everybody essays to be facetious, and nobody
succeeds; at length the bridegroom makes a mysterious disappearance in
obedience to some equally mysterious signal; and the table is deserted.

Now, for at least six weeks last past it has been solemnly devised and
settled that the young couple should go away in secret; but they no
sooner appear without the door than the drawing-room windows are blocked
up with ladies waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their hands, and
the dining-room panes with gentlemen’s faces beaming farewell in every
queer variety of its expression.  The hall and steps are crowded with
servants in white favours, mixed up with particular friends and relations
who have darted out to say good-bye; and foremost in the group are the
tiny lovers arm in arm, thinking, with fluttering hearts, what happiness
it would be to dash away together in that gallant coach, and never part
again.

The bride has barely time for one hurried glance at her old home, when
the steps rattle, the door slams, the horses clatter on the pavement, and
they have left it far away.

A knot of women servants still remain clustered in the hall, whispering
among themselves, and there of course is Anne from number six, who has
made another escape on some plea or other, and been an admiring witness
of the departure.  There are two points on which Anne expatiates over and
over again, without the smallest appearance of fatigue or intending to
leave off; one is, that she ‘never see in all her life such a—oh such a
angel of a gentleman as Mr. Harvey’—and the other, that she ‘can’t tell
how it is, but it don’t seem a bit like a work-a-day, or a Sunday
neither—it’s all so unsettled and unregular.’

                 [Picture: Departure of the Young Couple]




THE FORMAL COUPLE


THE formal couple are the most prim, cold, immovable, and unsatisfactory
people on the face of the earth.  Their faces, voices, dress, house,
furniture, walk, and manner, are all the essence of formality, unrelieved
by one redeeming touch of frankness, heartiness, or nature.

Everything with the formal couple resolves itself into a matter of form.
They don’t call upon you on your account, but their own; not to see how
you are, but to show how they are: it is not a ceremony to do honour to
you, but to themselves,—not due to your position, but to theirs.  If one
of a friend’s children die, the formal couple are as sure and punctual in
sending to the house as the undertaker; if a friend’s family be
increased, the monthly nurse is not more attentive than they.  The formal
couple, in fact, joyfully seize all occasions of testifying their
good-breeding and precise observance of the little usages of society; and
for you, who are the means to this end, they care as much as a man does
for the tailor who has enabled him to cut a figure, or a woman for the
milliner who has assisted her to a conquest.

Having an extensive connexion among that kind of people who make
acquaintances and eschew friends, the formal gentleman attends from time
to time a great many funerals, to which he is formally invited, and to
which he formally goes, as returning a call for the last time.  Here his
deportment is of the most faultless description; he knows the exact pitch
of voice it is proper to assume, the sombre look he ought to wear, the
melancholy tread which should be his gait for the day.  He is perfectly
acquainted with all the dreary courtesies to be observed in a
mourning-coach; knows when to sigh, and when to hide his nose in the
white handkerchief; and looks into the grave and shakes his head when the
ceremony is concluded, with the sad formality of a mute.

‘What kind of funeral was it?’ says the formal lady, when he returns
home.  ‘Oh!’ replies the formal gentleman, ‘there never was such a gross
and disgusting impropriety; there were no feathers.’  ‘No feathers!’
cries the lady, as if on wings of black feathers dead people fly to
Heaven, and, lacking them, they must of necessity go elsewhere.  Her
husband shakes his head; and further adds, that they had seed-cake
instead of plum-cake, and that it was all white wine.  ‘All white wine!’
exclaims his wife.  ‘Nothing but sherry and madeira,’ says the husband.
‘What! no port?’  ‘Not a drop.’  No port, no plums, and no feathers!
‘You will recollect, my dear,’ says the formal lady, in a voice of
stately reproof, ‘that when we first met this poor man who is now dead
and gone, and he took that very strange course of addressing me at dinner
without being previously introduced, I ventured to express my opinion
that the family were quite ignorant of etiquette, and very imperfectly
acquainted with the decencies of life.  You have now had a good
opportunity of judging for yourself, and all I have to say is, that I
trust you will never go to a funeral _there_ again.’  ‘My dear,’ replies
the formal gentleman, ‘I never will.’  So the informal deceased is cut in
his grave; and the formal couple, when they tell the story of the
funeral, shake their heads, and wonder what some people’s feelings _are_
made of, and what their notions of propriety _can_ be!

If the formal couple have a family (which they sometimes have), they are
not children, but little, pale, sour, sharp-nosed men and women; and so
exquisitely brought up, that they might be very old dwarfs for anything
that appeareth to the contrary.  Indeed, they are so acquainted with
forms and conventionalities, and conduct themselves with such strict
decorum, that to see the little girl break a looking-glass in some wild
outbreak, or the little boy kick his parents, would be to any visitor an
unspeakable relief and consolation.

The formal couple are always sticklers for what is rigidly proper, and
have a great readiness in detecting hidden impropriety of speech or
thought, which by less scrupulous people would be wholly unsuspected.
Thus, if they pay a visit to the theatre, they sit all night in a perfect
agony lest anything improper or immoral should proceed from the stage;
and if anything should happen to be said which admits of a double
construction, they never fail to take it up directly, and to express by
their looks the great outrage which their feelings have sustained.
Perhaps this is their chief reason for absenting themselves almost
entirely from places of public amusement.  They go sometimes to the
Exhibition of the Royal Academy;—but that is often more shocking than the
stage itself, and the formal lady thinks that it really is high time Mr.
Etty was prosecuted and made a public example of.

We made one at a christening party not long since, where there were
amongst the guests a formal couple, who suffered the acutest torture from
certain jokes, incidental to such an occasion, cut—and very likely dried
also—by one of the godfathers; a red-faced elderly gentleman, who, being
highly popular with the rest of the company, had it all his own way, and
was in great spirits.  It was at supper-time that this gentleman came out
in full force.  We—being of a grave and quiet demeanour—had been chosen
to escort the formal lady down-stairs, and, sitting beside her, had a
favourable opportunity of observing her emotions.

We have a shrewd suspicion that, in the very beginning, and in the first
blush—literally the first blush—of the matter, the formal lady had not
felt quite certain whether the being present at such a ceremony, and
encouraging, as it were, the public exhibition of a baby, was not an act
involving some degree of indelicacy and impropriety; but certain we are
that when that baby’s health was drunk, and allusions were made, by a
grey-headed gentleman proposing it, to the time when he had dandled in
his arms the young Christian’s mother,—certain we are that then the
formal lady took the alarm, and recoiled from the old gentleman as from a
hoary profligate.  Still she bore it; she fanned herself with an
indignant air, but still she bore it.  A comic song was sung, involving a
confession from some imaginary gentleman that he had kissed a female, and
yet the formal lady bore it.  But when at last, the health of the
godfather before-mentioned being drunk, the godfather rose to return
thanks, and in the course of his observations darkly hinted at babies yet
unborn, and even contemplated the possibility of the subject of that
festival having brothers and sisters, the formal lady could endure no
more, but, bowing slightly round, and sweeping haughtily past the
offender, left the room in tears, under the protection of the formal
gentleman.




THE LOVING COUPLE


THERE cannot be a better practical illustration of the wise saw and
ancient instance, that there may be too much of a good thing, than is
presented by a loving couple.  Undoubtedly it is meet and proper that two
persons joined together in holy matrimony should be loving, and
unquestionably it is pleasant to know and see that they are so; but there
is a time for all things, and the couple who happen to be always in a
loving state before company, are well-nigh intolerable.

And in taking up this position we would have it distinctly understood
that we do not seek alone the sympathy of bachelors, in whose objection
to loving couples we recognise interested motives and personal
considerations.  We grant that to that unfortunate class of society there
may be something very irritating, tantalising, and provoking, in being
compelled to witness those gentle endearments and chaste interchanges
which to loving couples are quite the ordinary business of life.  But
while we recognise the natural character of the prejudice to which these
unhappy men are subject, we can neither receive their biassed evidence,
nor address ourself to their inflamed and angered minds.  Dispassionate
experience is our only guide; and in these moral essays we seek no less
to reform hymeneal offenders than to hold out a timely warning to all
rising couples, and even to those who have not yet set forth upon their
pilgrimage towards the matrimonial market.

Let all couples, present or to come, therefore profit by the example of
Mr. and Mrs. Leaver, themselves a loving couple in the first degree.

                       [Picture: The Loving Couple]

Mr. and Mrs. Leaver are pronounced by Mrs. Starling, a widow lady who
lost her husband when she was young, and lost herself about the
same-time—for by her own count she has never since grown five years
older—to be a perfect model of wedded felicity.  ‘You would suppose,’
says the romantic lady, ‘that they were lovers only just now engaged.
Never was such happiness!  They are so tender, so affectionate, so
attached to each other, so enamoured, that positively nothing can be more
charming!’

‘Augusta, my soul,’ says Mr. Leaver.  ‘Augustus, my life,’ replies Mrs.
Leaver.  ‘Sing some little ballad, darling,’ quoth Mr. Leaver.  ‘I
couldn’t, indeed, dearest,’ returns Mrs. Leaver.  ‘Do, my dove,’ says Mr.
Leaver.  ‘I couldn’t possibly, my love,’ replies Mrs. Leaver; ‘and it’s
very naughty of you to ask me.’  ‘Naughty, darling!’ cries Mr. Leaver.
‘Yes, very naughty, and very cruel,’ returns Mrs. Leaver, ‘for you know I
have a sore throat, and that to sing would give me great pain.  You’re a
monster, and I hate you.  Go away!’  Mrs. Leaver has said ‘go away,’
because Mr. Leaver has tapped her under the chin: Mr. Leaver not doing as
he is bid, but on the contrary, sitting down beside her, Mrs. Leaver
slaps Mr. Leaver; and Mr. Leaver in return slaps Mrs. Leaver, and it
being now time for all persons present to look the other way, they look
the other way, and hear a still small sound as of kissing, at which Mrs.
Starling is thoroughly enraptured, and whispers her neighbour that if all
married couples were like that, what a heaven this earth would be!

The loving couple are at home when this occurs, and maybe only three or
four friends are present, but, unaccustomed to reserve upon this
interesting point, they are pretty much the same abroad.  Indeed upon
some occasions, such as a pic-nic or a water-party, their lovingness is
even more developed, as we had an opportunity last summer of observing in
person.

There was a great water-party made up to go to Twickenham and dine, and
afterwards dance in an empty villa by the river-side, hired expressly for
the purpose.  Mr. and Mrs. Leaver were of the company; and it was our
fortune to have a seat in the same boat, which was an eight-oared galley,
manned by amateurs, with a blue striped awning of the same pattern as
their Guernsey shirts, and a dingy red flag of the same shade as the
whiskers of the stroke oar.  A coxswain being appointed, and all other
matters adjusted, the eight gentlemen threw themselves into strong
paroxysms, and pulled up with the tide, stimulated by the compassionate
remarks of the ladies, who one and all exclaimed, that it seemed an
immense exertion—as indeed it did.  At first we raced the other boat,
which came alongside in gallant style; but this being found an unpleasant
amusement, as giving rise to a great quantity of splashing, and rendering
the cold pies and other viands very moist, it was unanimously voted down,
and we were suffered to shoot a-head, while the second boat followed
ingloriously in our wake.

It was at this time that we first recognised Mr. Leaver.  There were two
firemen-watermen in the boat, lying by until somebody was exhausted; and
one of them, who had taken upon himself the direction of affairs, was
heard to cry in a gruff voice, ‘Pull away, number two—give it her, number
two—take a longer reach, number two—now, number two, sir, think you’re
winning a boat.’  The greater part of the company had no doubt begun to
wonder which of the striped Guernseys it might be that stood in need of
such encouragement, when a stifled shriek from Mrs. Leaver confirmed the
doubtful and informed the ignorant; and Mr. Leaver, still further
disguised in a straw hat and no neckcloth, was observed to be in a
fearful perspiration, and failing visibly.  Nor was the general
consternation diminished at this instant by the same gentleman (in the
performance of an accidental aquatic feat, termed ‘catching a crab’)
plunging suddenly backward, and displaying nothing of himself to the
company, but two violently struggling legs.  Mrs. Leaver shrieked again
several times, and cried piteously—‘Is he dead?  Tell me the worst.  Is
he dead?’

Now, a moment’s reflection might have convinced the loving wife, that
unless her husband were endowed with some most surprising powers of
muscular action, he never could be dead while he kicked so hard; but
still Mrs. Leaver cried, ‘Is he dead? is he dead?’ and still everybody
else cried—‘No, no, no,’ until such time as Mr. Leaver was replaced in a
sitting posture, and his oar (which had been going through all kinds of
wrong-headed performances on its own account) was once more put in his
hand, by the exertions of the two firemen-watermen.  Mr. Leaver then
exclaimed, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’ and Mr. Leaver said,
‘Augusta, my love, compose yourself, I am not injured.’  But Mrs. Leaver
cried again more piteously than before, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’
and now the company generally, who seemed to be apprehensive that if Mr.
Leaver remained where he was, he might contribute more than his proper
share towards the drowning of the party, disinterestedly took part with
Mrs. Leaver, and said he really ought to go, and that he was not strong
enough for such violent exercise, and ought never to have undertaken it.
Reluctantly, Mr. Leaver went, and laid himself down at Mrs. Leaver’s
feet, and Mrs. Leaver stooping over him, said, ‘Oh Augustus, how could
you terrify me so?’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘Augusta, my sweet, I never
meant to terrify you;’ and Mrs. Leaver said, ‘You are faint, my dear;’
and Mr. Leaver said, ‘I am rather so, my love;’ and they were very loving
indeed under Mrs. Leaver’s veil, until at length Mr. Leaver came forth
again, and pleasantly asked if he had not heard something said about
bottled stout and sandwiches.

Mrs. Starling, who was one of the party, was perfectly delighted with
this scene, and frequently murmured half-aside, ‘What a loving couple you
are!’ or ‘How delightful it is to see man and wife so happy together!’
To us she was quite poetical, (for we are a kind of cousins,) observing
that hearts beating in unison like that made life a paradise of sweets;
and that when kindred creatures were drawn together by sympathies so fine
and delicate, what more than mortal happiness did not our souls partake!
To all this we answered ‘Certainly,’ or ‘Very true,’ or merely sighed, as
the case might be.  At every new act of the loving couple, the widow’s
admiration broke out afresh; and when Mrs. Leaver would not permit Mr.
Leaver to keep his hat off, lest the sun should strike to his head, and
give him a brain fever, Mrs. Starling actually shed tears, and said it
reminded her of Adam and Eve.

The loving couple were thus loving all the way to Twickenham, but when we
arrived there (by which time the amateur crew looked very thirsty and
vicious) they were more playful than ever, for Mrs. Leaver threw stones
at Mr. Leaver, and Mr. Leaver ran after Mrs. Leaver on the grass, in a
most innocent and enchanting manner.  At dinner, too, Mr. Leaver _would_
steal Mrs. Leaver’s tongue, and Mrs. Leaver _would_ retaliate upon Mr.
Leaver’s fowl; and when Mrs. Leaver was going to take some lobster salad,
Mr. Leaver wouldn’t let her have any, saying that it made her ill, and
she was always sorry for it afterwards, which afforded Mrs. Leaver an
opportunity of pretending to be cross, and showing many other
prettinesses.  But this was merely the smiling surface of their loves,
not the mighty depths of the stream, down to which the company, to say
the truth, dived rather unexpectedly, from the following accident.  It
chanced that Mr. Leaver took upon himself to propose the bachelors who
had first originated the notion of that entertainment, in doing which, he
affected to regret that he was no longer of their body himself, and
pretended grievously to lament his fallen state.  This Mrs. Leaver’s
feelings could not brook, even in jest, and consequently, exclaiming
aloud, ‘He loves me not, he loves me not!’ she fell in a very pitiable
state into the arms of Mrs. Starling, and, directly becoming insensible,
was conveyed by that lady and her husband into another room.  Presently
Mr. Leaver came running back to know if there was a medical gentleman in
company, and as there was, (in what company is there not?) both Mr.
Leaver and the medical gentleman hurried away together.

The medical gentleman was the first who returned, and among his intimate
friends he was observed to laugh and wink, and look as unmedical as might
be; but when Mr. Leaver came back he was very solemn, and in answer to
all inquiries, shook his head, and remarked that Augusta was far too
sensitive to be trifled with—an opinion which the widow subsequently
confirmed.  Finding that she was in no imminent peril, however, the rest
of the party betook themselves to dancing on the green, and very merry
and happy they were, and a vast quantity of flirtation there was; the
last circumstance being no doubt attributable, partly to the fineness of
the weather, and partly to the locality, which is well known to be
favourable to all harmless recreations.

In the bustle of the scene, Mr. and Mrs. Leaver stole down to the boat,
and disposed themselves under the awning, Mrs. Leaver reclining her head
upon Mr. Leaver’s shoulder, and Mr. Leaver grasping her hand with great
fervour, and looking in her face from time to time with a melancholy and
sympathetic aspect.  The widow sat apart, feigning to be occupied with a
book, but stealthily observing them from behind her fan; and the two
firemen-watermen, smoking their pipes on the bank hard by, nudged each
other, and grinned in enjoyment of the joke.  Very few of the party
missed the loving couple; and the few who did, heartily congratulated
each other on their disappearance.




THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE


ONE would suppose that two people who are to pass their whole lives
together, and must necessarily be very often alone with each other, could
find little pleasure in mutual contradiction; and yet what is more common
than a contradictory couple?

The contradictory couple agree in nothing but contradiction.  They return
home from Mrs. Bluebottle’s dinner-party, each in an opposite corner of
the coach, and do not exchange a syllable until they have been seated for
at least twenty minutes by the fireside at home, when the gentleman,
raising his eyes from the stove, all at once breaks silence:

‘What a very extraordinary thing it is,’ says he, ‘that you _will_
contradict, Charlotte!’  ‘_I_ contradict!’ cries the lady, ‘but that’s
just like you.’  ‘What’s like me?’ says the gentleman sharply.  ‘Saying
that I contradict you,’ replies the lady.  ‘Do you mean to say that you
do _not_ contradict me?’ retorts the gentleman; ‘do you mean to say that
you have not been contradicting me the whole of this day?’  ‘Do you mean
to tell me now, that you have not?  I mean to tell you nothing of the
kind,’ replies the lady quietly; ‘when you are wrong, of course I shall
contradict you.’

During this dialogue the gentleman has been taking his brandy-and-water
on one side of the fire, and the lady, with her dressing-case on the
table, has been curling her hair on the other.  She now lets down her
back hair, and proceeds to brush it; preserving at the same time an air
of conscious rectitude and suffering virtue, which is intended to
exasperate the gentleman—and does so.

‘I do believe,’ he says, taking the spoon out of his glass, and tossing
it on the table, ‘that of all the obstinate, positive, wrong-headed
creatures that were ever born, you are the most so, Charlotte.’
‘Certainly, certainly, have it your own way, pray.  You see how much _I_
contradict you,’ rejoins the lady.  ‘Of course, you didn’t contradict me
at dinner-time—oh no, not you!’ says the gentleman.  ‘Yes, I did,’ says
the lady.  ‘Oh, you did,’ cries the gentleman ‘you admit that?’  ‘If you
call that contradiction, I do,’ the lady answers; ‘and I say again,
Edward, that when I know you are wrong, I will contradict you.  I am not
your slave.’  ‘Not my slave!’ repeats the gentleman bitterly; ‘and you
still mean to say that in the Blackburns’ new house there are not more
than fourteen doors, including the door of the wine-cellar!’  ‘I mean to
say,’ retorts the lady, beating time with her hair-brush on the palm of
her hand, ‘that in that house there are fourteen doors and no more.’
‘Well then—’ cries the gentleman, rising in despair, and pacing the room
with rapid strides.  ‘By G-, this is enough to destroy a man’s intellect,
and drive him mad!’

By and by the gentleman comes-to a little, and passing his hand gloomily
across his forehead, reseats himself in his former chair.  There is a
long silence, and this time the lady begins.  ‘I appealed to Mr. Jenkins,
who sat next to me on the sofa in the drawing-room during tea—’  ‘Morgan,
you mean,’ interrupts the gentleman.  ‘I do not mean anything of the
kind,’ answers the lady.  ‘Now, by all that is aggravating and impossible
to bear,’ cries the gentleman, clenching his hands and looking upwards in
agony, ‘she is going to insist upon it that Morgan is Jenkins!’  ‘Do you
take me for a perfect fool?’ exclaims the lady; ‘do you suppose I don’t
know the one from the other?  Do you suppose I don’t know that the man in
the blue coat was Mr. Jenkins?’  ‘Jenkins in a blue coat!’ cries the
gentleman with a groan; ‘Jenkins in a blue coat! a man who would suffer
death rather than wear anything but brown!’  ‘Do you dare to charge me
with telling an untruth?’ demands the lady, bursting into tears.  ‘I
charge you, ma’am,’ retorts the gentleman, starting up, ‘with being a
monster of contradiction, a monster of aggravation, a—a—a—Jenkins in a
blue coat!—what have I done that I should be doomed to hear such
statements!’

Expressing himself with great scorn and anguish, the gentleman takes up
his candle and stalks off to bed, where feigning to be fast asleep when
the lady comes up-stairs drowned in tears, murmuring lamentations over
her hard fate and indistinct intentions of consulting her brothers, he
undergoes the secret torture of hearing her exclaim between whiles, ‘I
know there are only fourteen doors in the house, I know it was Mr.
Jenkins, I know he had a blue coat on, and I would say it as positively
as I do now, if they were the last words I had to speak!’

If the contradictory couple are blessed with children, they are not the
less contradictory on that account.  Master James and Miss Charlotte
present themselves after dinner, and being in perfect good humour, and
finding their parents in the same amiable state, augur from these
appearances half a glass of wine a-piece and other extraordinary
indulgences.  But unfortunately Master James, growing talkative upon such
prospects, asks his mamma how tall Mrs. Parsons is, and whether she is
not six feet high; to which his mamma replies, ‘Yes, she should think she
was, for Mrs. Parsons is a very tall lady indeed; quite a giantess.’
‘For Heaven’s sake, Charlotte,’ cries her husband, ‘do not tell the child
such preposterous nonsense.  Six feet high!’  ‘Well,’ replies the lady,
‘surely I may be permitted to have an opinion; my opinion is, that she is
six feet high—at least six feet.’  ‘Now you know, Charlotte,’ retorts the
gentleman sternly, ‘that that is _not_ your opinion—that you have no such
idea—and that you only say this for the sake of contradiction.’  ‘You are
exceedingly polite,’ his wife replies; ‘to be wrong about such a paltry
question as anybody’s height, would be no great crime; but I say again,
that I believe Mrs. Parsons to be six feet—more than six feet; nay, I
believe you know her to be full six feet, and only say she is not,
because I say she is.’  This taunt disposes the gentleman to become
violent, but he cheeks himself, and is content to mutter, in a haughty
tone, ‘Six feet—ha! ha!  Mrs. Parsons six feet!’ and the lady answers,
‘Yes, six feet.  I am sure I am glad you are amused, and I’ll say it
again—six feet.’  Thus the subject gradually drops off, and the
contradiction begins to be forgotten, when Master James, with some
undefined notion of making himself agreeable, and putting things to
rights again, unfortunately asks his mamma what the moon’s made of; which
gives her occasion to say that he had better not ask her, for she is
always wrong and never can be right; that he only exposes her to
contradiction by asking any question of her; and that he had better ask
his papa, who is infallible, and never can be wrong.  Papa, smarting
under this attack, gives a terrible pull at the bell, and says, that if
the conversation is to proceed in this way, the children had better be
removed.  Removed they are, after a few tears and many struggles; and Pa
having looked at Ma sideways for a minute or two, with a baleful eye,
draws his pocket-handkerchief over his face, and composes himself for his
after-dinner nap.

The friends of the contradictory couple often deplore their frequent
disputes, though they rather make light of them at the same time:
observing, that there is no doubt they are very much attached to each
other, and that they never quarrel except about trifles.  But neither the
friends of the contradictory couple, nor the contradictory couple
themselves, reflect, that as the most stupendous objects in nature are
but vast collections of minute particles, so the slightest and least
considered trifles make up the sum of human happiness or misery.




THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN


THE couple who dote upon their children have usually a great many of
them: six or eight at least.  The children are either the healthiest in
all the world, or the most unfortunate in existence.  In either case,
they are equally the theme of their doting parents, and equally a source
of mental anguish and irritation to their doting parents’ friends.

The couple who dote upon their children recognise no dates but those
connected with their births, accidents, illnesses, or remarkable deeds.
They keep a mental almanack with a vast number of Innocents’-days, all in
red letters.  They recollect the last coronation, because on that day
little Tom fell down the kitchen stairs; the anniversary of the Gunpowder
Plot, because it was on the fifth of November that Ned asked whether
wooden legs were made in heaven and cocked hats grew in gardens.  Mrs.
Whiffler will never cease to recollect the last day of the old year as
long as she lives, for it was on that day that the baby had the four red
spots on its nose which they took for measles: nor Christmas-day, for
twenty-one days after Christmas-day the twins were born; nor Good Friday,
for it was on a Good Friday that she was frightened by the donkey-cart
when she was in the family way with Georgiana.  The movable feasts have
no motion for Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler, but remain pinned down tight and
fast to the shoulders of some small child, from whom they can never be
separated any more.  Time was made, according to their creed, not for
slaves but for girls and boys; the restless sands in his glass are but
little children at play.

            [Picture: The Couple who Dote upon their Children]

As we have already intimated, the children of this couple can know no
medium.  They are either prodigies of good health or prodigies of bad
health; whatever they are, they must be prodigies.  Mr. Whiffler must
have to describe at his office such excruciating agonies constantly
undergone by his eldest boy, as nobody else’s eldest boy ever underwent;
or he must be able to declare that there never was a child endowed with
such amazing health, such an indomitable constitution, and such a
cast-iron frame, as his child.  His children must be, in some respect or
other, above and beyond the children of all other people.  To such an
extent is this feeling pushed, that we were once slightly acquainted with
a lady and gentleman who carried their heads so high and became so proud
after their youngest child fell out of a two-pair-of-stairs window
without hurting himself much, that the greater part of their friends were
obliged to forego their acquaintance.  But perhaps this may be an extreme
case, and one not justly entitled to be considered as a precedent of
general application.

If a friend happen to dine in a friendly way with one of these couples
who dote upon their children, it is nearly impossible for him to divert
the conversation from their favourite topic.  Everything reminds Mr.
Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary Anne, or of the time before Ned
was born, or the time before Mary Anne was thought of.  The slightest
remark, however harmless in itself, will awaken slumbering recollections
of the twins.  It is impossible to steer clear of them.  They will come
uppermost, let the poor man do what he may.  Ned has been known to be
lost sight of for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten, the name of Mary
Anne has not been mentioned, but the twins will out.  Nothing can keep
down the twins.

‘It’s a very extraordinary thing, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler to the
visitor, ‘but—you have seen our little babies, the—the—twins?’  The
friend’s heart sinks within him as he answers, ‘Oh, yes—often.’  ‘Your
talking of the Pyramids,’ says Mr. Whiffler, quite as a matter of course,
‘reminds me of the twins.  It’s a very extraordinary thing about those
babies—what colour should you say their eyes were?’  ‘Upon my word,’ the
friend stammers, ‘I hardly know how to answer’—the fact being, that
except as the friend does not remember to have heard of any departure
from the ordinary course of nature in the instance of these twins, they
might have no eyes at all for aught he has observed to the contrary.
‘You wouldn’t say they were red, I suppose?’ says Mr. Whiffler.  The
friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but inferring from the
expression of Mr. Whiffler’s face that red is not the colour, smiles with
some confidence, and says, ‘No, no! very different from that.’  ‘What
should you say to blue?’ says Mr. Whiffler.  The friend glances at him,
and observing a different expression in his face, ventures to say, ‘I
should say they _were_ blue—a decided blue.’  ‘To be sure!’ cries Mr.
Whiffler, triumphantly, ‘I knew you would!  But what should you say if I
was to tell you that the boy’s eyes are blue and the girl’s hazel, eh?’
‘Impossible!’ exclaims the friend, not at all knowing why it should be
impossible.  ‘A fact, notwithstanding,’ cries Mr. Whiffler; ‘and let me
tell you, Saunders, _that’s_ not a common thing in twins, or a
circumstance that’ll happen every day.’

In this dialogue Mrs. Whiffler, as being deeply responsible for the
twins, their charms and singularities, has taken no share; but she now
relates, in broken English, a witticism of little Dick’s bearing upon the
subject just discussed, which delights Mr. Whiffler beyond measure, and
causes him to declare that he would have sworn that was Dick’s if he had
heard it anywhere.  Then he requests that Mrs. Whiffler will tell
Saunders what Tom said about mad bulls; and Mrs. Whiffler relating the
anecdote, a discussion ensues upon the different character of Tom’s wit
and Dick’s wit, from which it appears that Dick’s humour is of a lively
turn, while Tom’s style is the dry and caustic.  This discussion being
enlivened by various illustrations, lasts a long time, and is only
stopped by Mrs. Whiffler instructing the footman to ring the nursery
bell, as the children were promised that they should come down and taste
the pudding.

The friend turns pale when this order is given, and paler still when it
is followed up by a great pattering on the staircase, (not unlike the
sound of rain upon a skylight,) a violent bursting open of the
dining-room door, and the tumultuous appearance of six small children,
closely succeeded by a strong nursery-maid with a twin in each arm.  As
the whole eight are screaming, shouting, or kicking—some influenced by a
ravenous appetite, some by a horror of the stranger, and some by a
conflict of the two feelings—a pretty long space elapses before all their
heads can be ranged round the table and anything like order restored; in
bringing about which happy state of things both the nurse and footman are
severely scratched.  At length Mrs. Whiffler is heard to say, ‘Mr.
Saunders, shall I give you some pudding?’  A breathless silence ensues,
and sixteen small eyes are fixed upon the guest in expectation of his
reply.  A wild shout of joy proclaims that he has said ‘No, thank you.’
Spoons are waved in the air, legs appear above the table-cloth in
uncontrollable ecstasy, and eighty short fingers dabble in damson syrup.

While the pudding is being disposed of, Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler look on
with beaming countenances, and Mr. Whiffler nudging his friend Saunders,
begs him to take notice of Tom’s eyes, or Dick’s chin, or Ned’s nose, or
Mary Anne’s hair, or Emily’s figure, or little Bob’s calves, or Fanny’s
mouth, or Carry’s head, as the case may be.  Whatever the attention of
Mr. Saunders is called to, Mr. Saunders admires of course; though he is
rather confused about the sex of the youngest branches and looks at the
wrong children, turning to a girl when Mr. Whiffler directs his attention
to a boy, and falling into raptures with a boy when he ought to be
enchanted with a girl.  Then the dessert comes, and there is a vast deal
of scrambling after fruit, and sudden spirting forth of juice out of
tight oranges into infant eyes, and much screeching and wailing in
consequence.  At length it becomes time for Mrs. Whiffler to retire, and
all the children are by force of arms compelled to kiss and love Mr.
Saunders before going up-stairs, except Tom, who, lying on his back in
the hall, proclaims that Mr. Saunders ‘is a naughty beast;’ and Dick, who
having drunk his father’s wine when he was looking another way, is found
to be intoxicated and is carried out, very limp and helpless.

Mr. Whiffler and his friend are left alone together, but Mr. Whiffler’s
thoughts are still with his family, if his family are not with him.
‘Saunders,’ says he, after a short silence, ‘if you please, we’ll drink
Mrs. Whiffler and the children.’  Mr. Saunders feels this to be a
reproach against himself for not proposing the same sentiment, and drinks
it in some confusion.  ‘Ah!’ Mr. Whiffler sighs, ‘these children,
Saunders, make one quite an old man.’  Mr. Saunders thinks that if they
were his, they would make him a very old man; but he says nothing.  ‘And
yet,’ pursues Mr. Whiffler, ‘what can equal domestic happiness? what can
equal the engaging ways of children!  Saunders, why don’t you get
married?’  Now, this is an embarrassing question, because Mr. Saunders
has been thinking that if he had at any time entertained matrimonial
designs, the revelation of that day would surely have routed them for
ever.  ‘I am glad, however,’ says Mr. Whiffler, ‘that you _are_ a
bachelor,—glad on one account, Saunders; a selfish one, I admit.  Will
you do Mrs. Whiffler and myself a favour?’  Mr. Saunders is
surprised—evidently surprised; but he replies, ‘with the greatest
pleasure.’  ‘Then, will you, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler, in an
impressive manner, ‘will you cement and consolidate our friendship by
coming into the family (so to speak) as a godfather?’  ‘I shall be proud
and delighted,’ replies Mr. Saunders: ‘which of the children is it?
really, I thought they were all christened; or—’  ‘Saunders,’ Mr.
Whiffler interposes, ‘they _are_ all christened; you are right.  The fact
is, that Mrs. Whiffler is—in short, we expect another.’  ‘Not a ninth!’
cries the friend, all aghast at the idea.  ‘Yes, Saunders,’ rejoins Mr.
Whiffler, solemnly, ‘a ninth.  Did we drink Mrs. Whiffler’s health?  Let
us drink it again, Saunders, and wish her well over it!’

Doctor Johnson used to tell a story of a man who had but one idea, which
was a wrong one.  The couple who dote upon their children are in the same
predicament: at home or abroad, at all times, and in all places, their
thoughts are bound up in this one subject, and have no sphere beyond.
They relate the clever things their offspring say or do, and weary every
company with their prolixity and absurdity.  Mr. Whiffler takes a friend
by the button at a street corner on a windy day to tell him a _bon mot_
of his youngest boy’s; and Mrs. Whiffler, calling to see a sick
acquaintance, entertains her with a cheerful account of all her own past
sufferings and present expectations.  In such cases the sins of the
fathers indeed descend upon the children; for people soon come to regard
them as predestined little bores.  The couple who dote upon their
children cannot be said to be actuated by a general love for these
engaging little people (which would be a great excuse); for they are apt
to underrate and entertain a jealousy of any children but their own.  If
they examined their own hearts, they would, perhaps, find at the bottom
of all this, more self-love and egotism than they think of.  Self-love
and egotism are bad qualities, of which the unrestrained exhibition,
though it may be sometimes amusing, never fails to be wearisome and
unpleasant.  Couples who dote upon their children, therefore, are best
avoided.




THE COOL COUPLE


THERE is an old-fashioned weather-glass representing a house with two
doorways, in one of which is the figure of a gentleman, in the other the
figure of a lady.  When the weather is to be fine the lady comes out and
the gentleman goes in; when wet, the gentleman comes out and the lady
goes in.  They never seek each other’s society, are never elevated and
depressed by the same cause, and have nothing in common.  They are the
model of a cool couple, except that there is something of politeness and
consideration about the behaviour of the gentleman in the weather-glass,
in which, neither of the cool couple can be said to participate.

The cool couple are seldom alone together, and when they are, nothing can
exceed their apathy and dulness: the gentleman being for the most part
drowsy, and the lady silent.  If they enter into conversation, it is
usually of an ironical or recriminatory nature.  Thus, when the gentleman
has indulged in a very long yawn and settled himself more snugly in his
easy-chair, the lady will perhaps remark, ‘Well, I am sure, Charles!  I
hope you’re comfortable.’  To which the gentleman replies, ‘Oh yes, he’s
quite comfortable quite.’  ‘There are not many married men, I hope,’
returns the lady, ‘who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as you
do.’  ‘Nor many wives who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as
_you_ do, I hope,’ retorts the gentleman.  ‘Whose fault is that?’ demands
the lady.  The gentleman becoming more sleepy, returns no answer.  ‘Whose
fault is that?’ the lady repeats.  The gentleman still returning no
answer, she goes on to say that she believes there never was in all this
world anybody so attached to her home, so thoroughly domestic, so
unwilling to seek a moment’s gratification or pleasure beyond her own
fireside as she.  God knows that before she was married she never thought
or dreamt of such a thing; and she remembers that her poor papa used to
say again and again, almost every day of his life, ‘Oh, my dear Louisa,
if you only marry a man who understands you, and takes the trouble to
consider your happiness and accommodate himself a very little to your
disposition, what a treasure he will find in you!’  She supposes her papa
knew what her disposition was—he had known her long enough—he ought to
have been acquainted with it, but what can she do?  If her home is always
dull and lonely, and her husband is always absent and finds no pleasure
in her society, she is naturally sometimes driven (seldom enough, she is
sure) to seek a little recreation elsewhere; she is not expected to pine
and mope to death, she hopes.  ‘Then come, Louisa,’ says the gentleman,
waking up as suddenly as he fell asleep, ‘stop at home this evening, and
so will I.’  ‘I should be sorry to suppose, Charles, that you took a
pleasure in aggravating me,’ replies the lady; ‘but you know as well as I
do that I am particularly engaged to Mrs. Mortimer, and that it would be
an act of the grossest rudeness and ill-breeding, after accepting a seat
in her box and preventing her from inviting anybody else, not to go.’
‘Ah! there it is!’ says the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I knew
that perfectly well.  I knew you couldn’t devote an evening to your own
home.  Now all I have to say, Louisa, is this—recollect that _I_ was
quite willing to stay at home, and that it’s no fault of _mine_ we are
not oftener together.’

With that the gentleman goes away to keep an old appointment at his club,
and the lady hurries off to dress for Mrs. Mortimer’s; and neither thinks
of the other until by some odd chance they find themselves alone again.

But it must not be supposed that the cool couple are habitually a
quarrelsome one.  Quite the contrary.  These differences are only
occasions for a little self-excuse,—nothing more.  In general they are as
easy and careless, and dispute as seldom, as any common acquaintances
may; for it is neither worth their while to put each other out of the
way, nor to ruffle themselves.

When they meet in society, the cool couple are the best-bred people in
existence.  The lady is seated in a corner among a little knot of lady
friends, one of whom exclaims, ‘Why, I vow and declare there is your
husband, my dear!’  ‘Whose?—mine?’ she says, carelessly.  ‘Ay, yours, and
coming this way too.’  ‘How very odd!’ says the lady, in a languid tone,
‘I thought he had been at Dover.’  The gentleman coming up, and speaking
to all the other ladies and nodding slightly to his wife, it turns out
that he has been at Dover, and has just now returned.  ‘What a strange
creature you are!’ cries his wife; ‘and what on earth brought you here, I
wonder?’  ‘I came to look after you, _of course_,’ rejoins her husband.
This is so pleasant a jest that the lady is mightily amused, as are all
the other ladies similarly situated who are within hearing; and while
they are enjoying it to the full, the gentleman nods again, turns upon
his heel, and saunters away.

There are times, however, when his company is not so agreeable, though
equally unexpected; such as when the lady has invited one or two
particular friends to tea and scandal, and he happens to come home in the
very midst of their diversion.  It is a hundred chances to one that he
remains in the house half an hour, but the lady is rather disturbed by
the intrusion, notwithstanding, and reasons within herself,—‘I am sure I
never interfere with him, and why should he interfere with me?  It can
scarcely be accidental; it never happens that I have a particular reason
for not wishing him to come home, but he always comes.  It’s very
provoking and tiresome; and I am sure when he leaves me so much alone for
his own pleasure, the least he could do would be to do as much for mine.’
Observing what passes in her mind, the gentleman, who has come home for
his own accommodation, makes a merit of it with himself; arrives at the
conclusion that it is the very last place in which he can hope to be
comfortable; and determines, as he takes up his hat and cane, never to be
so virtuous again.

Thus a great many cool couples go on until they are cold couples, and the
grave has closed over their folly and indifference.  Loss of name,
station, character, life itself, has ensued from causes as slight as
these, before now; and when gossips tell such tales, and aggravate their
deformities, they elevate their hands and eyebrows, and call each other
to witness what a cool couple Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so always were, even in
the best of times.




THE PLAUSIBLE COUPLE


THE plausible couple have many titles.  They are ‘a delightful couple,’
an ‘affectionate couple,’ ‘a most agreeable couple, ‘a good-hearted
couple,’ and ‘the best-natured couple in existence.’  The truth is, that
the plausible couple are people of the world; and either the way of
pleasing the world has grown much easier than it was in the days of the
old man and his ass, or the old man was but a bad hand at it, and knew
very little of the trade.

‘But is it really possible to please the world!’ says some doubting
reader.  It is indeed.  Nay, it is not only very possible, but very easy.
The ways are crooked, and sometimes foul and low.  What then?  A man need
but crawl upon his hands and knees, know when to close his eyes and when
his ears, when to stoop and when to stand upright; and if by the world is
meant that atom of it in which he moves himself, he shall please it,
never fear.

Now, it will be readily seen, that if a plausible man or woman have an
easy means of pleasing the world by an adaptation of self to all its
twistings and twinings, a plausible man _and_ woman, or, in other words,
a plausible couple, playing into each other’s hands, and acting in
concert, have a manifest advantage.  Hence it is that plausible couples
scarcely ever fail of success on a pretty large scale; and hence it is
that if the reader, laying down this unwieldy volume at the next full
stop, will have the goodness to review his or her circle of acquaintance,
and to search particularly for some man and wife with a large connexion
and a good name, not easily referable to their abilities or their wealth,
he or she (that is, the male or female reader) will certainly find that
gentleman or lady, on a very short reflection, to be a plausible couple.

The plausible couple are the most ecstatic people living: the most
sensitive people—to merit—on the face of the earth.  Nothing clever or
virtuous escapes them.  They have microscopic eyes for such endowments,
and can find them anywhere.  The plausible couple never fawn—oh no!  They
don’t even scruple to tell their friends of their faults.  One is too
generous, another too candid; a third has a tendency to think all people
like himself, and to regard mankind as a company of angels; a fourth is
kind-hearted to a fault.  ‘We never flatter, my dear Mrs. Jackson,’ say
the plausible couple; ‘we speak our minds.  Neither you nor Mr. Jackson
have faults enough.  It may sound strangely, but it is true.  You have
not faults enough.  You know our way,—we must speak out, and always do.
Quarrel with us for saying so, if you will; but we repeat it,—you have
not faults enough!’

The plausible couple are no less plausible to each other than to third
parties.  They are always loving and harmonious.  The plausible gentleman
calls his wife ‘darling,’ and the plausible lady addresses him as
‘dearest.’  If it be Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger, Mrs. Widger is
‘Lavinia, darling,’ and Mr. Widger is ‘Bobtail, dearest.’  Speaking of
each other, they observe the same tender form.  Mrs. Widger relates what
‘Bobtail’ said, and Mr. Widger recounts what ‘darling’ thought and did.

If you sit next to the plausible lady at a dinner-table, she takes the
earliest opportunity of expressing her belief that you are acquainted
with the Clickits; she is sure she has heard the Clickits speak of
you—she must not tell you in what terms, or you will take her for a
flatterer.  You admit a knowledge of the Clickits; the plausible lady
immediately launches out in their praise.  She quite loves the Clickits.
Were there ever such true-hearted, hospitable, excellent people—such a
gentle, interesting little woman as Mrs. Clickit, or such a frank,
unaffected creature as Mr. Clickit? were there ever two people, in short,
so little spoiled by the world as they are?  ‘As who, darling?’ cries Mr.
Widger, from the opposite side of the table.  ‘The Clickits, dearest,’
replies Mrs. Widger.  ‘Indeed you are right, darling,’ Mr. Widger
rejoins; ‘the Clickits are a very high-minded, worthy, estimable couple.’
Mrs. Widger remarking that Bobtail always grows quite eloquent upon this
subject, Mr. Widger admits that he feels very strongly whenever such
people as the Clickits and some other friends of his (here he glances at
the host and hostess) are mentioned; for they are an honour to human
nature, and do one good to think of.  ‘_You_ know the Clickits, Mrs.
Jackson?’ he says, addressing the lady of the house.  ‘No, indeed; we
have not that pleasure,’ she replies.  ‘You astonish me!’ exclaims Mr.
Widger: ‘not know the Clickits! why, you are the very people of all
others who ought to be their bosom friends.  You are kindred beings; you
are one and the same thing:—not know the Clickits!  Now _will_ you know
the Clickits?  Will you make a point of knowing them?  Will you meet them
in a friendly way at our house one evening, and be acquainted with them?’
Mrs. Jackson will be quite delighted; nothing would give her more
pleasure.  ‘Then, Lavinia, my darling,’ says Mr. Widger, ‘mind you don’t
lose sight of that; now, pray take care that Mr. and Mrs. Jackson know
the Clickits without loss of time.  Such people ought not to be strangers
to each other.’  Mrs. Widger books both families as the centre of
attraction for her next party; and Mr. Widger, going on to expatiate upon
the virtues of the Clickits, adds to their other moral qualities, that
they keep one of the neatest phaetons in town, and have two thousand a
year.

As the plausible couple never laud the merits of any absent person,
without dexterously contriving that their praises shall reflect upon
somebody who is present, so they never depreciate anything or anybody,
without turning their depreciation to the same account.  Their friend,
Mr. Slummery, say they, is unquestionably a clever painter, and would no
doubt be very popular, and sell his pictures at a very high price, if
that cruel Mr. Fithers had not forestalled him in his department of art,
and made it thoroughly and completely his own;—Fithers, it is to be
observed, being present and within hearing, and Slummery elsewhere.  Is
Mrs. Tabblewick really as beautiful as people say?  Why, there indeed you
ask them a very puzzling question, because there is no doubt that she is
a very charming woman, and they have long known her intimately.  She is
no doubt beautiful, very beautiful; they once thought her the most
beautiful woman ever seen; still if you press them for an honest answer,
they are bound to say that this was before they had ever seen our lovely
friend on the sofa, (the sofa is hard by, and our lovely friend can’t
help hearing the whispers in which this is said;) since that time,
perhaps, they have been hardly fair judges; Mrs. Tabblewick is no doubt
extremely handsome,—very like our friend, in fact, in the form of the
features,—but in point of expression, and soul, and figure, and air
altogether—oh dear!

But while the plausible couple depreciate, they are still careful to
preserve their character for amiability and kind feeling; indeed the
depreciation itself is often made to grow out of their excessive sympathy
and good will.  The plausible lady calls on a lady who dotes upon her
children, and is sitting with a little girl upon her knee, enraptured by
her artless replies, and protesting that there is nothing she delights in
so much as conversing with these fairies; when the other lady inquires if
she has seen young Mrs. Finching lately, and whether the baby has turned
out a finer one than it promised to be.  ‘Oh dear!’ cries the plausible
lady, ‘you cannot think how often Bobtail and I have talked about poor
Mrs. Finching—she is such a dear soul, and was so anxious that the baby
should be a fine child—and very naturally, because she was very much here
at one time, and there is, you know, a natural emulation among
mothers—that it is impossible to tell you how much we have felt for her.’
‘Is it weak or plain, or what?’ inquires the other.  ‘Weak or plain, my
love,’ returns the plausible lady, ‘it’s a fright—a perfect little
fright; you never saw such a miserable creature in all your days.
Positively you must not let her see one of these beautiful dears again,
or you’ll break her heart, you will indeed.—Heaven bless this child, see
how she is looking in my face! can you conceive anything prettier than
that?  If poor Mrs. Finching could only hope—but that’s impossible—and
the gifts of Providence, you know—What _did_ I do with my
pocket-handkerchief!’

What prompts the mother, who dotes upon her children, to comment to her
lord that evening on the plausible lady’s engaging qualities and feeling
heart, and what is it that procures Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger an
immediate invitation to dinner?




THE NICE LITTLE COUPLE


A CUSTOM once prevailed in old-fashioned circles, that when a lady or
gentleman was unable to sing a song, he or she should enliven the company
with a story.  As we find ourself in the predicament of not being able to
describe (to our own satisfaction) nice little couples in the abstract,
we purpose telling in this place a little story about a nice little
couple of our acquaintance.

Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup are the nice little couple in question.  Mr. Chirrup
has the smartness, and something of the brisk, quick manner of a small
bird.  Mrs. Chirrup is the prettiest of all little women, and has the
prettiest little figure conceivable.  She has the neatest little foot,
and the softest little voice, and the pleasantest little smile, and the
tidiest little curls, and the brightest little eyes, and the quietest
little manner, and is, in short, altogether one of the most engaging of
all little women, dead or alive.  She is a condensation of all the
domestic virtues,—a pocket edition of the young man’s best companion,—a
little woman at a very high pressure, with an amazing quantity of
goodness and usefulness in an exceedingly small space.  Little as she is,
Mrs. Chirrup might furnish forth matter for the moral equipment of a
score of housewives, six feet high in their stockings—if, in the presence
of ladies, we may be allowed the expression—and of corresponding
robustness.

                    [Picture: The Nice Little Couple]

Nobody knows all this better than Mr. Chirrup, though he rather takes on
that he don’t.  Accordingly he is very proud of his better-half, and
evidently considers himself, as all other people consider him, rather
fortunate in having her to wife.  We say evidently, because Mr. Chirrup
is a warm-hearted little fellow; and if you catch his eye when he has
been slyly glancing at Mrs. Chirrup in company, there is a certain
complacent twinkle in it, accompanied, perhaps, by a half-expressed toss
of the head, which as clearly indicates what has been passing in his mind
as if he had put it into words, and shouted it out through a
speaking-trumpet.  Moreover, Mr. Chirrup has a particularly mild and
bird-like manner of calling Mrs. Chirrup ‘my dear;’ and—for he is of a
jocose turn—of cutting little witticisms upon her, and making her the
subject of various harmless pleasantries, which nobody enjoys more
thoroughly than Mrs. Chirrup herself.  Mr. Chirrup, too, now and then
affects to deplore his bachelor-days, and to bemoan (with a marvellously
contented and smirking face) the loss of his freedom, and the sorrow of
his heart at having been taken captive by Mrs. Chirrup—all of which
circumstances combine to show the secret triumph and satisfaction of Mr.
Chirrup’s soul.

We have already had occasion to observe that Mrs. Chirrup is an
incomparable housewife.  In all the arts of domestic arrangement and
management, in all the mysteries of confectionery-making, pickling, and
preserving, never was such a thorough adept as that nice little body.
She is, besides, a cunning worker in muslin and fine linen, and a special
hand at marketing to the very best advantage.  But if there be one branch
of housekeeping in which she excels to an utterly unparalleled and
unprecedented extent, it is in the important one of carving.  A roast
goose is universally allowed to be the great stumbling-block in the way
of young aspirants to perfection in this department of science; many
promising carvers, beginning with legs of mutton, and preserving a good
reputation through fillets of veal, sirloins of beef, quarters of lamb,
fowls, and even ducks, have sunk before a roast goose, and lost caste and
character for ever.  To Mrs. Chirrup the resolving a goose into its
smallest component parts is a pleasant pastime—a practical joke—a thing
to be done in a minute or so, without the smallest interruption to the
conversation of the time.  No handing the dish over to an unfortunate man
upon her right or left, no wild sharpening of the knife, no hacking and
sawing at an unruly joint, no noise, no splash, no heat, no leaving off
in despair; all is confidence and cheerfulness.  The dish is set upon the
table, the cover is removed; for an instant, and only an instant, you
observe that Mrs. Chirrup’s attention is distracted; she smiles, but
heareth not.  You proceed with your story; meanwhile the glittering knife
is slowly upraised, both Mrs. Chirrup’s wrists are slightly but not
ungracefully agitated, she compresses her lips for an instant, then
breaks into a smile, and all is over.  The legs of the bird slide gently
down into a pool of gravy, the wings seem to melt from the body, the
breast separates into a row of juicy slices, the smaller and more
complicated parts of his anatomy are perfectly developed, a cavern of
stuffing is revealed, and the goose is gone!

To dine with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup is one of the pleasantest things in the
world.  Mr. Chirrup has a bachelor friend, who lived with him in his own
days of single blessedness, and to whom he is mightily attached.
Contrary to the usual custom, this bachelor friend is no less a friend of
Mrs. Chirrup’s, and, consequently, whenever you dine with Mr. and Mrs.
Chirrup, you meet the bachelor friend.  It would put any
reasonably-conditioned mortal into good-humour to observe the entire
unanimity which subsists between these three; but there is a quiet
welcome dimpling in Mrs. Chirrup’s face, a bustling hospitality oozing as
it were out of the waistcoat-pockets of Mr. Chirrup, and a patronising
enjoyment of their cordiality and satisfaction on the part of the
bachelor friend, which is quite delightful.  On these occasions Mr.
Chirrup usually takes an opportunity of rallying the friend on being
single, and the friend retorts on Mr. Chirrup for being married, at which
moments some single young ladies present are like to die of laughter; and
we have more than once observed them bestow looks upon the friend, which
convinces us that his position is by no means a safe one, as, indeed, we
hold no bachelor’s to be who visits married friends and cracks jokes on
wedlock, for certain it is that such men walk among traps and nets and
pitfalls innumerable, and often find themselves down upon their knees at
the altar rails, taking M. or N. for their wedded wives, before they know
anything about the matter.

However, this is no business of Mr. Chirrup’s, who talks, and laughs, and
drinks his wine, and laughs again, and talks more, until it is time to
repair to the drawing-room, where, coffee served and over, Mrs. Chirrup
prepares for a round game, by sorting the nicest possible little fish
into the nicest possible little pools, and calling Mr. Chirrup to assist
her, which Mr. Chirrup does.  As they stand side by side, you find that
Mr. Chirrup is the least possible shadow of a shade taller than Mrs.
Chirrup, and that they are the neatest and best-matched little couple
that can be, which the chances are ten to one against your observing with
such effect at any other time, unless you see them in the street
arm-in-arm, or meet them some rainy day trotting along under a very small
umbrella.  The round game (at which Mr. Chirrup is the merriest of the
party) being done and over, in course of time a nice little tray appears,
on which is a nice little supper; and when that is finished likewise, and
you have said ‘Good night,’ you find yourself repeating a dozen times, as
you ride home, that there never was such a nice little couple as Mr. and
Mrs. Chirrup.

Whether it is that pleasant qualities, being packed more closely in small
bodies than in large, come more readily to hand than when they are
diffused over a wider space, and have to be gathered together for use, we
don’t know, but as a general rule,—strengthened like all other rules by
its exceptions,—we hold that little people are sprightly and
good-natured.  The more sprightly and good-natured people we have, the
better; therefore, let us wish well to all nice little couples, and hope
that they may increase and multiply.




THE EGOTISTICAL COUPLE


EGOTISM in couples is of two kinds.—It is our purpose to show this by two
examples.

The egotistical couple may be young, old, middle-aged, well to do, or ill
to do; they may have a small family, a large family, or no family at all.
There is no outward sign by which an egotistical couple may be known and
avoided.  They come upon you unawares; there is no guarding against them.
No man can of himself be forewarned or forearmed against an egotistical
couple.

The egotistical couple have undergone every calamity, and experienced
every pleasurable and painful sensation of which our nature is
susceptible.  You cannot by possibility tell the egotistical couple
anything they don’t know, or describe to them anything they have not
felt.  They have been everything but dead.  Sometimes we are tempted to
wish they had been even that, but only in our uncharitable moments, which
are few and far between.

We happened the other day, in the course of a morning call, to encounter
an egotistical couple, nor were we suffered to remain long in ignorance
of the fact, for our very first inquiry of the lady of the house brought
them into active and vigorous operation.  The inquiry was of course
touching the lady’s health, and the answer happened to be, that she had
not been very well.  ‘Oh, my dear!’ said the egotistical lady, ‘don’t
talk of not being well.  We have been in _such_ a state since we saw you
last!’—The lady of the house happening to remark that her lord had not
been well either, the egotistical gentleman struck in: ‘Never let Briggs
complain of not being well—never let Briggs complain, my dear Mrs.
Briggs, after what I have undergone within these six weeks.  He doesn’t
know what it is to be ill, he hasn’t the least idea of it; not the
faintest conception.’—‘My dear,’ interposed his wife smiling, ‘you talk
as if it were almost a crime in Mr. Briggs not to have been as ill as we
have been, instead of feeling thankful to Providence that both he and our
dear Mrs. Briggs are in such blissful ignorance of real suffering.’—‘My
love,’ returned the egotistical gentleman, in a low and pious voice, ‘you
mistake me;—I feel grateful—very grateful.  I trust our friends may never
purchase their experience as dearly as we have bought ours; I hope they
never may!’

Having put down Mrs. Briggs upon this theme, and settled the question
thus, the egotistical gentleman turned to us, and, after a few
preliminary remarks, all tending towards and leading up to the point he
had in his mind, inquired if we happened to be acquainted with the
Dowager Lady Snorflerer.  On our replying in the negative, he presumed we
had often met Lord Slang, or beyond all doubt, that we were on intimate
terms with Sir Chipkins Glogwog.  Finding that we were equally unable to
lay claim to either of these distinctions, he expressed great
astonishment, and turning to his wife with a retrospective smile,
inquired who it was that had told that capital story about the mashed
potatoes.  ‘Who, my dear?’ returned the egotistical lady, ‘why Sir
Chipkins, of course; how can you ask!  Don’t you remember his applying it
to our cook, and saying that you and I were so like the Prince and
Princess, that he could almost have sworn we were they?’  ‘To be sure, I
remember that,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘but are you quite
certain that didn’t apply to the other anecdote about the Emperor of
Austria and the pump?’  ‘Upon my word then, I think it did,’ replied his
wife.  ‘To be sure it did,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘it was
Slang’s story, I remember now, perfectly.’  However, it turned out, a few
seconds afterwards, that the egotistical gentleman’s memory was rather
treacherous, as he began to have a misgiving that the story had been told
by the Dowager Lady Snorflerer the very last time they dined there; but
there appearing, on further consideration, strong circumstantial evidence
tending to show that this couldn’t be, inasmuch as the Dowager Lady
Snorflerer had been, on the occasion in question, wholly engrossed by the
egotistical lady, the egotistical gentleman recanted this opinion; and
after laying the story at the doors of a great many great people, happily
left it at last with the Duke of Scuttlewig:—observing that it was not
extraordinary he had forgotten his Grace hitherto, as it often happened
that the names of those with whom we were upon the most familiar footing
were the very last to present themselves to our thoughts.

It not only appeared that the egotistical couple knew everybody, but that
scarcely any event of importance or notoriety had occurred for many years
with which they had not been in some way or other connected.  Thus we
learned that when the well-known attempt upon the life of George the
Third was made by Hatfield in Drury Lane theatre, the egotistical
gentleman’s grandfather sat upon his right hand and was the first man who
collared him; and that the egotistical lady’s aunt, sitting within a few
boxes of the royal party, was the only person in the audience who heard
his Majesty exclaim, ‘Charlotte, Charlotte, don’t be frightened, don’t be
frightened; they’re letting off squibs, they’re letting off squibs.’
When the fire broke out, which ended in the destruction of the two Houses
of Parliament, the egotistical couple, being at the time at a
drawing-room window on Blackheath, then and there simultaneously
exclaimed, to the astonishment of a whole party—‘It’s the House of
Lords!’  Nor was this a solitary instance of their peculiar discernment,
for chancing to be (as by a comparison of dates and circumstances they
afterwards found) in the same omnibus with Mr. Greenacre, when he carried
his victim’s head about town in a blue bag, they both remarked a singular
twitching in the muscles of his countenance; and walking down Fish Street
Hill, a few weeks since, the egotistical gentleman said to his
lady—slightly casting up his eyes to the top of the Monument—‘There’s a
boy up there, my dear, reading a Bible.  It’s very strange.  I don’t like
it.—In five seconds afterwards, Sir,’ says the egotistical gentleman,
bringing his hands together with one violent clap—‘the lad was over!’

Diversifying these topics by the introduction of many others of the same
kind, and entertaining us between whiles with a minute account of what
weather and diet agreed with them, and what weather and diet disagreed
with them, and at what time they usually got up, and at what time went to
bed, with many other particulars of their domestic economy too numerous
to mention; the egotistical couple at length took their leave, and
afforded us an opportunity of doing the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone are an egotistical couple of another class, for
all the lady’s egotism is about her husband, and all the gentleman’s
about his wife.  For example:—Mr. Sliverstone is a clerical gentleman,
and occasionally writes sermons, as clerical gentlemen do.  If you happen
to obtain admission at the street-door while he is so engaged, Mrs.
Sliverstone appears on tip-toe, and speaking in a solemn whisper, as if
there were at least three or four particular friends up-stairs, all upon
the point of death, implores you to be very silent, for Mr. Sliverstone
is composing, and she need not say how very important it is that he
should not be disturbed.  Unwilling to interrupt anything so serious, you
hasten to withdraw, with many apologies; but this Mrs. Sliverstone will
by no means allow, observing, that she knows you would like to see him,
as it is very natural you should, and that she is determined to make a
trial for you, as you are a great favourite.  So you are led
up-stairs—still on tip-toe—to the door of a little back room, in which,
as the lady informs you in a whisper, Mr. Sliverstone always writes.  No
answer being returned to a couple of soft taps, the lady opens the door,
and there, sure enough, is Mr. Sliverstone, with dishevelled hair,
powdering away with pen, ink, and paper, at a rate which, if he has any
power of sustaining it, would settle the longest sermon in no time.  At
first he is too much absorbed to be roused by this intrusion; but
presently looking up, says faintly, ‘Ah!’ and pointing to his desk with a
weary and languid smile, extends his hand, and hopes you’ll forgive him.
Then Mrs. Sliverstone sits down beside him, and taking his hand in hers,
tells you how that Mr. Sliverstone has been shut up there ever since nine
o’clock in the morning, (it is by this time twelve at noon,) and how she
knows it cannot be good for his health, and is very uneasy about it.
Unto this Mr. Sliverstone replies firmly, that ‘It must be done;’ which
agonizes Mrs. Sliverstone still more, and she goes on to tell you that
such were Mr. Sliverstone’s labours last week—what with the buryings,
marryings, churchings, christenings, and all together,—that when he was
going up the pulpit stairs on Sunday evening, he was obliged to hold on
by the rails, or he would certainly have fallen over into his own pew.
Mr. Sliverstone, who has been listening and smiling meekly, says, ‘Not
quite so bad as that, not quite so bad!’ he admits though, on
cross-examination, that he _was_ very near falling upon the verger who
was following him up to bolt the door; but adds, that it was his duty as
a Christian to fall upon him, if need were, and that he, Mr. Sliverstone,
and (possibly the verger too) ought to glory in it.

This sentiment communicates new impulse to Mrs. Sliverstone, who launches
into new praises of Mr. Sliverstone’s worth and excellence, to which he
listens in the same meek silence, save when he puts in a word of
self-denial relative to some question of fact, as—‘Not seventy-two
christenings that week, my dear.  Only seventy-one, only seventy-one.’
At length his lady has quite concluded, and then he says, Why should he
repine, why should he give way, why should he suffer his heart to sink
within him?  Is it he alone who toils and suffers?  What has she gone
through, he should like to know?  What does she go through every day for
him and for society?

With such an exordium Mr. Sliverstone launches out into glowing praises
of the conduct of Mrs. Sliverstone in the production of eight young
children, and the subsequent rearing and fostering of the same; and thus
the husband magnifies the wife, and the wife the husband.

This would be well enough if Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone kept it to
themselves, or even to themselves and a friend or two; but they do not.
The more hearers they have, the more egotistical the couple become, and
the more anxious they are to make believers in their merits.  Perhaps
this is the worst kind of egotism.  It has not even the poor excuse of
being spontaneous, but is the result of a deliberate system and malice
aforethought.  Mere empty-headed conceit excites our pity, but
ostentatious hypocrisy awakens our disgust.




THE COUPLE WHO CODDLE THEMSELVES


MRS. MERRYWINKLE’S maiden name was Chopper.  She was the only child of
Mr. and Mrs. Chopper.  Her father died when she was, as the play-books
express it, ‘yet an infant;’ and so old Mrs. Chopper, when her daughter
married, made the house of her son-in-law her home from that time
henceforth, and set up her staff of rest with Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle.

Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle are a couple who coddle themselves; and the
venerable Mrs. Chopper is an aider and abettor in the same.

Mr. Merrywinkle is a rather lean and long-necked gentleman, middle-aged
and middle-sized, and usually troubled with a cold in the head.  Mrs.
Merrywinkle is a delicate-looking lady, with very light hair, and is
exceedingly subject to the same unpleasant disorder.  The venerable Mrs.
Chopper—who is strictly entitled to the appellation, her daughter not
being very young, otherwise than by courtesy, at the time of her
marriage, which was some years ago—is a mysterious old lady who lurks
behind a pair of spectacles, and is afflicted with a chronic disease,
respecting which she has taken a vast deal of medical advice, and
referred to a vast number of medical books, without meeting any
definition of symptoms that at all suits her, or enables her to say,
‘That’s my complaint.’  Indeed, the absence of authentic information upon
the subject of this complaint would seem to be Mrs. Chopper’s greatest
ill, as in all other respects she is an uncommonly hale and hearty
gentlewoman.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Chopper wear an extraordinary quantity of flannel, and
have a habit of putting their feet in hot water to an unnatural extent.
They likewise indulge in chamomile tea and such-like compounds, and rub
themselves on the slightest provocation with camphorated spirits and
other lotions applicable to mumps, sore-throat, rheumatism, or lumbago.

Mr. Merrywinkle’s leaving home to go to business on a damp or wet morning
is a very elaborate affair.  He puts on wash-leather socks over his
stockings, and India-rubber shoes above his boots, and wears under his
waistcoat a cuirass of hare-skin.  Besides these precautions, he winds a
thick shawl round his throat, and blocks up his mouth with a large silk
handkerchief.  Thus accoutred, and furnished besides with a great-coat
and umbrella, he braves the dangers of the streets; travelling in severe
weather at a gentle trot, the better to preserve the circulation, and
bringing his mouth to the surface to take breath, but very seldom, and
with the utmost caution.  His office-door opened, he shoots past his
clerk at the same pace, and diving into his own private room, closes the
door, examines the window-fastenings, and gradually unrobes himself:
hanging his pocket-handkerchief on the fender to air, and determining to
write to the newspapers about the fog, which, he says, ‘has really got to
that pitch that it is quite unbearable.’

In this last opinion Mrs. Merrywinkle and her respected mother fully
concur; for though not present, their thoughts and tongues are occupied
with the same subject, which is their constant theme all day.  If anybody
happens to call, Mrs. Merrywinkle opines that they must assuredly be mad,
and her first salutation is, ‘Why, what in the name of goodness can bring
you out in such weather?  You know you _must_ catch your death.’  This
assurance is corroborated by Mrs. Chopper, who adds, in further
confirmation, a dismal legend concerning an individual of her
acquaintance who, making a call under precisely parallel circumstances,
and being then in the best health and spirits, expired in forty-eight
hours afterwards, of a complication of inflammatory disorders.  The
visitor, rendered not altogether comfortable perhaps by this and other
precedents, inquires very affectionately after Mr. Merrywinkle, but by so
doing brings about no change of the subject; for Mr. Merrywinkle’s name
is inseparably connected with his complaints, and his complaints are
inseparably connected with Mrs. Merrywinkle’s; and when these are done
with, Mrs. Chopper, who has been biding her time, cuts in with the
chronic disorder—a subject upon which the amiable old lady never leaves
off speaking until she is left alone, and very often not then.

               [Picture: The Couple who Coddle Themselves]

But Mr. Merrywinkle comes home to dinner.  He is received by Mrs.
Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper, who, on his remarking that he thinks his
feet are damp, turn pale as ashes and drag him up-stairs, imploring him
to have them rubbed directly with a dry coarse towel.  Rubbed they are,
one by Mrs. Merrywinkle and one by Mrs. Chopper, until the friction
causes Mr. Merrywinkle to make horrible faces, and look as if he had been
smelling very powerful onions; when they desist, and the patient,
provided for his better security with thick worsted stockings and list
slippers, is borne down-stairs to dinner.  Now, the dinner is always a
good one, the appetites of the diners being delicate, and requiring a
little of what Mrs. Merrywinkle calls ‘tittivation;’ the secret of which
is understood to lie in good cookery and tasteful spices, and which
process is so successfully performed in the present instance, that both
Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle eat a remarkably good dinner, and even the
afflicted Mrs. Chopper wields her knife and fork with much of the spirit
and elasticity of youth.  But Mr. Merrywinkle, in his desire to gratify
his appetite, is not unmindful of his health, for he has a bottle of
carbonate of soda with which to qualify his porter, and a little pair of
scales in which to weigh it out.  Neither in his anxiety to take care of
his body is he unmindful of the welfare of his immortal part, as he
always prays that for what he is going to receive he may be made truly
thankful; and in order that he may be as thankful as possible, eats and
drinks to the utmost.

Either from eating and drinking so much, or from being the victim of this
constitutional infirmity, among others, Mr. Merrywinkle, after two or
three glasses of wine, falls fast asleep; and he has scarcely closed his
eyes, when Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper fall asleep likewise.  It is
on awakening at tea-time that their most alarming symptoms prevail; for
then Mr. Merrywinkle feels as if his temples were tightly bound round
with the chain of the street-door, and Mrs. Merrywinkle as if she had
made a hearty dinner of half-hundredweights, and Mrs. Chopper as if cold
water were running down her back, and oyster-knives with sharp points
were plunging of their own accord into her ribs.  Symptoms like these are
enough to make people peevish, and no wonder that they remain so until
supper-time, doing little more than doze and complain, unless Mr.
Merrywinkle calls out very loudly to a servant ‘to keep that draught
out,’ or rushes into the passage to flourish his fist in the countenance
of the twopenny-postman, for daring to give such a knock as he had just
performed at the door of a private gentleman with nerves.

Supper, coming after dinner, should consist of some gentle provocative;
and therefore the tittivating art is again in requisition, and again—done
honour to by Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, still comforted and abetted by
Mrs. Chopper.  After supper, it is ten to one but the last-named old lady
becomes worse, and is led off to bed with the chronic complaint in full
vigour.  Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, having administered to her a warm
cordial, which is something of the strongest, then repair to their own
room, where Mr. Merrywinkle, with his legs and feet in hot water,
superintends the mulling of some wine which he is to drink at the very
moment he plunges into bed, while Mrs. Merrywinkle, in garments whose
nature is unknown to and unimagined by all but married men, takes four
small pills with a spasmodic look between each, and finally comes to
something hot and fragrant out of another little saucepan, which serves
as her composing-draught for the night.

There is another kind of couple who coddle themselves, and who do so at a
cheaper rate and on more spare diet, because they are niggardly and
parsimonious; for which reason they are kind enough to coddle their
visitors too.  It is unnecessary to describe them, for our readers may
rest assured of the accuracy of these general principles:—that all
couples who coddle themselves are selfish and slothful,—that they charge
upon every wind that blows, every rain that falls, and every vapour that
hangs in the air, the evils which arise from their own imprudence or the
gloom which is engendered in their own tempers,—and that all men and
women, in couples or otherwise, who fall into exclusive habits of
self-indulgence, and forget their natural sympathy and close connexion
with everybody and everything in the world around them, not only neglect
the first duty of life, but, by a happy retributive justice, deprive
themselves of its truest and best enjoyment.




THE OLD COUPLE


THEY are grandfather and grandmother to a dozen grown people and have
great-grandchildren besides; their bodies are bent, their hair is grey,
their step tottering and infirm.  Is this the lightsome pair whose
wedding was so merry, and have the young couple indeed grown old so soon!

It seems but yesterday—and yet what a host of cares and griefs are
crowded into the intervening time which, reckoned by them, lengthens out
into a century!  How many new associations have wreathed themselves about
their hearts since then!  The old time is gone, and a new time has come
for others—not for them.  They are but the rusting link that feebly joins
the two, and is silently loosening its hold and dropping asunder.

It seems but yesterday—and yet three of their children have sunk into the
grave, and the tree that shades it has grown quite old.  One was an
infant—they wept for him; the next a girl, a slight young thing too
delicate for earth—her loss was hard indeed to bear.  The third, a man.
That was the worst of all, but even that grief is softened now.

It seems but yesterday—and yet how the gay and laughing faces of that
bright morning have changed and vanished from above ground!  Faint
likenesses of some remain about them yet, but they are very faint and
scarcely to be traced.  The rest are only seen in dreams, and even they
are unlike what they were, in eyes so old and dim.

One or two dresses from the bridal wardrobe are yet preserved.  They are
of a quaint and antique fashion, and seldom seen except in pictures.
White has turned yellow, and brighter hues have faded.  Do you wonder,
child?  The wrinkled face was once as smooth as yours, the eyes as
bright, the shrivelled skin as fair and delicate.  It is the work of
hands that have been dust these many years.

Where are the fairy lovers of that happy day whose annual return comes
upon the old man and his wife, like the echo of some village bell which
has long been silent?  Let yonder peevish bachelor, racked by rheumatic
pains, and quarrelling with the world, let him answer to the question.
He recollects something of a favourite playmate; her name was Lucy—so
they tell him.  He is not sure whether she was married, or went abroad,
or died.  It is a long while ago, and he don’t remember.

Is nothing as it used to be; does no one feel, or think, or act, as in
days of yore?  Yes.  There is an aged woman who once lived servant with
the old lady’s father, and is sheltered in an alms-house not far off.
She is still attached to the family, and loves them all; she nursed the
children in her lap, and tended in their sickness those who are no more.
Her old mistress has still something of youth in her eyes; the young
ladies are like what she was but not quite so handsome, nor are the
gentlemen as stately as Mr. Harvey used to be.  She has seen a great deal
of trouble; her husband and her son died long ago; but she has got over
that, and is happy now—quite happy.

If ever her attachment to her old protectors were disturbed by fresher
cares and hopes, it has long since resumed its former current.  It has
filled the void in the poor creature’s heart, and replaced the love of
kindred.  Death has not left her alone, and this, with a roof above her
head, and a warm hearth to sit by, makes her cheerful and contented.
Does she remember the marriage of great-grandmamma?  Ay, that she does,
as well—as if it was only yesterday.  You wouldn’t think it to look at
her now, and perhaps she ought not to say so of herself, but she was as
smart a young girl then as you’d wish to see.  She recollects she took a
friend of hers up-stairs to see Miss Emma dressed for church; her name
was—ah! she forgets the name, but she remembers that she was a very
pretty girl, and that she married not long afterwards, and lived—it has
quite passed out of her mind where she lived, but she knows she had a bad
husband who used her ill, and that she died in Lambeth work-house.  Dear,
dear, in Lambeth workhouse!

                        [Picture: The Old Couple]

And the old couple—have they no comfort or enjoyment of existence?  See
them among their grandchildren and great-grandchildren; how garrulous
they are, how they compare one with another, and insist on likenesses
which no one else can see; how gently the old lady lectures the girls on
points of breeding and decorum, and points the moral by anecdotes of
herself in her young days—how the old gentleman chuckles over boyish
feats and roguish tricks, and tells long stories of a ‘barring-out’
achieved at the school he went to: which was very wrong, he tells the
boys, and never to be imitated of course, but which he cannot help
letting them know was very pleasant too—especially when he kissed the
master’s niece.  This last, however, is a point on which the old lady is
very tender, for she considers it a shocking and indelicate thing to talk
about, and always says so whenever it is mentioned, never failing to
observe that he ought to be very penitent for having been so sinful.  So
the old gentleman gets no further, and what the schoolmaster’s niece said
afterwards (which he is always going to tell) is lost to posterity.

The old gentleman is eighty years old, to-day—‘Eighty years old, Crofts,
and never had a headache,’ he tells the barber who shaves him (the barber
being a young fellow, and very subject to that complaint).  ‘That’s a
great age, Crofts,’ says the old gentleman.  ‘I don’t think it’s sich a
wery great age, Sir,’ replied the barber.  ‘Crofts,’ rejoins the old
gentleman, ‘you’re talking nonsense to me.  Eighty not a great age?’
‘It’s a wery great age, Sir, for a gentleman to be as healthy and active
as you are,’ returns the barber; ‘but my grandfather, Sir, he was
ninety-four.’  ‘You don’t mean that, Crofts?’ says the old gentleman.  ‘I
do indeed, Sir,’ retorts the barber, ‘and as wiggerous as Julius Cæsar,
my grandfather was.’  The old gentleman muses a little time, and then
says, ‘What did he die of, Crofts?’  ‘He died accidentally, Sir,’ returns
the barber; ‘he didn’t mean to do it.  He always would go a running about
the streets—walking never satisfied _his_ spirit—and he run against a
post and died of a hurt in his chest.’  The old gentleman says no more
until the shaving is concluded, and then he gives Crofts half-a-crown to
drink his health.  He is a little doubtful of the barber’s veracity
afterwards, and telling the anecdote to the old lady, affects to make
very light of it—though to be sure (he adds) there was old Parr, and in
some parts of England, ninety-five or so is a common age, quite a common
age.

This morning the old couple are cheerful but serious, recalling old times
as well as they can remember them, and dwelling upon many passages in
their past lives which the day brings to mind.  The old lady reads aloud,
in a tremulous voice, out of a great Bible, and the old gentleman with
his hand to his ear, listens with profound respect.  When the book is
closed, they sit silent for a short space, and afterwards resume their
conversation, with a reference perhaps to their dead children, as a
subject not unsuited to that they have just left.  By degrees they are
led to consider which of those who survive are the most like those
dearly-remembered objects, and so they fall into a less solemn strain,
and become cheerful again.

How many people in all, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and one or
two intimate friends of the family, dine together to-day at the eldest
son’s to congratulate the old couple, and wish them many happy returns,
is a calculation beyond our powers; but this we know, that the old couple
no sooner present themselves, very sprucely and carefully attired, than
there is a violent shouting and rushing forward of the younger branches
with all manner of presents, such as pocket-books, pencil-cases,
pen-wipers, watch-papers, pin-cushions, sleeve-buckles, worked-slippers,
watch-guards, and even a nutmeg-grater: the latter article being
presented by a very chubby and very little boy, who exhibits it in great
triumph as an extraordinary variety.  The old couple’s emotion at these
tokens of remembrance occasions quite a pathetic scene, of which the
chief ingredients are a vast quantity of kissing and hugging, and
repeated wipings of small eyes and noses with small square
pocket-handkerchiefs, which don’t come at all easily out of small
pockets.  Even the peevish bachelor is moved, and he says, as he presents
the old gentleman with a queer sort of antique ring from his own finger,
that he’ll be de’ed if he doesn’t think he looks younger than he did ten
years ago.

But the great time is after dinner, when the dessert and wine are on the
table, which is pushed back to make plenty of room, and they are all
gathered in a large circle round the fire, for it is then—the glasses
being filled, and everybody ready to drink the toast—that two
great-grandchildren rush out at a given signal, and presently return,
dragging in old Jane Adams leaning upon her crutched stick, and trembling
with age and pleasure.  Who so popular as poor old Jane, nurse and
story-teller in ordinary to two generations; and who so happy as she,
striving to bend her stiff limbs into a curtsey, while tears of pleasure
steal down her withered cheeks!

The old couple sit side by side, and the old time seems like yesterday
indeed.  Looking back upon the path they have travelled, its dust and
ashes disappear; the flowers that withered long ago, show brightly again
upon its borders, and they grow young once more in the youth of those
about them.




CONCLUSION


WE have taken for the subjects of the foregoing moral essays, twelve
samples of married couples, carefully selected from a large stock on
hand, open to the inspection of all comers.  These samples are intended
for the benefit of the rising generation of both sexes, and, for their
more easy and pleasant information, have been separately ticketed and
labelled in the manner they have seen.

We have purposely excluded from consideration the couple in which the
lady reigns paramount and supreme, holding such cases to be of a very
unnatural kind, and like hideous births and other monstrous deformities,
only to be discreetly and sparingly exhibited.

And here our self-imposed task would have ended, but that to those young
ladies and gentlemen who are yet revolving singly round the church,
awaiting the advent of that time when the mysterious laws of attraction
shall draw them towards it in couples, we are desirous of addressing a
few last words.

Before marriage and afterwards, let them learn to centre all their hopes
of real and lasting happiness in their own fireside; let them cherish the
faith that in home, and all the English virtues which the love of home
engenders, lies the only true source of domestic felicity; let them
believe that round the household gods, contentment and tranquillity
cluster in their gentlest and most graceful forms; and that many weary
hunters of happiness through the noisy world, have learnt this truth too
late, and found a cheerful spirit and a quiet mind only at home at last.

How much may depend on the education of daughters and the conduct of
mothers; how much of the brightest part of our old national character may
be perpetuated by their wisdom or frittered away by their folly—how much
of it may have been lost already, and how much more in danger of
vanishing every day—are questions too weighty for discussion here, but
well deserving a little serious consideration from all young couples
nevertheless.

To that one young couple on whose bright destiny the thoughts of nations
are fixed, may the youth of England look, and not in vain, for an
example.  From that one young couple, blessed and favoured as they are,
may they learn that even the glare and glitter of a court, the splendour
of a palace, and the pomp and glory of a throne, yield in their power of
conferring happiness, to domestic worth and virtue.  From that one young
couple may they learn that the crown of a great empire, costly and
jewelled though it be, gives place in the estimation of a Queen to the
plain gold ring that links her woman’s nature to that of tens of
thousands of her humble subjects, and guards in her woman’s heart one
secret store of tenderness, whose proudest boast shall be that it knows
no Royalty save Nature’s own, and no pride of birth but being the child
of heaven!

So shall the highest young couple in the land for once hear the truth,
when men throw up their caps, and cry with loving shouts—

                             GOD BLESS THEM.