Sketches of Young Couples / Charles Dickens

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.'

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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

Caesar, 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.