Chapter IX: Letter IV: To a Husband (2)

185. Women are a _sisterhood_. They make _common cause_ in behalf of the _sex_; and, indeed, this is natural enough, when we consider the vast power that the _law_ gives us over them. The law is for us, and they combine, wherever they can, to mitigate its effects. This is perfectly natural, and, to a certain extent, laudable, evincing fellow-feeling and public spirit: but when carried to the length of '_he sha'n't_,' it is despotism on the one side and slavery on the other. Watch, therefore, the incipient steps of encroachment; and they come on so slowly, so softly, that you must be sharp-sighted if you perceive them; but the moment you _do perceive them_: your love will blind for too long a time; but the moment you do perceive them, put at once an effectual stop to their progress. Never mind the pain that it may give you: a day of pain at this time will spare you years of pain in time to come. Many a man has been miserable, and made his wife miserable too, for a score or two of years, only for want of resolution to bear one day of pain: and it is a great deal to bear; it is a great deal to do to thwart the desire of one whom you so dearly love, and whose virtues daily render her more and more dear to you. But (and this is one of the most admirable of the mother's traits) as she herself will, while the tears stream from her eyes, force the nauseous medicine down the throat of her child, whose every cry is a dagger to her heart; as she herself has the courage to do this for the sake of her child, why should you flinch from the performance of a still more important and more sacred duty towards herself, as well as towards you and your children?

186. Am I recommending _tyranny_? Am I recommending _disregard_ of the wife's opinions and wishes? Am I recommending a _reserve_ towards her that would seem to say that she was not trust-worthy, or not a party interested in her husband's affairs? By no means: on the contrary, though I would keep any thing disagreeable from her, I should not enjoy the prospect of good without making her a participator. But reason says, and God has said, that it is the duty of wives to be obedient to their husbands; and the very nature of things prescribes that there must be _a head_ of every house, and an _undivided_ authority. And then it is so clearly _just_ that the authority should rest with him on whose head rests the whole responsibility, that a woman, when patiently reasoned with on the subject, must be a virago in her very nature not to submit with docility to the terms of her marriage vow.

187. There are, in almost every considerable neighbourhood, a little squadron of she-commanders, generally the youngish wives of old or weak-minded men, and generally without children. These are the tutoresses of the young wives of the vicinage; they, in virtue of their experience, not only school the wives, but scold the husbands; they teach the former how to encroach and the latter how to yield: so that if you suffer this to go quietly on, you are soon under the care of a _comite_ as completely as if you were insane. You want no _comite_: reason, law, religion, the marriage vow; all these have made you head, have given you full power to rule your family, and if you give up your right, you deserve the contempt that assuredly awaits you, and also the ruin that is, in all probability, your doom.

188. Taking it for granted that you will not suffer more than a second or third session of the female _comite_, let me say a word or two about the conduct of men in deciding between the conflicting opinions of husbands and wives. When a wife has _a point to carry_, and finds herself hard pushed, or when she thinks it necessary to call to her aid all the force she can possibly muster, one of her resources is, the vote on her side of all her husband's visiting friends. 'My husband thinks so and so, and I think so and so; now, Mr. Tomkins, don't you think _I am right_?' To be sure he does; and so does Mr. Jenkins, and so does Wilkins, and so does Mr. Dickins, and you would swear that they were all her _kins_. Now this is very foolish, to say the least of it. None of these complaisant _kins_ would like this in their own case. It is the fashion to say _aye_ to all that a woman asserts, or contends for, especially in contradiction to her husband; and a very pernicious fashion it is. It is, in fact, not to pay her a compliment worthy of acceptance, but to treat her as an empty and conceited fool; and no sensible woman will, except from mere inadvertence, make the appeal. This fashion, however, foolish and contemptible as it is in itself, is attended, very frequently, with serious consequences. Backed by the opinions of her husband's friends, the wife returns to the charge with redoubled vigour and obstinacy; and if you do not yield, ten to one but a _quarrel_ is the result; or, at least, something approaching towards it. A gentleman at whose house I was, about five years ago, was about to take a farm for his eldest son, who was a very fine young man, about eighteen years old. The mother, who was as virtuous and as sensible a woman as I have ever known, wished him to be 'in the law.' There were six or eight intimate friends present, and all unhesitatingly joined the lady, thinking it a pity that HARRY, who had had 'such a good education,' should be _buried_ in a farm-house. 'And don't _you_ think so too, Mr. Cobbett,' said the lady, with great earnestness. 'Indeed, Ma'am,' said I, 'I should think it very great presumption in me to offer any opinion at all, and especially in opposition to the known decision of the father, who is the best judge, and the only rightful judge, in such a case.' This was a very sensible and well-behaved woman, and I still respect her very highly; but I could perceive that I instantly dropped out of her good graces. Harry, however, I was glad to hear, went 'to be _buried_ in the farm-house.'

189. 'A house divided against itself,' or, rather, _in_ itself, 'cannot stand;' and it _is_ divided against itself if there be a _divided authority_. The wife ought to be _heard_, and _patiently_ heard; she ought to be reasoned with, and, if possible, convinced; but if, after all endeavours in this way, she remain opposed to the husband's opinion, his will _must_ be obeyed; or he, at once, becomes nothing; she is, in fact, the _master_, and he is nothing but an insignificant inmate. As to matters of little comparative moment; as to what shall be for dinner; as to how the house shall be furnished; as to the management of the house and of menial servants; as to these matters, and many others, the wife may have her way without any danger; but when the questions are, what is to be the _calling_ to be pursued; what is to be the _place of residence_; what is to be the _style_ of living and _scale_ of expence; what is to be done with _property_; what the manner and place of educating children; what is to be their _calling_ or state of life; who are to be employed or entrusted by the husband; what are the principles that he is to adopt as to public matters; whom he is to have for coadjutors or friends; all these must be left solely to the husband; in all these he must have his will; or there never can be any harmony in the family.

190. Nevertheless, in some of these concerns, wives should be heard with a great deal of attention, especially in the affairs of choosing your male acquaintances and friends and associates. Women are more quick-sighted than men; they are less disposed to confide in persons upon a first acquaintance; they are more suspicious as to motives; they are less liable to be deceived by professions and protestations; they watch words with a more scrutinizing ear, and looks with a keener eye; and, making due allowance for their prejudices in particular cases, their opinions and remonstrances, with regard to matters of this sort, ought not to be set at naught without great deliberation. LOUVET, one of the Brissotins, who fled for their lives in the time of ROBESPIERRE; this LOUVET, in his narrative, entitled '_Mes Perils_' and which I read, for the first time, to divert my mind from the perils of the yellow-fever, in Philadelphia, but with which I was so captivated as to have read it many times since; this writer, giving an account of his wonderful dangers and escapes, relates, that being on his way to Paris from the vicinity of Bordeaux, and having no regular _passport_, fell lame, but finally crept on to a miserable pot-house, in a small town in the Limosin. The landlord questioned him with regard to who and what he was and whence he came and was satisfied with his answers. But the landlady, who had looked sharply at him on his arrival, whispered a little boy, who ran away, and quickly returned with the mayor of the town. LOUVET soon discovered that there was no danger in the mayor, who could not decipher his forged passport, and who, being well plied with wine, wanted to hear no more of the matter. The landlady, perceiving this, slipped out and brought a couple of aldermen, who asked _to see the passport_. 'O, yes; but _drink first_.' Then there was a laughing story to tell over again, at the request of the half-drunken mayor; then a laughing and more drinking; the passport in LOUVET'S hand, but _never opened_, and, while another toast was drinking, the passport slid back quietly into the pocket; the woman looking furious all the while. At last, the mayor, the aldermen, and the landlord, all nearly drunk, shook hands with LOUVET, and wished him a good journey, swore he was a _true sans culotte_; but, he says, that the 'sharp-sighted woman, who was to be deceived by none of his stories or professions, saw him get off with deep and manifest disappointment and chagrin.' I have thought of this many times since, when I have had occasion to witness the quick-sightedness and penetration of women. The same quality that makes them, as they notoriously are, more quick in discovering expedients in cases of difficulty, makes them more apt to penetrate into motives and character.

191. I now come to a matter of the greatest possible importance; namely, that great troubler of the married state, that great bane of families, JEALOUSY; and I shall first speak of _jealousy_ in the _wife_. This is always an unfortunate thing, and sometimes fatal. Yet, if there be a great propensity towards it, it is very difficult to be prevented. One thing, however, every husband can do in the way of prevention; and that is, _to give no ground for it_. And here, it is not sufficient that he strictly adhere to his marriage vow; he ought further to abstain from every art, however free from guilt, calculated to awaken the slightest degree of suspicion in a mind, the peace of which he is bound by every tie of justice and humanity not to disturb, or, if he can avoid it, to suffer it to be disturbed by others. A woman that is very fond of her husband, and this is the case with nine-tenths of English and American women, does not like to share with another any, even the smallest portion, not only of his affection, but of his assiduities and applause; and, as the bestowing of them on another, and receiving payment in kind, can serve no purpose other than of gratifying one's _vanity_, they ought to be abstained from, and especially if the gratification be to be purchased with even the chance of exciting uneasiness in her, whom it is your sacred duty to make as happy as you can.

192. For about two or three years after I was married, I, retaining some of my military manners, used, both in France and America, to _romp_ most famously with the girls that came in my way; till one day, at Philadelphia, my wife said to me, in a very gentle manner, 'Don't do that: _I do not like it_.' That was quite enough: I had never _thought_ on the subject before: one hair of her head was more dear to me than all the other women in the world, and this I knew that she knew; but I now saw that this was not all that she had a right to from me; I saw, that she had the further claim upon me that I should abstain from every thing that might induce others to believe that there was any other woman for whom, even if I were at liberty, I had any affection. I beseech young married men to bear this in mind; for, on some trifle of this sort, the happiness or misery of a long life frequently turns. If the mind of a wife be disturbed on this score, every possible means ought to be used to restore it to peace; and though her suspicions be perfectly groundless; though they be wild as the dreams of madmen; though they may present a mixture of the furious and the ridiculous, still they are to be treated with the greatest lenity and tenderness; and if, after all, you fail, the frailty is to be lamented as a misfortune, and not punished as a fault, seeing that it _must_ have its foundation in a feeling towards you, which it would be the basest of ingratitude, and the most ferocious of cruelty, to repay by harshness of any description.

193. As to those husbands who make the _unjust_ suspicions of their wives a _justification_ for making those suspicions just; as to such as can make a sport of such suspicions, rather brag of them than otherwise, and endeavour to aggravate rather than assuage them; as to such I have nothing to say, they being far without the scope of any advice that I can offer. But to such as are not of this description, I have a remark or two to offer with respect to measures of _prevention_.

194. And, first, I never could see the _sense_ of its being a piece of etiquette, a sort of mark of _good breeding_, to make it a rule that man and wife are not to sit side by side in a mixed company; that if a party walk out, the wife is to give her arm to some other than her husband; that if there be any other hand near, _his_ is not to help to a seat or into a carriage. I never could see the _sense_ of this; but I have always seen the _nonsense_ of it plainly enough; it is, in short, amongst many other foolish and mischievous things that we do in aping the manners of those whose riches (frequently ill-gotten) and whose power embolden them to set, with impunity, pernicious examples; and to their examples this nation owes more of its degradation in morals than to any other source. The truth is, that this is a piece _of false refinement_: it, being interpreted, means, that so free are the parties from a liability to suspicion, so innately virtuous and pure are they, that each man can safely trust his wife with another man, and each woman her husband with another woman. But this piece of false refinement, like all others, overshoots its mark; it says too much; for it says that the parties have _lewd thoughts in their minds_. This is not the _fact_, with regard to people in general; but it must have been the origin of this set of consummately ridiculous and contemptible rules.

195. Now I would advise a young man, especially if he have a pretty wife, not to commit her unnecessarily to the care of any other man; not to be separated from her in this studious and ceremonious manner; and not to be ashamed to prefer her company and conversation to that of any other woman. I never could discover any _good-breeding_ in setting another man, almost expressly, to poke his nose up in the face of my wife, and talk nonsense to her; for, in such cases, nonsense it generally is. It is not a thing of much consequence, to be sure; but when the wife is young, especially, it is not seemly, at any rate, and it cannot possibly lead to any good, though it may not lead to any great evil. And, on the other hand, you may be quite sure that, whatever she may _seem_ to think of the matter, she will not like _you_ the better for your attentions of this sort to other women, especially if they be young and handsome: and as this species of fashionable nonsense can do you no good, why gratify your love of talk, or the vanity of any woman, at even the risk of exciting uneasiness in that mind of which it is your most sacred duty to preserve, if you can, the uninterrupted tranquillity.

196. The truth is, that the greatest security of all against jealousy in a wife is to show, to _prove_, by your _acts_, by your words also, but more especially by your _acts_, that you prefer her to all the world; and, as I said before, I know of no act that is, in this respect, equal to spending in her company every moment of your _leisure_ time. Every body knows, and young wives better than any body else, that people, who can choose, will be where _they like best to be_, and that they will be along with those _whose company they best like_. The matter is very plain, then, and I do beseech you to bear it in mind. Nor do I see the use, or sense, of keeping a great deal of _company_, as it is called. What company can a young man and woman want more than their two selves, and their children, if they have any? If here be not company enough, it is but a sad affair. The pernicious _cards_ are brought forth by the company-keeping, the rival expenses, the sittings up late at night, the seeing of '_the ladies home_,' and a thousand squabbles and disagreeable consequences. But, the great thing of all is, that this hankering after company, proves, clearly proves, that _you want something beyond the society of your wife_; and that she is sure to feel most acutely: the bare fact contains an imputation against her, and it is pretty sure to lay the foundation of jealousy, or of something still worse.

197. If acts of kindness in you are necessary in all cases, they are especially so in cases of her _illness_, from whatever cause arising. I will not suppose myself to be addressing any husband capable of being _unconcerned_ while his wife's life is in the most distant danger from illness, though it has been my very great mortification to know in my life time, two or three brutes of this description; but, far short of this degree of brutality, a great deal of fault may be committed. When men are ill, they feel every neglect with double anguish, and, what then must be in such cases the feelings of women, whose ordinary feelings are so much more acute than those of men; what must be their feelings in case of neglect in illness, and especially if the neglect come _from the husband_! Your own heart will, I hope, tell you what those feelings must be, and will spare me the vain attempt to describe them; and, if it do thus instruct you, you will want no arguments from me to induce you, at such a season, to prove the sincerity of your affection by every kind word and kind act that your mind can suggest. This is the time to try you; and, be you assured, that the impression left on her mind now will be the true and _lasting_ impression; and, if it be good, will be a better preservative against her being jealous, than ten thousand of your professions ten thousand times repeated. In such a case, you ought to spare no expense that you can possibly afford; you ought to neglect nothing that your means will enable you to do; for, what is the use of money if it be not to be expended in this case? But, more than all the rest, is your own _personal_ attention. This is the valuable thing; this is the great balm to the sufferer, and, it is efficacious in proportion as it is proved to be sincere. Leave nothing to other hands that you can do yourself; the mind has a great deal to do in all the ailments of the body, and, bear in mind, that, whatever be the event, you have a more than ample reward. I cannot press this point too strongly upon you; the bed of sickness presents no charms, no allurements, and women know this well; they watch, in such a case, your every word and every look: and now it is that their confidence is secured, or their suspicions excited, for life.

198. In conclusion of these remarks, as to jealousy in a wife, I cannot help expressing my abhorrence of those husbands who treat it as a matter for ridicule. To be sure, infidelity in a man is less heinous than infidelity in the wife; but still, is the marriage vow nothing? Is a promise solemnly made before God, and in the face of the world, nothing? Is a violation of a contract, and that, too, with a feebler party, nothing of which a man ought to be ashamed? But, besides all these, there is the _cruelty_. First, you win, by great pains, perhaps, a woman's affections; then, in order to get possession of her person, you marry her; then, after enjoyment, you break your vow, you bring upon her the mixed pity and jeers of the world, and thus you leave her to weep out her life. Murder is more horrible than this, to be sure, and the criminal _law_, which punishes divers other crimes, does not reach this; but, in the eye of reason and of moral justice, it is surpassed by very few of those crimes. _Passion_ may be pleaded, and so it may, for almost every other crime of which man can be guilty. It is not a crime _against nature_; nor are any of these which men commit in consequence of their necessities. _The temptation is great_; and is not the temptation great when men thieve or rob? In short, there is no excuse for an act so unjust and so cruel, and the world is just as to this matter; for, I have always observed, that, however men are disposed to _laugh_ at these breaches of vows in men, the act seldom fails to produce injury to the whole character; it leaves, after all the joking, a stain, and, amongst those who depend on character for a livelihood, it often produces ruin. At the very least, it makes an unhappy and wrangling family; it makes children despise or hate their fathers, and it affords an example at the thought of the ultimate consequences of which a father ought to shudder. In such a case, children will take part, and they ought to take part, with the mother: she is the injured party; the shame brought upon her attaches, in part, to them: they feel the injustice done them; and, if such a man, when the grey hairs, and tottering knees, and piping voice come, look round him in vain for a prop, let him, at last, be just, and acknowledge that he has now the due reward of his own wanton cruelty to one whom he had solemnly sworn to love and to cherish to the last hour of his or her life.

199. But, bad as is conjugal infidelity in the _husband_, it is much worse in the _wife_: a proposition that it is necessary to maintain by the force of reason, because _the women_, as a sisterhood, are prone to deny the truth of it. They say that _adultery_ is _adultery_, in men as well as in them; and that, therefore, the offence is _as great_ in the one case as in the other. As a crime, abstractedly considered, it certainly is; but, as to the _consequences_, there is a wide difference. In both cases, there is the breach of a solemn vow, but, there is this great distinction, that the husband, by his breach of that vow, only brings _shame_ upon his wife and family; whereas the wife, by a breach of her vow, may bring the husband a spurious offspring to maintain, and may bring that spurious offspring to rob of their fortunes, and in some cases of their bread, her legitimate children. So that here is a great and evident wrong done to numerous parties, besides the deeper disgrace inflicted in this case than in the other.

200. And why is the disgrace _deeper_? Because here is a total want of _delicacy_; here is, in fact, _prostitution_; here is grossness and filthiness of mind; here is every thing that argues baseness of character. Women should be, and they are, except in few instances, far more reserved and more delicate than men; nature bids them be such; the habits and manners of the world confirm this precept of nature; and therefore, when they commit this offence, they excite loathing, as well as call for reprobation. In the countries where a _plurality of wives_ is permitted, there is no _plurality of husbands_. It is there thought not at all indelicate for a man to have several wives; but the bare thought of a woman having _two husbands_ would excite horror. The _widows_ of the Hindoos burn themselves in the pile that consumes their husbands; but the Hindoo _widowers_ do not dispose of themselves in this way. The widows devote their bodies to complete destruction, lest, even after the death of their husbands, they should be tempted to connect themselves with other men; and though this is carrying delicacy far indeed, it reads to Christian wives a lesson not unworthy of their attention; for, though it is not desirable that their bodies should be turned into handfuls of ashes, even that transmutation were preferable to that infidelity which fixes the brand of shame on the cheeks of their parents, their children, and on those of all who ever called them friend.

201. For these plain and forcible reasons it is that this species of offence is far more heinous in the wife than in the husband; and the people of all civilized countries act upon this settled distinction. Men who have been guilty of the offence are not cut off from society, but women who have been guilty of it are; for, as we all know well, no woman, married or single, of _fair reputation_, will risk that reputation by being ever seen, if she can avoid it, with a woman who has ever, at any time, committed this offence, which contains in itself, and by universal award, a sentence of social excommunication for life.

202. If, therefore, it be the duty of the husband to adhere strictly to his marriage vow: if his breach of that vow be naturally attended with the fatal consequences above described: how much more imperative is the duty on the wife to avoid, even the semblance of a deviation from that vow! If the man's misconduct, in this respect, bring shame on so many innocent parties, what shame, what dishonour, what misery follow such misconduct in the wife! Her parents, those of her husband, all her relations, and all her friends, share in her dishonour. And _her children_! how is she to make atonement to them! They are commanded to honour their father and their mother; but not such a mother as this, who, on the contrary, has no claim to any thing from them but hatred, abhorrence, and execration. It is she who has broken the ties of nature; she has dishonoured her own offspring; she has fixed a mark of reproach on those who once made a part of her own body; nature shuts her out of the pale of its influence, and condemns her to the just detestation of those whom it formerly bade love her as their own life.

203. But as the crime is so much more heinous, and the punishment so much more severe, in the case of the wife than it is in the case of the husband, so the caution ought to be greater in making the accusation, or entertaining the suspicion. Men ought to be very slow in entertaining such suspicions: they ought to have clear _proof_ before they can _suspect_; a proneness to such suspicions is a very unfortunate turn of the mind; and, indeed, few characters are more despicable than that of a _jealous-headed husband_; rather than be tied to the whims of one of whom, an innocent woman of spirit would earn her bread over the washing-tub, or with a hay-fork, or a reap-hook. With such a man there can be no peace; and, as far as children are concerned, the false accusation is nearly equal to the reality. When a wife discovers her jealousy, she merely imputes to her husband inconstancy and breach of his marriage vow; but jealousy in him imputes to her a willingness to palm a spurious offspring upon him, and upon her legitimate children, as robbers of their birthright; and, besides this, grossness, filthiness, and prostitution. She imputes to him injustice and cruelty: but he imputes to her that which banishes her from society; that which cuts her off for life from every thing connected with female purity; that which brands her with infamy to her latest breath.

204. Very slow, therefore, ought a husband to be in entertaining even the thought of this crime in his wife. He ought to be _quite sure_ before he take the smallest step in the way of accusation; but if unhappily he have the proof, no consideration on earth ought to induce him to cohabit with her one moment longer. Jealous husbands are not despicable because they have _grounds_; but because they _have not grounds_; and this is generally the case. When they have grounds, their own honour commands them to cast off the object, as they would cut out a corn or a cancer. It is not the jealousy in itself, which is despicable; but the _continuing to live in that state_. It is no dishonour to be a slave in Algiers, for instance; the dishonour begins only where you remain a slave _voluntarily_; it begins the moment you can escape from slavery, and do not. It is despicable unjustly to be jealous of your wife; but it is infamy to cohabit with her if you _know_ her to be guilty.

205. I shall be told that the _law_ compels you to live with her, unless you be _rich_ enough to disengage yourself from her; but the law does not compel you to remain _in the same country with her_; and, if a man have no other means of ridding himself of such a curse, what are mountains or seas or traverse? And what is the risk (if such there be) of exchanging a life of bodily ease for a life of labour? What are these, and numerous other ills (if they happen) superadded? Nay, what is death itself, compared with the baseness, the infamy, the never-ceasing shame and reproach of living under the same roof with a prostituted woman, and calling her your _wife_? But, there are _children_, and what are to become of these? To be taken away from the prostitute, to be sure; and this is a duty which you owe to them: the sooner they forget her the better, and the farther they are from her, the sooner that will be. There is no excuse for continuing to live with an adultress; no inconvenience, no loss, no suffering, ought to deter a man from delivering himself from such a state of filthy infamy; and to suffer his children to remain in such a state, is a crime that hardly admits of adequate description; a jail is paradise compared with such a life, and he who can endure this latter, from the fear of encountering hardship, is a wretch too despicable to go by the name of man.

206. But, now, all this supposes, that the husband has _well and truly acted his part_! It supposes, not only that he has been faithful; but, that he has not, in any way, been the cause of temptation to the wife to be unfaithful. If he have been cold and neglectful; if he have led a life of irregularity; if he have proved to her that _home_ was not his delight; if he have made his house the place of resort for loose companions; if he have given rise to a taste for visiting, junketting, parties of pleasure and gaiety; if he have introduced the habit of indulging in what are called '_innocent freedoms_;' if these, or any of these, _the fault is his_, he must take the consequences, and he has _no right_ to inflict punishment on the offender, the offence being in fact of his own creating. The laws of God, as well as the laws of man, have given him all power in this respect: it is for him to use that power for the honour of his wife as well as for that of himself: if he neglect to use it, all the consequences ought to fall on him; and, as far as my observation has gone, in nineteen out of twenty cases of infidelity in wives, the crimes have been _fairly ascribable to the husbands_. Folly or misconduct in the husband, cannot, indeed, justify or even palliate infidelity in the wife, whose very nature ought to make her recoil at the thought of the offence; but it may, at the same time, deprive him of the right of inflicting punishment on her: her kindred, her children, and the world, will justly hold her in abhorrence; but the husband must hold his peace.

207. '_Innocent freedoms!_' I know of none that a wife can indulge in. The words, as applied to the demeanour of a married woman, or even a single one, imply a contradiction. For _freedom_, thus used, means an exemption or departure from the _strict rules of female reserve_; and, I do not see how this can be _innocent_. It may not amount to _crime_, indeed; but, still it is not _innocent_; and the use of the phrase is dangerous. If it had been my fortune to be yoked to a person, who liked 'innocent freedoms,' I should have unyoked myself in a very short time. But, to say the truth, it is all a man's own fault. If he have not sense and influence enough to prevent 'innocent freedoms,' even _before_ marriage, he will do well to let the thing alone, and leave wives to be managed by those who have. But, men will talk to your wife, and natter her. To be sure they will, if she be young and pretty; and would you go and pull her away from them? O no, by no means; but you must have very little sense, or must have made very little use of it, if her manner do not soon convince them that they employ their flattery in vain.

208. So much of a man's happiness and of his _efficiency_ through life depends upon his mind being quite free from all anxieties of this sort, that too much care cannot be taken to guard against them; and, I repeat, that the great preservation of all is, the young couple living as much as possible _at home_, and having as few visitors as possible. If they do not prefer the company of each other to that of all the world besides; if either of them be weary of the company of the other; if they do not, when separated by business or any other cause, think with pleasure of the time of meeting again, it is a bad omen. Pursue this course when young, and the very thought of jealousy will never come into your mind; and, if you do pursue it, and show by your _deeds_ that you value your wife as you do your own life, you must be pretty nearly an idiot, if she do not think you to be the wisest man in the world. The _best_ man she will be sure to think you, and she will never forgive any one that calls your talents or your wisdom in question.

209. Now, will you say that, if to be happy, nay, if to avoid misery and ruin in the married state, requires all these precautions, all these cares, to fail to any extent in any of which is to bring down on a man's head such fearful consequences; will you say that, if this be the case, _it is better to remain single_? If you should say this, it is my business to show that you are in error. For, in the first place, it is against nature to suppose that children can cease to be born; they must and will come; and then it follows, that they must come by promiscuous intercourse, or by particular connexion. The former nobody will contend for, seeing that it would put us, in this respect, on a level with the brute creation. Then, as the connexion is to be _particular_, it must be _during pleasure_, or for the _joint lives of the parties_. The former would seldom hold for any length of time: the tie would seldom be durable, and it would be feeble on account of its uncertain duration. Therefore, to be a _father_, with all the lasting and delightful ties attached to the name, you must first be a husband; and there are very few men in the world who do not, first or last, desire to be _fathers_. If it be said, that marriage ought not to be for life, but that its duration ought to be subject to the will, the _mutual will_ at least, of the parties; the answer is, that it would seldom be of long duration. Every trifling dispute would lead to a separation; a hasty word would be enough. Knowing that the engagement is for life, prevents disputes too; it checks anger in its beginnings. Put a rigging horse into a field with a weak fence, and with captivating pasture on the other side, and he is continually trying to get out; but, let the field be walled round, he makes the best of his hard fare, and divides his time between grazing and sleeping. Besides, there could be no _families_, no assemblages of persons worthy of that name; all would be confusion and indescribable intermixture: the names of _brother_ and _sister_ would hardly have a meaning; and, therefore, there must be marriage, or there can be nothing worthy of the name of family or of father.

210. The _cares_ and _troubles_ of the married life are many; but, are those of the single life few? Take the _farmer_, and it is nearly the same with the tradesman; but, take the farmer, for instance, and let him, at the age of twenty-five, go into business unmarried. See his maid servants, probably rivals for his smiles, but certainly rivals in the charitable distribution of his victuals and drink amongst those of their own rank: behold _their_ guardianship of his pork-tub, his bacon rack, his butter, cheese, milk, poultry, eggs, and all the rest of it: look at _their_ care of all his household stuff, his blankets, sheets, pillow-cases, towels, knives and forks, and particularly of his _crockery ware_, of which last they will hardly exceed a single cart-load of broken bits in the year. And, how nicely they will get up and take care of his linen and other wearing apparel, and always have it ready for him without his thinking about it! If absent at market, or especially at a distant fair, how scrupulously they will keep all their cronies out of his house, and what special care they will take of his _cellar_, more particularly that which holds the strong beer! And his groceries and his spirits and his _wine_ (for a bachelor can _afford_ it), how safe these will all be! Bachelors have not, indeed, any more than married men, a security for _health_; but if our young farmer be sick, there are his couple of maids to take care of him, to administer his medicine, and to perform for him all other nameless offices, which in such a case are required; and what is more, take care of every thing down stairs at the same time, especially his desk with the money in it! Never will they, good-humoured girls as they are, scold him for coming home too late; but, on the contrary, like him the better for it; and if he have drunk a little too much, so much the better, for then he will sleep late in the morning, and when he comes out at last, he will find that his men have been _so hard_ at work, and that all his animals have been taken such good care of!

211. Nonsense! a bare glance at the thing shows, that a farmer, above all men living, can never carry on his affairs with profit without a wife, or a mother, or a daughter, or some such person; and _mother_ and _daughter_ imply matrimony. To be sure, a wife would cause some _trouble_, perhaps, to this young man. There might be the midwife and nurse to gallop after at midnight; there might be, and there ought to be, if called for, a little complaining of late hours; but, good God! what are these, and all the other _troubles_ that could attend a married life; what are they, compared to the one single circumstance of the want of a wife at your bedside during one single night of illness! A nurse! what is a nurse to do for you? Will she do the things that a wife will do? Will she watch your looks and your half-uttered wishes? Will she use the urgent persuasions so often necessary to save life in such cases? Will she, by her acts, convince you that it is not a toil, but a delight, to break her rest for your sake? In short, now it is that you find that what the women themselves say is strictly true, namely, that without wives, _men are poor helpless mortals_.

212. As to the _expense_, there is no comparison between that of a woman servant and a wife, in the house of a farmer or a tradesman. The wages of the former is not the expense; it is the want of a _common interest_ with you, and this you can obtain in no one but a wife. But there are _the children_. I, for my part, firmly believe that a farmer, married at twenty-five, and having ten children during the first ten years, would be able to save more money during these years, than a bachelor, of the same age, would be able to save, on the same farm, in a like space of time, he keeping only one maid servant. One single fit of illness, of two months' duration, might sweep away more than all the children would cost in the whole ten years, to say nothing of the continual waste and pillage, and the idleness, going on from the first day of the ten years to the last.

213. Besides, is the money _all_? What a life to lead!! No one to talk to without going from home, or without getting some one to come to you; no friend to sit and talk to: pleasant evenings to pass! Nobody to share with you your sorrows or your pleasures: no soul having a common interest with you: all around you taking care of themselves, and no care of you: no one to cheer you in moments of depression: to say all in a word, no one to _love_ you, and no prospect of ever seeing any such one to the end of your days. For, as to parents and brethren, if you have them, they have other and very different ties; and, however laudable your feelings as son and brother, those feelings are of a different character. Then as to gratifications, from which you will hardly abstain altogether, are they generally of little expense? and are they attended with no trouble, no vexation, no disappointment, no _jealousy_ even, and are they never followed by shame or remorse?

214. It does very well in bantering songs, to say that the bachelor's life is '_devoid of care_.' My observation tells me the contrary, and reason concurs, in this regard, with experience. The bachelor has no one on whom he can in all cases rely. When he quits his home, he carries with him cares that are unknown to the married man. If, indeed, like the common soldier, he have merely a lodging-place, and a bundle of clothes, given in charge to some one, he may be at his ease; but if he possess any thing of a home, he is never sure of its safety; and this uncertainty is a great enemy to cheerfulness. And as to _efficiency_ in life, how is the bachelor to equal the married man? In the case of farmers and tradesmen, the latter have so clearly the advantage over the former, that one need hardly insist upon the point; but it is, and must be, the same in all the situations of life. To provide for a wife and children is the greatest of all possible spurs to exertion. Many a man, naturally prone to idleness, has become active and industrious when he saw children growing up about him; many a dull sluggard has become, if not a bright man, at least a bustling man, when roused to exertion by his love. Dryden's account of the change wrought in CYMON, is only a strong case of the kind. And, indeed, if a man will not exert himself for the sake of a wife and children, he can have no exertion in him; or he must be deaf to all the dictates of nature.

215. Perhaps the world never exhibited a more striking proof of the truth of this doctrine than that which is exhibited in me; and I am sure that every one will say, without any hesitation, that a fourth part of the labours I have performed, never would have been performed, _if I had not been a married man_. In the first place, they could not; for I should, all the early part of my life, have been rambling and roving about as most bachelors are. I should have had _no home_ that I cared a straw about, and should have wasted the far greater part of my time. The great affair of home being _settled_, having the home secured, I had leisure to employ my mind on things which it delighted in. I got rid at once of all cares, all _anxieties_, and had only to provide for the very moderate wants of that home. But the children began to come. They sharpened my industry: they spurred me on. To be sure, I had other and strong motives: I wrote for fame, and was urged forward by ill-treatment, and by the desire to triumph over my enemies; but, after all, a very large part of my _nearly a hundred volumes_ may be fairly ascribed to the wife and children.

216. I might have done _something_; but, perhaps, not a _thousandth_ part of what I have done; not even a thousandth part: for the chances are, that I, being fond of a military life, should have ended my days ten or twenty years ago, in consequence of wounds, or fatigue, or, more likely, in consequence of the persecutions of some haughty and insolent fool, whom nature had formed to black my shoes, and whom a system of corruption had made my commander. _Love_ came and rescued me from this state of horrible slavery; placed the whole of my time at my own disposal; made me as free as air; removed every restraint upon the operations of my mind, naturally disposed to communicate its thoughts to others; and gave me, for my leisure hours, a companion, who, though deprived of all opportunity of acquiring what is _called learning_, had so much good sense, so much useful knowledge, was so innocent, so just in all her ways, so pure in thought, word and deed, so disinterested, so generous, so devoted to me and her children, so free from all disguise, and, withal, so beautiful and so talkative, and in a voice so sweet, so cheering, that I must, seeing the health and the capacity which it had pleased God to give me, have been a _criminal_, if I had done much less than that which I have done; and I have always said, that, if my country feel any gratitude for my labours, that gratitude is due to her full as much as to me.

217. _'Care'!_ What _care_ have I known! I have been buffeted about by this powerful and vindictive Government; I have repeatedly had the fruit of my labour snatched away from me by it; but I had a partner that never frowned, that was never melancholy, that never was subdued in spirit, that never abated a smile, on these occasions, that fortified me, and sustained me by her courageous example, and that was just as busy and as zealous in taking care of the remnant as she had been in taking care of the whole; just as cheerful, and just as full of caresses, when brought down to a mean hired lodging, as when the mistress of a fine country house, with all its accompaniments; and, whether from her words or her looks, no one could gather that she regretted the change. What '_cares_' have I had, then? What have I had worthy of the name of '_cares_'?

218. And, how is it _now_? How is it when the _sixty-fourth year_ has come? And how should I have been without this wife and these children? I _might_ have amassed a tolerable heap of _money_; but what would that have done for me? It might have _bought_ me plenty of _professions_ of attachment; plenty of persons impatient for my exit from the world; but not one single grain of sorrow, for any anguish that might have attended my approaching end. To me, no being in this world appears so wretched as an _Old Bachelor_. Those circumstances, those changes in his person and in his mind, which, in the husband, increase rather than diminish the attentions to him, produce all the want of feeling attendant on disgust; and he beholds, in the conduct of the mercenary crew that generally surround him, little besides an eager desire to profit from that event, the approach of which, nature makes a subject of sorrow with him.