Hours with John Darby

Front matter

fLJBPtARY OF congress'

I UNITED STATES~OfTmERICA. ^

HOURS

I. Concerning A Wife

A WIFE, thou sayest.

And what for, my Lysias ?

Thou wouldst hear discourse thereon.

And so thou shalt ; for of all matters concerning which experience may speak to the edifying of inexperience ; of things which pertain most to comfort or discomfort ; of relations which affiliate or which antagonize; of joys which expand or which sodden ; nothing — of all the associations of earth — is there, which may comprise so much, or contain so little, as is embraced in the meaning of that one word — Wife.

A wife commences in dreams ; not of flesh and blood, but a divine phantom is that which flits about and which touches the young heart — the phantom is it of the rose — of the zephyr sighing for a something it wants — the phantom of the blushing cheek, of tell-tale lips, ripe, and pouting complaints of the unsipped lusciousness living in them. No face is seen by Youth as it is in reality. Over all, over everything, is the sheen. The 1* S e CONCERNING A WIFE.

breath of Love is ever that perfume which to the lover is sweetest. The glance of a love-lit eye, comes it from blue, black, or gray, is as the glory which falls at moments on mountain-tops, making bleak rocks golden. Look where Youth will, there is the divine thing — there is the sheen ; each wavelet reflects it, each hazewrapped cloudlet bears it ; the earth, the sky, the waters, are full of it ; brooks sing its song, winds are its wings ; even seas, which engulf and destroy, are seen as tributebearers to its heroism. Oh, thing divine — thing divine !

And poetry is a tribute-bearer \ for who, save in

rounded periods, and in the languid diminuendoes of scales, and of well-matched words, may find language fit for the telling of dreams apart from which there is nothing? — Ah! beautiful world of Love! the senses drunken, the appetite taking to its nourishment only the lotus — Eden.

Only the rustle of a robe — her robe ! Yet is a

heart set palpitating, and speech, a moment back loud and vaunting, is now become confused and faltering • shades red and pale fly at random, and limbs strong and lusty have fallen into weakness.

The whisper of a bride — a word so low spoken

that but one ear in all the wide world may catch the meaning. Yet is there music in the tone apart from which harmony has no chords but have become unstrung and tuneless; other sounds concern not, but are as things dead or meaningless. The black humors of life have been dispelled by that whisper — earth has drawn somewhat nearer heaven.

A wife, thou sayest.

There are, my Lysias, women who are such fools and idiots, that by some unwonted blunder on the part of nature they would seem to have grown into life naught else than animated blocks. . . . Yet — yet, on the other hand, are there a multitude so exquisite, so finely attuned, so over-full of the delicious, so enticing, so alluring, so all-satisfying, that kings and philosophers who bow down before them, who give crown and brains to them, who forget in their praise all other worship, who build altars to them, who live all of life in their presence and who die all of death in their absence — ah ! my scholar, he alone that knew not Servilla blames Caesar. A woman, Lysias, may be as the burr and thistle, which, a moment back, thou wouldst have lifted from the wayside had I not warned thee. She may be of a nature to hold fast by a husband, but the closer she sticks the more shall she worry and wound him. A woman, on the contrary, may be like unto a bath redolent of perfumes, not only purifying and cleansing him who comes to her freshness, but so recreating his senses, so stimulating with a modestly-tempered coolness, so exhilarating, and so intoxicating with the sweet things which live in her, that well may the lover let go under mouth and nostrils, deeming it happiness enough that such waters may drown and forever keep him. Ah, Lysias, but that the lover might so drown himself, and stay drowned ! Say we thus ? Let us not arrive at conclusions that are unwise. What is the peace of Age to the passion of Youth? What are cool bowers to heated furnaces? Tell us, Sophocles. How do you feel about Love ? And what answers the Boet ? " Hush, if you please : to my great delight, I have escaped from it, and feel as if I had escaped frpni a frantic and savage master." And what adds Cephalus? ''Sophocles," he says, ''speaks well, for unquestionably, when the appetites have abated, and their force is diminished, then is age; and age brings us profound repose and freedom."

And who is that wise man who has persisted in

defining Beauty as summer fruits, which are easy to corrupt and cannot last — which makes Youth dissolute and puts old men out of countenance — yet who, likewise must add, " that if it light well, it maketh virtue shine and vices blush" ?*

But beauty in woman is not so much of face and of form as of motive and action. She is wise who makes herself to look well, but she is wiser who acts well. It is ill advised in a woman to go without adornments, for dress is to a woman what feathers are to the bird, and that bird which bears brightest plumage affords most pleasure by the beauty it carries. But a bird brought to the cage tires quickly enough if feathers alone are the charm ; there should be voice, and movement, and winsome ways, and these, rather than the coloring, are what should be the attractions ; for a winsome woman does so delight her husband that never does it come to him to see that little by little the plumage is changing — as change it must that it may keep in accord with advancing years.

It is to be commended that a wife be able to oppose Latin with French, metaphysics with witty apothegms, melancholy with sprightliness, complainings with music, — and that she spend gracefully and appropriately what the husband shall earn manfully and sufficiently.

* Lord Bacon.

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A wife is not over-wisely made too much into a toy and a plaything, but heaven alone may preserve the nobility of that man who makes of her over-much a partner and helpmate. It is not in physics that a woman toil, it is not in metaphysics that a man sacrifice fine metal to mean purpose. Let pots be made of brass, but that which is to lift to the nostrils the fragrant bouquet, let it be coined from gold.

By which is meant, that the education and the

habits of a wife should so diifer from the pursuits of the husband, that, as she finds in his strength and solidity that in which she is, and should be, lacking, so, in compensation, the charms, the sprightliness, the sweet witcheries of life are to be found most abundantly in her. — A natural law is it, not to be disputed, neither argued away; that man is the House-band. — Woman would seem to be meant as a charming bow to the band, without which a band may be only a dull wrapping held by a knot.

A law of nature is it that a weak thing supports a stronger only at the expense of that which is the charm and beauty of the fragile. See a tree broken and fallen over, being kept from the ground by an intervening vine ; the vine is between the tree and the ground, true, but how sore pressed it looks — and is! How matted and tangled and bruised are the tendrils, how lost are the charms of the clinging and the twining!

A man — a well man — weak, and supported ; and a woman strong, and supporting, are among the most unnatural of the anomalies of nature, — hermaphrodites so universally repulsive that, with a common voice, all things cry out against the sorry relation. It is for a

A* lO CONCERNING A WIFE.

rock to bear up moss ; it is for a wall to hold peachboughs, which, in return, cover the dull face with charms that artists pause before and carry away in copies. It is for a steeple to lift heavenward the gilded delicate vane which is the ornament and finish of the pile. But a man — a great, strong man — leaning against a weak and delicate woman — faugh ! the stones by the wayside might blush.

Expect a woman to play the parts both of wife and man ; expect complacency and soft greetings where are encountered only grumblings and hard knocks ; expect the pressure of velvet-like hands where scarf-skin is thickened and made horny by contact with pans and kettles ; expect the breath of roses where are fed only onions ; expect a tired, over-worked, man-crushed woman to vie with the beauty that surrounds, and then to grow into a disgust for her because her face looks weary and her limbs deny the graces of the dance — faugh ! you poor brute of an apology, rather ask yourself if even you are worthy of the hack into which you have converted your gazelle.

By which is not meant that a woman, parasitelike, is to take everything, giving back nothing. Gives the air nothing to him who fans it ? gives the flower nothing to him who tends and waters it? gives the grand poem nothing to him who, through weary hours, regardless of the toil which is carrying with it the color of his cheek, ponders over it, making it his own ? It is to be told thee, my Lysias, that a wife gives most when, to one dull and unobservant, she may seem to be giving least; for is not that which affords to a man energy, life, and the desire to do battle with his needs

CONCERNING A WIFE. H

and necessities, giving in its fulness? and come not such gifts from a beloved one? Who that loves but is made eager to place himself between his object and that which threatens it ? Who that loves but is made strong and manly through his passion ?

And he who is not thus made strong is not a

lover, and the bride is to be pitied. Such a man shall never come to distinguish between diamond and paste ; and when, in marriage, he commences the destruction of the beautiful thing which has come to him, he inaugurates a crime which his whole future life will show to be unpardonable, for his sin will be found to cover him with confusion, with penury, and with shame ; or, if it be that the vine, in its weak way, shall keep him from falling to the earth, then is it that he must find even in greater fulness the wretchedness of a position which continues on exhibition' his degradation and utter unworthiness.

A secret, my Lysias, I breathe into thy ear : He who would possess an angel may himself ?nake o?ie.

How? thou askest.

Through praise. — Tell a wife twenty times a day that she is an angel ; be surprised that thou seest not wings ; and not more surely in the grafting is the quince made to bear pears, than shall thy plant be brought to bring thee heavenly fruit.

Praise, do we call it ? scarcely this is it ; give

title where title belongs ; call her an angel who is one, that, being constantly reminded of her high nature, she descend not to mean things.

A wife !

Like unto rings found in the ears of women — see these I show thee, Lysias : outside, — paraded to the world, — ^jewels; inside, — hoUowness, emptiness, nothingness.

An angel may be a fallen one, and women assuredly there are who are not so good as that which belongs to their first estate ; shrews, vixens, and pestilence-breeders, who do create about them an atmosphere so sulphurous, that for breathing purposes one may not expect to find worse in the pit itself. — The house-top, even on a stormy night, is better than the luxurious chamber in which blusters and scolds a vixen.

Neither is it well for a lover that a wife be found

too tame, for tameness is insipidity, and insipidity has nought of invitation in it ; even the blood-firing Verzenay is without enticement if it sparkle not.

Yet let it be well seen to, my scholar, when the wife comes to thee, that, careless of thy good, thou lose not of thine own fault the sparkle ; for surely is it the case, as has been found in the experience of all indifferent lovers, that a neglected wife may not of her nature retain the bead any more than may neglected wine ; and so, women and wine being in such respect alike, he is not to complain who, of his own indiscretion, loses the one or the other.

But the vixen, thou sayest, the born vixen, incurable, unimpressible.

Pitiable owner of such a monstrosity ! Let her be driven to a nunnery, my scholar; and let it be a strong place, built of heavy stone ; or, still better, speed her to the devil, that thus the more quickly she may get with her kind, for strongly does it come to me to believe that a vixen is not a real woman, — body and soul, — but a wandering fiend, who, going up and down in the earth, has dispossessed of its tabernacle some beauteous one, and thus plays her part of a she-Mephistopheles. I would also add the whisper in thy ear that a wise man gets clear of a devil as best he may, and as quickly as he can.

About the angels ?

Well suggested, Lysias. An angel wife is a possession so sweet, so rapturous, so full of all wealth, so overflowing with all good, that he is utterly void of wisdom who searches not the world over but that he find such treasure. Is a man ugly ? in the reflectipn he sees himself beautified. Is he an unfortunate ? her consolations enrich him. Is he a castaway? in her passion he finds himself lifted up. Ah, my scholar, who but the husband may know of a thousand nameless charms, charms so potent that all atmospheres, save that which surrounds the beloved one, are as dreary fogs and depressing vapors — are as emptiness when compared with fulness ?

An angel!

It is, that as lions' whelps are few, so are vixens scarce. She that has bitten not, let her not be esteemed to have fangs. See the angel of Antheros : tall, not too tall ; slender, not too slender; delicate, not too delicate; teeth even, and white, and of such symmetry that the very light seems to enjoy its constant play among them ; forehead low, not too low; hair golden, sun-glimpses playing forever at hide-and-seek with two tresses found kissing and toying eternally with the alabaster neck ; a chin of tender size ; and eyes — eyes, my Lysias, that,

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as I have seen them a hundred times, glisten, and glow, and grow suffused with rapturous tears as mirth or sentiment comes to them. And then her nature — ah, my good scholar, dream thou a dream of a something all softness, like unto the dove, like unto melody, like unto the zephyrs of summer nights, like unto the beauty which poets catch and imprison in their verses, like unto the tints which come to artists in moments of inspiration ; and in such a dream imagine, for no words may describe, her whose name signifies — but perhaps the signification is to Antheros alone.

And whence come such charms, thou askest.

Ah, Lysias, thou questionest from not having learned the secret of love — find in a single couplet the text thou art to understand ;

" Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, Fauhless, immortal, till they change or die ;"

— for who shall love but that he values, and who value but that he takes care? — Takes care. Heed a lesson, my Lysias. There be husbands many, very many, who so continuously keep themselves begrimed and defiled with filthy defects in morals and manners, that from their blackness a shadow falls upon all from whom they may shut out the sunshine ; and what plant, howsoever beautiful, — be it wife or flower, — but withers and grows pale if it have for sustenance naught but shadow ? May a bloom show itself to night ? is fragrance to be perceived when the winds of the tornado bow the rose? A most sensitive flame is that which burns in the eye of a wife ; more delicate than the velvet of the soft peach is the ripened love which plays its mad pranks from pouting lips — it paints the lips, it pours nectar over them, it deluges them with perfumes, it breathes from them music of such utterance that senses become steeped and lost in Lethe — and yet — yet, even as the bloom of the fruit is marred by so little a matter as a rude touch, so love may be unsettled and put to flight by a vulgar word or an unguarded action.

Handle a wife, when she come to thee, as a jewel is handled ) keep her in soft places, that the gloss be not injured ; hold her at length of arm, that the gleam may enter thy heart \ wear her upon thy bosom, that thereby thou shalt thyself be made beautiful ; gloat over thy possession in secret, because that a something so priceless belongs to thee.

Men I have seen, my scholar, who use wives as coals are used — burn them for purposes of heat, for purposes of cookery — burn all the life out of them ; and even at last, when the hearth-place holds alone dead ashes, these are economized that paths may be made for base feet to walk over wet places dry-shod.

And what is to come from burned coals but

ashes? and from scattered embers what but a dead pathway? — a pathway that leads never to possessions in Spain !

Possessions in Spain ! Woods and running streams, castles, firesides, and a charming " Prue" for the armchair lacking an occupant — never to lead to these.

A dreamer dreaming dreams of home joys — joys which are or which are not to be his. Ah ! pleasing, yet too often seductive stories read in the pages of a glowing grate; some story of quiet loving days and peaceful nights, some other one of a Lizzie or Mary or Letitia who is to make from a small income plentythrough frugality and management. A cottage led to by a lane arbored with apple-blossoms ; the soothing murmur of some streamlet which all night is to sing its song as it runs among the rocks at the foot of a garden ; window-curtains formed of fragrant jasmine whose roots keep themselves warm in winter by living beneath a quaint porch ; some story of a love all our own, a story of dreams dreamed together — of daffodils and violets in spring-time — a story of a glowing hearth burning brighter and brighter through many, many winters, to go out only in the dark December of a life-year so distant, so very distant, that we trouble ourself nothing at all about it.

No Titbottom's spectacles.*

Angels, nymphs, or at least women, — ah ! those truthtelling spectacles ; not even women, but only broomsticks, mops, or kettles hurrying about, rattling and tinkling in a state of shrill activity. Good Easy-Chair, is it that SHE, the statue of perfect form, of flowing movements, was found by thee no warmer or softer than marble — than ice? And it was true sadness, was it, to find that so many, being without spectacles, '* thought the iron rod to be flexible, and the ice statue warm ; to see so many a gallant heart, which seemed brave and loyal as the crusaders, pursuing through days and nights, and a long life of devotion, the hope of lighting at least a smile in the cold eyes, if not a fire in the icy heart — to see the earnest, enthusiastic sacrifice, the

* Prue and I. — Curtis.

pure resolve, the generous faith, the fine scorn of doubt, the impatience of suspicion, to watch the grace, the ardor, the glory of devotion, to see the noblest heart renouncing all other hope, all other ambition, all other life, than the possible love of some one of these statues" — terrible, was it, *' that they had no heart to give, the face polished and smooth because there was no sorrow in the heart, — and drearily, often, no heart to be touched"?

Who shall be found able to bear the disappointment of a broken dream? glowing, blazing, life-giving coals all come to ashes; the elegant '* Aurelia," who has given the enjoyment " of the gloss of silk, the delicacy of lace, the glitter of jewels," found to be only **a peacock's feather, flounced, and furbelowed, and fluttering;" or **an iron rod, thin, sharp, and hard;" the *' movement of the drapery" by no possibility to be mistaken '' for any flexibility of the thing draped."

A wife, and a fireside.

An easy-chair opposite your own, and a little

foot that poises its pretty self on the head of the fire-dog. And she who sits in the easy-chair yours for life, yours for better or for worse, — for weal or for woe. You talk to her about your dreams, your aspirations, your prospects. Will she deny herself affluence that you may pursue your work? Will she grow philosophical with you and smile at the giddy passers running their useless chases after will-o'-the-wisps? Will she hum sweet tunes which you shall weave into words for the clothing and the ornamenting of your thoughts? — Or, will the foot beat a testy tattoo? Will the voice hum no inspiring airs, but the rather rain into your ears such showers of complaint and repining and querulous 2* worryings that naught shall remain but to fly hope and dreams and love, all in a run that shall carry you far, away far from your land of promise out into a sea which you had trusted never to sail upon ?

A terrible mistake indeed is that which discovers not in the stolen robes the imposture of the wolf; truly shall it be found that a wolf snarls and growls and eats away a man's heart — what may one do but give up, save that he fight, fight on, fight forever — a hopeless battle ?

Or, a wife may be without mind of her own,

unstable as water is changeable; the waif of circumstances ; admiring a husband where others praise him ; doubting and indifferent where others find fault — never constant either for good or for evil. It is a life of unrest indeed that a man leads with himself, when only a thing so frail has he to comfort him.

Antheros is a censor of books, and a most variable one, sending at times shafts which bring great drops from the weary, hopeless hearts of unsuccessful authors — pouring at other times balm and praise which gloss over and conceal a multitude of faults. A critic of much judgment is Antheros pronounced to be ; yet a pity is it that he who has his book condemned should not have consolation in knowing that the tenor of what is said comes not truly from the brain of the fault-finder, but rather from the fingers of her who sits at the piano in the room which adjoins the library. A truth it is, that the critic catches and imprisons in his lines the harmony of a melody which at times entrances and enraptures, and which might well convert wormwood itself into honey ; and so it comes that even he who

CONCERNING A WIFE.

has written ill may find himself praised because of the caught melody which unconsciously Antheros has imprisoned in what he indites under the delicious inspiration. So again it may happen that the fingers shall strike the notes with less emotion, or the song may be melancholy. And now, though thought was found ocean deep, or strain Homeric, yet has Antheros no emotion, no sprightliness, no kind word ; nothing but carping, scathing condemnation. — Yet it is not Antheros who condemns, but the unconscious fingers in the drawing-room.

All notes may not be glad notes, all songs may

not be sprightly songs ; fingers at times will become weary, as, alas ! in time they must lose their cunning and grow cold and pulseless. A sad knowledge is it that she who occupies the other easy-chair — be she as the bride of Antheros — must some time or other be parted from, — she will go, — go away, never to come back, — and all that shall be left behind will be the memory of a harmony that was. Ah ! how then will be longed for the broken notes, — alas ! melancholy in truth will it then be. — No dainty foot to tease the fire-dog ; no ear into which to pour stories not to find a listener elsewhere, — the bright fire, ashes indeed, and nothing left wherewith to renew the glow : desire itself buried in the coffin upon which rest heavy earth-clods.

A coffin.

A coffin, and a wife.

Bring now to your support that philosophy which is to buoy over a thousand trials — alas ! what a bundle of weak reeds ! how one and all bend and break under the weight you rest upon them ! Shall the philosopher philosophize, and a dead wife — his wife — lying cold, and stark, and pulseless, in her grave ? — Never, alas ! never, unless indeed it be that his own heart is also dead and buried ; resting in a common grave with the other. — It is to philosophize when die other men's wives, — and when are buried other men's hopes.

A flat denial, thou sayest, of all that a philosopher should affirm, and for what he should contend.

Another whisper in thy ear, my scholar ! With the memories of divine strains poured even into my own soul by the poetry-compelling fingers of the wife of Antheros, there has passed before my eyes the vision of a coffin, and in it a pale cold face, which has brought ice to my heart, and which does so environ me with a sense of the nothingness that may come, — that may some time come, — alas ! that will come, either to husband or to wife, — that senses grow dull, and even imagination, cowering, thinks not where else consolation exists, if it be not like unto the fraction of warmth found sometimes among ashes even when the glow of the coals has long departed.

***** Let us pause, Lysias, that, stretching ourselves full length in these easy-chairs which so bountifully give comfortable support to us, we may look into the full grate wherein the coals are as glowing, thank God, as ever it has been our lot to behold them, and while, without, rages a winter's storm, and fitfully and threateningly the cold rain dashes against the windowpanes, — yet, — more thanks to God, — no coffin has, as yet, crossed the office-door by which run the steps passing to the chamber, — to her chamber, — never has there been lack of coals wherewith to keep the grate aglow,

— there are yet no memories laden with sadness. — Let us dream on,* my scholar; for us there is in the world neither death nor regret.

A wife.

Think, Lysias, that the cozy office wherein we sit is all thine own. Now will it take little imagination that thy dull teacher shall be made to vanish, and that his place be occupied by one whose eyes are dreams themselves, — sweet dreams, soft dreams, dreams in which are to be felt the tinklings of heart-music ; dreams so full of light, and heat, and flame, that the grate falls poor and dull in the comparison. The foot on the head of the fire-dog is not thine own foot, yet it belongs to thee, — and what a pretty, dainty foot it is ! it is not the skill of the maker, but the rich arch of the instep, the delicate contour of the ankle, which renders the gaiter, with its strapped lacings, the jauntiest thing thou hast ever beheld ; and with \yhat a grace falls the hem of the velvet skirt about the base of the fender ! — look not up too hastily, for a pair of lips which are as blooming carnations are pouting at the passivity which keeps the easy-chairs so far apart. Ah, Lysias, thou dog, thou enviable dog, push close, deny not the arm which longs to steal around the tempting neck, — kiss the blushes from the lips. — Ah ! youth ; beautiful youth. Who, if he were not a philosopher, but would be Lysias ?