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NOTHING is more common in these times-and, indeed, at all times-than to hear men complaining of their wives, and quoting the example of Xanthippe, as an argument against the respectable institution of matrimony. One will rail against their extravagance; another against their love of pleasure; another against their ambition of rule; another against their vanity, and another against their spirit of contradiction. In short, there is no end to the charges brought forward against the better-halves of more than half the married men of the present age.

But nothing is more easy than to prove, that what is called a bad wife is the greatest blessing that ever fell to the lot of mortal man. Take Socrates, for example, who is, by common consent, acknowledged, as the most virtuous of all the pagan philosophers. There can be no reasonable doubt that this superiority was, in a great degree, owing to his wife, who is equally renowned as the greatest shrew of all antiquity. It was she that taught him his philosophy. It was to her he was indebted for his habit of indifference to all the ills of life; for his submission to misfortune; his perfect command of temper; his abstinence from excesses of every kind, and his indifference to life. Without doubt, much of that philosophic coolness with which he swallowed the dose of hemlock juice, may be fairly ascribed to the lessons he had learned from his excellent wife, Xanthippe, who had taught him the real value of sublunary enjoyments He left nothing to regret, and so he died like a philosopher.

It would be equally easy to adduce various other instances of illus trious men of antiquity, the fear of whose wives overcame the apprehension of death, and who became heroes abroad, entirely on the score of being cowards at home. But such an enumeration might prove somewhat tedious, and we shall content ourselves with sta ting a modern instance which fell under our own personal observation, in the hope that, after this, we shall hear no more idle complaints against bad wives. It will go far to prove that what is called, by mistake, a good wife-one who never contradicts her husband, always approves of what he says and does, and permits him to do just as he pleases-is the greatest misfortune that can fall to the lot of man, and sooner or later brings him to utter ruin.

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Frank Weatherhead was an only son; and his father dying when very young, he fell exclusively under the care of a weak, but affectionate, mother. We are aware it is customary to lay the faults of young men at the doors of indulgent mothers, and that this is considered a sufficient apology. A poor excuse, they say, is better than none; and, in our opinion, of those who lay their ruin to a mother, a large portion may lay it to themselves. Lord Byron is held up as an illustrious example; but those who look closely and impartially at his conduct early in life, will probably be inclined to suspect that the evil spirit which led him astray, was not that of a parent. His nature was untameable by any process of domestic discipline, and the long continued errors of his life can receive as little apology from the example of his mother, as from the alleged waywardness of genius. Byron was naturally unamiable and vicious. His writings have done much to diffuse a false taste as well as false principles. Any one may yield, at times, to the force of immediate temptation; but he who can sit in his closet, abstracted from the seductions of the world, and coolly and deliberately indulge his imagination in abstractions of licentiousness or immorality, must be bad by nature; since he sins without the apology of temptation.

Be this as it may, Frank Weatherhead was certainly indulged to excess. He was an only child; his mother was a widow, and he was heir to a plentiful fortune. In his boyhood he studied little, and spent a great deal of time as well as money in idle pleasures. He became early his own master, and his mother died just about the period he came of age. Having exhausted, or rather becoming tired of, the round of pleasures afforded by his native country, he went abroad; staid three or four years; grew tired of post-chaises, pictures, Paris, and the Palais Royal, and returned home, a little more spoiled than he went abroad. He had spent much of his time among women, who admire a man for his money; and having plenty of this, he was of course very much admired and vain of his person. Having seen all the fine pictures and statues of Europe, he valued himself on his taste, and did little but find fault with every thing he saw on his return home. In short, he was mentally and personally vain, ireful, impetuous, extravagant and overbearing. It was plain that he was destined to be an unhappy man, unless some fortunate circumstance, or train of events, interposed to restrain him in the indulgence of these faults. His vanity would subject him to a life of mortification; his wilfulness lead him into perpetual errors; his impetuosity into frequent dangers; his extravagance ruin his fortune; and his overbearing habits incapacitate him for the enjoyment of society, since he could not endure contradiction.

It is a common saying, that when a man becomes satiated with the empty delights of the world, and has in some measure disqualified himself for the enjoyments of domestic pleasures, he begins to think

of marrying. His case being desperate, requires desperate remedies. Accordingly, Frank, after fluttering about from one resort of fashion to another, and exhausting all the delights of watering places, seabathing, and the Falls of Niagara, began to relapse into that doleful limbo called ennui, which seems to have been intended by Providence as a sort of leveller, to bring down the votaries of pleasure to an equality of happiness with the sons and daughters of toil. He had a little touch of dyspepsy, too, which is another levelling principle, by which those who indulge their appetites too much, are brought to an equality with those who have more appetite than food.

All at once, Frank determined to marry and reform, instead of reforming and marrying,-which philosophers consider the better way. But Frank proved himself in the right at last, as will appear in the sequel. With the sagacity acquired in the great school of the world, he chose a quiet, retired young lady, brought up in the country, under rigid and severe parents, who had scarcely ever permitted her the indulgence of her own will on the most innocent occasions. The wise men of the world considered this perpetual curb the best security for future obedience, not happening to recollect that even the patient Ox sometimes cuts a caper when relieved from the yoke. The young lady was, moreover, a stranger to all the temptations of pleasure, and had never been contaminated by the example of its votaries. Frank concluded, with equal wisdom, that this total abstinence from dissipation must have rendered her perfectly indifferent to its fascinations. Her parents supplied all her necessities, and as she was totally unacquainted with the mischievous art of spending money, she could have no temptation to extravagance; at least so thought Frank, who had travelled and seen the world. But so thought not the young lady. They had agreed to marry, but it was with exactly opposite views. Frank was resolved to retire from the world, to the indulgence of a system of economy that might in time repair his somewhat shattered fortune; while the lady was equally resolved to enter upon a life of pleasure, spend as much money as she pleased, and make herself amends for a life of slavery, by doing as she liked ever afterwards. Contrast is the parent of love; it is then no wonder that Frank and Ellenor fell in love, and were married.

It is agreed, on all hands, that married people are always happy for one month, let what will happen. It is presumed that this exemption from the ills which flesh is heir to, arises from their not contradicting each other. Frank enjoyed the usual exemption, but his troubles commenced the very first day after the expiration of the brief matrimonial millennium. There was an invitation to a grand ball to be answered, and they could not agree about the answer.

"I did not marry to indulge in a life of dissipation," quoth he.

"I did," thought Ellenor; but she was as yet not thoroughly initiated in the license of contradiction.

"My dearest Ellenor," and he kissed her-"I am determined to sacrifice all my old habits to yours. I am tired of the empty pleasures of the world, and to show you that in future I mean to conform to your wishes, in all respects-mean to give up balls and parties!

"The deuce you do," thought Ellenor; and this time she had to bite her tongue to prevent giving it utterance.

"Yes," said the new-born philosopher-"Yes, what is pleasure but emptiness and vanity? A bubble that, after chasing all our lives, bursts the moment we attempt to grasp it. A shadow of nonentity-a-a-but, my dear Ellenor, you are tearing that beautiful flower to pieces, that I gave you this morning! As I was saying, you and I will retire into that snug nestling place, the domestic circle, to the enjoyment of those heartfelt delights that-"

"I'll be switched if I do," thought Ellenor, and this time the words would out, in spite of her teeth.

"You'll be what?" asked Frank, almost gasping for breath"what did you say, Ellenor?"

It is affirmed, that in certain countries the cold is so extreme as to freeze the very words before people can utter them, and that when a thaw comes, there is an awful explosion of the vernacular, sorely trying the stoutest nerves. Something of this sort happened on the present occasion. The inclinations as well as the tongue of poor Ellenor, had been, as it were, frozen up for a succession of years in the cold atmosphere of domestic tyranny, and she had, as before stated, married not to retire from, but to enter upon, the world. To be thus taken in was more than she could bear, and the pent up feelings of twenty years exploded at once in a torrent of words. Passion is a sore enemy to good breeding, and if Ellenor, on this occasion of uncontrollable provocation, should discourse a little contrary to its censors, it must be laid to the account of a momentary excitement, which philanthropic jurymen sometimes consider a sufficient apology for committing murder. When Frank asked her what she said, her apology was as follows:

"I say, Mr. Weatherhead"—which she pronounced on this occasion, Featherhead-"I say that you may, if you please, retire from the world, to the indulgence of domestic felicity; but for my part, I had enough of domestic felicity before marriage, to give me a surfeit of it for the rest of my life. You may talk about bubbles, but you wont bubble me; and as to shadows and nonentities—I—I—its a shame, Mr. Featherhead, to deceive a young woman in this cruel manner. I thought I was going to live a life of pleasure-to do as I pleased-go where I pleased--spend as much money as I pleasedand now I find I must content myself with domestic felicity! You

cruel, barbarous man! Ugh! You are as ugly as sin, and I wonder I ever thought you handsome!" Here she burst into a torrent of tears, and it was all over with Mr. Weatherhead. He gave in at the first round, and the invitation was accepted.

One cannot go to a ball without a new dress, which costs a great deal of money now-a-days, though milliners and mantua-makers, every body (but those who pay) knows, are the most reasonable people in the world. It is recorded that one of them was actually admitted into the Paradise of Fools, where she met a large portion of her customers, merely on showing one of her bills. Not to be tedious, Frank was fain to open his pocket-book, if not his heart, and Ellenor was so grateful, that she came all the way back from the parlour door to kiss him. When Mrs. Weatherhead returned, she brought two new dresses, just from Paris, because, as she observed, it was certain she should want them both in the course of the winter. Frank was well enough satisfied that the money had held out so well, until the lady produced a long bill without receipt. He then commenced a tender expostulation, which was brought to an untimely end, by Ellenor exclaiming "Lord, Mr. Weatherhead, the thing is done, and there's no use in talking."

They went to the ball; and Ellenor, conscious of her ignorance of the ton on these occasions, resolved to do exactly as she saw others do; for of all the imitative animals in the world, not excepting monkeys, a devotee of fashion is the most servile. She observed that wives took not the least notice of their husbands, nor husbands of their wives, and accordingly never looked at or spoke to Frank, except to huff the poor gentleman a little when he ventured to come near her. Frank returned home that night, or rather morning, with his opinion of himself somewhat lowered, and ere the second month of his marriage had expired, his personal vanity was fast changing into a most becoming humility. "Certainly," quoth he, "I cannot be so handsome as I thought myself, or Ellenor would scarcely prefer the society of every other man to mine."

The opinion he entertained with regard to his genius, acquirements, and knowledge of the world, was not destined long to survive his estimate of his personal accomplishments. Ellenor uniformly preferred the sentiments of every other man to his own, and ten times a day would exclaim, "Lord, my dear, for a sensible man, you certainly are the greatest fool I ever met with!" If at any time Frank undertook to make a bargain, or negotiate an affair in relation to his property, or any trifling matter, it was the same thing. He was always wrong, and never failed of being saluted with, "Lord, Mr. Featherhead, what a wrong-headed, left-handed man you are! You know no more of business than the man in the moon." When a wife compares her husband to that old gentleman, he is in a bad way; and accordingly, in a little time, Frank began to have a still

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