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The Wedding Guest

T >> T.S. Arthur >> The Wedding Guest



THE WEDDING GUEST:

A FRIEND OF THE BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.

EDITED BY T.S. ARTHUR.

CHICAGO, ILL.:

1856.






THERE is no relation in life so important--none involving so much of
happiness or misery, as that of husband and wife. Yet, how rarely is
it, that the parties when contracting this relation, have large
experience, clear insight into character, or truly know themselves!
In each other, they may have the tenderest confidence, and for each
other the warmest love; but, only a brief time can pass ere they
will discover that the harmonious progression of two minds, each of
which has gained an individual and independent movement is not
always a thing of easy attainment. Too soon, alas! is felt a jar of
discord--too soon self-will claims an individual freedom of action
that is not fully accorded; and unless there is wisdom and
forbearance, temporary or permanent unhappiness is sure to follow.

Much has been written on the true relation of married partners, and
we cannot do a better service to the bride and bridegroom, than by
gathering words of wisdom on this subject from all sources within
our reach, and presenting them in as attractive a form as possible.
And this we have done in the present volume, to which, as the
title-page indicates, we bear only the relation of editor. In it
will be found pictures of life, serious counsel, earnest admonition,
and hints and suggestions, which, if wisely followed, will keep the
sky bright with sunshine, or scatter the gathering clouds ere they
break in angry storms. May this "WEDDING GUEST" receive as warm a
welcome as we desire.






CONTENTS.





THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE 7
THE WIFE 14
MARRIAGE 30
THE BRIDE'S SISTER 34
LOVE vs. HEALTH 35
THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER 45
TO AN ABSENT WIFE 57
THE WORD OF PRAISE 58
LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE FROM A MARRIED LADY 71
THE WIFE 82
BE GENTLE WITH THY WIFE 83
A TRUE TALE OF LIFE 84
MAN AND WOMAN 102
THE FAIRY WIFE--AN APOLOGUE 106
A BRIEF HISTORY, IN THREE PARTS, WITH A SEQUEL 109
ELMA'S MISSION 111
LIVING LIKE A LADY 128
LADY LUCY'S SECRET 133
A WORD FOR WIVES 144,
NO JEWELLED BEAUTY 147
THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY 148
ONLY A FEW WORDS 156
THE TWO HOMES 163
LOVE'S FAIRY RING 170
FANNIE'S BRIDAL 172
THE LOVER AND THE HUSBAND 182
NELLIE 185
A HOME IN THE HEART 192
A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL 193
TRIFLES 205
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS 224
A SYLVAN MORALITY; OR, A WORD TO WIVES 282
PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY 245
HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS 254
THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE 285






THE WEDDING GUEST.

THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE.





"WE shall certainly be very happy together!" said Louise to her aunt
on the evening before her marriage, and her cheeks glowed with a
deeper red, and her eyes shone with delight. When a bride says _we_,
it may easily be guessed whom of all persons in the world she means
thereby.

"I do not doubt it, dear Louise," replied her aunt. "See only that
you _continue_ happy together."

"Oh, who can doubt that we shall continue so! I know myself. I have
faults, indeed, but my love for him will correct them. And so long
as we love each other, we cannot be unhappy. Our love will never
grow old."

"Alas!" sighed her aunt, "thou dost speak like a maiden of nineteen,
on the day before her marriage, in the intoxication of wishes
fulfilled, of fair hopes and happy omens. Dear child, remember
this--_even the heart in time grows cold._ Days will come when the
magic of the senses shall fade. And when this enchantment has fled,
then it first becomes evident whether we are truly worthy of love.
When custom has made familiar the charms that are most attractive,
when youthful freshness has died away, and with the brightness of
domestic life, more and more shadows have mingled, then, Louise, and
not till then, can the wife say of the husband, 'He is worthy of
love;' then, first, the husband say of the wife, 'She blooms in
imperishable beauty.' But, truly, on the day before marriage, such
assertions sound laughable to me."

"I understand you, dear aunt. You would say that our mutual virtues
alone can in later years give us worth for each other. But is not he
to whom I am to belong--for of myself I can boast nothing but the
best intentions--is he not the worthiest, noblest of all the young
men of the city? Blooms not in his soul, every virtue that tends to
make life happy?"

"My child," replied her aunt, "I grant it. Virtues bloom in thee as
well as in him; I can say this to thee without flattery. But, dear
heart, they bloom only, and are not yet ripened beneath the sun's
heat and the shower. No blossoms deceive the expectations more than
these. We can never tell in what soil they have taken root. Who
knows the concealed depths of the heart?"

"Ah, dear aunt, you really frighten me."

"So much the better Louise. Such fear is right; such fear is as it
should be on the evening before marriage. I love thee tenderly, and
will, therefore, declare all my thoughts on this subject without
disguise. I am not as yet an old aunt. At seven-and-twenty years,
one still looks forward into life with pleasure, the world still
presents a bright side to us. I have an excellent husband. I am
happy. Therefore, I have the right to speak thus to thee, and to
call thy attention to a secret which perhaps thou dost not yet know,
one which is not often spoken of to a young and pretty maiden, one,
indeed, which does not greatly occupy the thoughts of a young man,
and still is of the utmost importance in every household: a secret
from which alone spring lasting love and unalterable happiness."

Louise seized the hand of her aunt in both of hers. "Dear aunt! you
know I believe you in everything. You mean, that enduring happiness
and lasting love are not insured to us by accidental qualities, by
fleeting charms, but only by those virtues of the mind which bring
to each other. These are the best dowry which we can possess; these
never become old."

"As it happens, Louise. The virtues also, like the beauties of the
body, can grow old, and become repulsive and hateful with age."

"How, dearest aunt! what is it you say? Name me a virtue which can
become hateful with years."

"When they have become so, we no longer call them virtues, as a
beautiful maiden can no longer be called beautiful, when time has
changed her to an old and wrinkled woman."

"But, aunt, the virtues are nothing earthly."

"Perhaps."

"How can gentleness and mildness ever become hateful?"

"So soon as they degenerate into insipid indolence and
listlessness."

"And manly courage?"

"Becomes imperious rudeness."

"And modest diffidence?"

"Turns to fawning humility."

"And noble pride?"

"To vulgar haughtiness."

"And readiness to oblige?"

"Becomes a habit of too ready friendship and servility."

"Dear aunt, you make me almost angry. My future husband can never
degenerate thus. He has one virtue which will preserve him as he is
for ever. A deep sense, an indestructible feeling for everything
that is great and good and noble, dwells in his bosom. And this
delicate susceptibility to all that is noble dwells in me also, I
hope, as well as in him. This is the innate pledge and security for
our happiness."

"But if it should grow old with you; if it should change to hateful
excitability; and excitability is the worst enemy of matrimony. You
both possess sensibility. That I do not deny; but beware lest this
grace should degenerate into an irritable and quarrelsome mortal."

"Ah, Dearest aunt, if I might never become old! I could then be sure
that my husband would never cease to love me."

"Thou art greatly in error, dear child! Wert thou always as fresh
and beautiful as to-day, still thy husband's eye would by custom of
years become indifferent to these advantages. Custom is the greatest
enchantress in the world, and in the house one of the most
benevolent of fairies. She render's that which is the most
beautiful, as well as the ugliest, familiar. A wife is young, and
becomes old; it is custom which hinders the husband from perceiving
the change. On the contrary, did she remain young, while he became
old, it might bring consequences, and render the man in years
jealous. It is better as kind Providence has ordered it. Imagine
that thou hadst grown to be an old woman, and thy husband were a
blooming youth; how wouldst thou then feel?"

Louise rubbed her chin, and said, "I cannot tell."

Her aunt continued: "But I will call thy attention to at secret
which--"

"That is it," interrupted Louise, hastily, "that is it which I long
so much to hear."

Her aunt said: "Listen to me attentively. What I now tell thee, I
have proved. It consists of _two parts_. The _first part_, of the
means to render a marriage happy, of itself prevents every
possibility of dissension; and would even at last make the spider
and the fly the best of friends with each other. The _second part_
is the best and surest method of preserving feminine attractions."

"Ah!" exclaimed Louise.

"The former half of the means, then: In the first solitary hour
after the ceremony, take thy bridegroom, and demand a solemn vow of
him, and give him a solemn vow in return. Promise one another
sacredly, _never, not even in mere jest, to wrangle with each
other_; never to bandy words or indulge in the least ill-humour.
_Never!_ I say; never. Wrangling, even in jest, and putting on an
air of ill-humour merely to tease, becomes earnest by practice. Mark
that! Next promise each other, sincerely and solemnly, _never to
have a secret from each other_ under whatever pretext, with whatever
excuse it may be. You must, continually and every moment, see
clearly into each other's bosom. Even when one of you has committed
a fault, wait not an instant, but confess it freely--let it cost
tears, but confess it. And as you keep _nothing secret from each
other_, so, on the contrary, preserve the privacies of your house,
marriage state and heart, from _father, mother, sister, brother,
aunt, and all the world._ You two, with God's help, build your own
quiet world. Every third or fourth one whom you draw into it with
you, will form a party, and stand between you two! That should never
be. Promise this to each other. Renew the vow at each temptation.
You will find your account in it. Your souls will grow as it were
together, and at last will become as one. Ah, if many a young pair
had on their wedding day known this simple secret, and straightway
practised it, how many marriages were happier than, alas, they are!"

Louise kissed her aunt's hand with ardour. "I feel that it must be
so. Where this confidence is absent, the married, even after
wedlock, are two strangers who do not know each other. It should be
so; without this, there can be no happiness. And now, aunt, the best
preservative of female beauty?"

Her aunt smiled, and said: "We may not conceal from ourselves that a
handsome man pleases us a hundred times more than an ill-looking
one, and the men are pleased with us when we are pretty. But what we
call beautiful, what in the men pleases us, and in us pleases the
men, is not skin and hair and shape and colour, as in a picture or a
statue; but it is the character, it is the soul that is within
these, which enchants us by looks and words, earnestness, and joy,
and sorrow. The men admire us the more they suppose those virtues of
the mind to exist in us which the outside promises; and we think a
malicious man disagreeable, however graceful and handsome he may be.
Let a young maiden, then, who would preserve her beauty, preserve
but that purity of soul, those sweet qualities of the mind, those
virtues, in short, by which she first drew her lover to her feet.
And the best preservative of virtue, to render it unchanging and
keep it ever young, is _religion_, that inward union with the Deity
and eternity and faith--is piety, that walking with God, so pure, so
peaceful, so beneficent to mortals.

"See, dear heart," continued the aunt, "there are virtues which
arise out of mere experience. These grow old with time, and alter,
because, by change of circumstances and inclination, prudence alters
her means of action, and became her growth does not always keep pace
with that of our years and passions. But religious virtues can never
change; these remain eternally the same, because our good is always
the same, and that eternity the same, which we and those who love us
are hastening to enter. Preserve, then, a mind innocent and pure,
looking for everything from God; thus will that beauty of soul
remain, for which thy bridegroom to-day adores thee. I am no bigot,
no fanatic; I am thy aunt of seven-and-twenty. I love all in
innocent and rational amusements. But for this very reason I say to
thee--be a dear, good Christian, and thou wilt as a mother, yes, as
a grandmother, be still beautiful."

Louise threw her arms about her neck, and wept in silence, and
whispered, "I thank thee, angel!"






THE WIFE.





ROSA LEE was dressed in her bridal garments, and as she knelt in all
the bloom of her maidenly beauty, angels must have rejoiced over
her; for the spirit of the maiden was in a heaven of love, and she
knelt in the fulness of her joy, to pour out her gratitude to the
Heavenly Father, that "seeth in secret." Yes, alone in her chamber,
the young girl bowed herself for the last time, and as the thought
flashed over her mind, that when next she should kneel in that
consecrated place, it would not be alone, but that manly arms would
bear up her drooping form, and two voices would mingle as one in the
holy prayer, a gushing tenderness flooded the heart of the beautiful
bride, and light as from Heaven pervaded her whole being, and she
could only murmur, "Oh, how beautiful it is to love!"

But bustling steps and voices approach; and Rosa hears one step that
sends at thrill to her heart. In the next moment, the maiden, with
the rosy glow of love upon her cheek, and the heaven-light yet
beaming in her eyes, stood face to face with her lover. Her eyes met
his, in that calm, confiding look of an unbounded affection, and, as
her hand rested on his arm, strength seemed to flow into her from
him, and she looked serene and placid as pure water, that reflects
the moonbeams of heaven; and yet, her smiles came and went like
these same waters when the ripples sparkle in the glad sunshine.

The bridal party moved forward to the festive hall, where
sympathizing friends were gathered to greet them, as a married pair,
and the heart of Rosa opened to the holy marriage ceremony with a
sense of heavenly rapture.

To her it was as a new and beautiful revelation, when she heard the
oft-repeated words, "In the beginning created He them male and
female." Ah, yes. It was beautiful to realize that she was created
for her beloved Paul, and that in all the vast peopled universe of
God, there was not another being so adapted to him as she was.

Ah, this was the beautiful marriage joy, that earth so seldom
witnesses. These were of "those whom God hath joined together." And
Paul Cleves felt it in his inmost soul, as he turned towards his
congratulating friends with his delicate and beautiful bride leaning
upon his arm.

Ah, how he watched every vibration of her feelings! suddenly she had
become the pulse of his own soul. As a maiden, he had loved her with
a wondrous tenderness and devotion. But now, as a wife! There was at
once a new and quite different relation established between them.

Paul was so filled with this new perception of blessedness, that he
would fain have left the gay company, that he might pour out the
beautiful thought that possessed him, to gladden the heart of Rosa;
and when he looked his wish to her, she smiled, and whispered to
him, "Eternity is ours, and we are not to live for ourselves alone."
And here was a new mystery to him. She was revealed to him as
another self, with power to read his every thought. And yet it was
it better self, for she prompted him to disinterested acts; and away
went the glad Paul to shower his attentions upon all those to whom
life came not so joyously. And an aged grandmother, and a palsied
aunt, almost feared that the handsome bridegroom had forgotten his
fair bride, in his warm and kindly interest for them.

Happy Paul! he had found an angel clothed in flesh and blood, who
was for ever to stand between him and his old hard, selfish nature.
Something of this thought passed through his mind, as his eye
glanced over the crowd in search of his beloved and beautiful one.
But she, on the other side, was quite near. He felt her soft
presence, and as he turned he caught the light of her loving smile.

Yes, she appreciated his self-sacrifice, and as he gazed upon her,
his delighted mind and satisfied heart felt a delicious sense of the
coming joy of the eternal future.

And the gay bridal passed away, but its light and its joy seemed to
overflow all the coming days. And Paul Cleves at length found
himself in that reality of which he had so often dreamed, and for
which he had so passionately yearned. Yes, he was in his own quiet
home, with Rosa by his side.

Months had passed; he had settled into the routine of his business,
and she in that of her domestic life; and now it was evening. Paul
had come to his home from the labours of the day, with a beautiful
hope in his heart; for to him his _home_ was the open door of
Heaven. He carried into it no hard, selfish thought, but entered it
with the certainty of blessedness, and peace, and love.

Rosa's heart was in her eyes, when it was time for Paul to come. How
carefully she foresaw his every want! And when she had prepared
everything that her active love could suggest to promote his
pleasure and comfort, then she took her place at the window to watch
for his coming. This evening watch was a beautiful time to the young
wife, for she said "Now, will I think of God, who made for me a
being to love." And at this time, it was always as if the great sun
of Heaven shone upon her.

And now, Paul passes the bridge, to which Rosa's eye can but just
reach. And--is it not wonderful?--Paul's figure is distinguished,
even if there be many others, in the dim twilight, crossing that
bridge. Ah! how well she knows his figure; to her it is the very
form of her love. She sees her whole thoughts and desires embodied
in him. And now, he passes the corner of a projecting building,
which for a time partially conceals him from her sight.

And how her delight increases as he approaches; the nearer he comes,
the more her heart opens to the Divine sun of Heaven. She feels as
if she could draw its radiations down upon him. She waits at the
window to catch his first glad look of recognition, then she flies
to the door, and no sooner is it opened and closed again, than Paul
clasps her to his heart, and presses upon her warm lips such kisses
as can join heart to heart.

The evening meal being over, then Paul turns to his peculiar
delight--to listening to Rosa's thoughts and feelings. All day, he
hears of worldly things; but with Rosa he hears of heavenly things.
Her heart feeds upon his thoughts, and assimilates them into new and
graceful forms of feminine beauty, and Paul sits and listens, full
of love and wonder, to his own thoughts, reproduced by the vivid
perceptive powers of his wife. For instance, this morning Paul was
reading in the Bible, as he always does to Rosa, before he leaves
for his business, and he paused on the words, "then Abraham gave up
the ghost, and died in a good old age, and full of years, and was
gathered to his people;" and he remarked that in this verse there
was a most striking affirmation of a future existence; for that
Abraham being gathered to "his people," must imply that these people
yet lived, or why should mention be made of that fact? And now, in
this beautiful evening hour, when Paul asked Rosa what she had been
thinking of all day, behold she had a whole Heaven-world to open
before him. With her arms clasped around his neck, and her clear,
bright eyes looking into his, she answered--

"Oh, Paul, I have been so happy all day. Do you remember what you
told me about Abraham being gathered to 'his people' this morning?
Well, I have been thinking about it, with such a delight in the
thought of those living people, to whom we will be gathered after
death. You left me with a beautiful thought, dear Paul, and it
seemed as if the angels gathered around me, and told me so many more
things, that I have written all my thoughts down."

"Where are they?" said Paul, feeling such a delight in the
possession of these written thoughts. And Rosa, drawing a paper from
her pocket, leans her cheek upon his head, and reads:--

"'Then Abraham gave up the ghost, and died in a good old age, and
full of years, and was gathered to his people.' How beautiful is
this verse of the holy Word of God! It seems to open to us a glimpse
of Heaven.

"After death, we are told, that he was 'gathered to his people.'
What a blessed rest and enjoyment comes over us, even in this world,
when we find ourselves with '_our_ people!'

"When congenial spirits meet, all strife and contention ceases; and
how each hastens to give to the other of the fulness of his thought
and feeling! Such moments in our life are as if Heaven had come down
to us, and fleeting and transient as the moment may be, its memory
lives with us as a heavenly light, fed from above; and when we
realize a continued existence of the harmony of thought and feeling
of an ever-flowing communication of pure sentiments, of kindly
affections, and of that delight in perceiving good and truth in
others, which makes them one with us,--then we have a glimpse of
that Heaven to which Abraham ascended, and in which he was 'gathered
to his people.'

"I love to read this verse, and imagine what the angels would think
if they could hear the words as I read them. And, truly, although
angels do not hear through our gross material atmosphere, can they
not _see_ the image of what we read in our minds? It is beautiful to
think that they can; and it is pleasant to conceive how an angelic,
perfectly spiritual mind would understand these words, 'And Abraham
gave up the ghost.' The angels would see that the spirit of Abraham
had laid off that gross material covering, which was not the real
man--only the appearance of a man. To angels, this body, which
appears to us so tangible, must be but the _ghost_ of a reality, for
to them the spirit is the reality.

"With us, in this outer existence, the laying off of the body is
death, that symbol of annihilation; it is as if our life ceased,
because we no longer grasp coarse material nature. But with the
angels, the laying off of the body is birth; it is the beginning of
a beautiful, new existence. The spirit then moves and acts in a
spiritual world of light and beauty. It no longer moves dimly in
that dark, material world which is as but a lifeless, ghostly
counterpart of the living, eternal spirit-world.

"Thus, it seems to me, the angels would understand the words 'And
Abraham gave up the ghost.' And the words which follow would have
for them a far different signification than to us. For with us 'old
age' presents the idea of the gradual wasting away and deterioration
of the powers of the body it is the shadow from the darkened future,
foretelling the end of life. But angels see the spirit advancing
from one state of wisdom to another, and to grow old in Heaven must
be altogether different from growing old on earth; and we can only
conceive of a spirit as growing for ever more active, intelligent,
and beautiful, from the heavenly wisdom and love in which it
develops. Imagine an angel, who has lived a thousand years in
Heaven; his faculties must have all this time been perfecting and
expanding in new powers and activities; whereas, on earth, the
material body, in 'threescore years and ten,' becomes so cumbrous
and heavy, so disorganized and worn out, that the spiritual body can
no longer act in it; hence 'an old man, full of years,' appears to
the angels as one whose spirit has passed through so many changes of
state; consequently has thought and loved so much that it has
increased in activity, life, and power, and thus spiritual
progression must be onward to an eternal youth.

"Does it not thrill the soul with the joy of a beautiful hope to
imagine Abraham, or any loving spirit, as rising from the material
to the spiritual world, 'full of years,' or states of wisdom and
love, for ever to grow young among his 'own people?'

"What to Abraham, now, were all of those flocks, and herds, and men
servants, and maid servants, that had made his earthly riches? They
were nothing more to him, in his new heavenly life, than that ghost
of a, body 'he gave up.' The only riches he could carry with him
were his spiritual riches--his powers of thinking and feeling. All
of his outer life was given to him to develop these powers. All of
his natural surroundings were as a body to his natural thoughts and
feelings, in which they might grow to the full stature of a man,
that he might become 'full of years,' or states.

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