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I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude
with which women sustain the most overwhelming
reverses of fortune. Those disasters
which break down the spirit of a man, and
prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all
the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity
and elevation to their character, that
at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing
can be more touching than to behold a soft and
tender female, who had been all weakness and

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dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness
while treading the prosperous paths of
life, suddenly rising in mental force, to be the
comforter and supporter of her husband, under
misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness,
the bitterest blasts of adversity.

As the vine which has long twined its graceful
foliage around the oak, and been lifted by it
into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted
by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its
caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered
boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence,
that woman, who is the mere dependant
and ornament of man in his happier hours,
should be his stay and solace when smitten with
sudden calamity, winding herself into the rugged
recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting
the drooping head, and binding up the broken
heart.

I was once congratulating a friend, who had
around him a blooming family, knit together in
the strongest affection. “I can wish you no
better lot,” said he, with enthusiasm, “than to

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have a wife and children—if you are prosperous,
there they are to share your prosperity;
if otherwise, there they are to comfort you.”
And, indeed, I have observed that married men
falling into misfortune, are more apt to retrieve
their situation in the world than single men;
partly because they are more stimulated to exertion
by the necessities of the helpless and beloved
beings who depend upon them for subsistence;
but chiefly because their spirits are
soothed and relieved by domestic endearments,
and their self respect kept alive by finding, that
though all abroad is darkness and humiliation,
yet there is still a little world of love, of which
they are monarchs. Whereas a single man is
apt to run to waste and self neglect; to fancy
himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to
fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, for want
of an inhabitant.

These observations call to mind a little
domestic story, of which I was once a witness.
My intimate friend, Leslie, had married
a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had

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been brought up in the midst of fashionable
life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that
of my friend was ample; and he delighted in
the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant
pursuit, and administering to those delicate
tastes and fancies, that spread a kind of
witchery about the sex.—“Her life,” said he,
“shall be like a fairy tale.”

The very difference in their characters produced
an harmonious combination: he was of a
romantic, and somewhat serious, cast; she was
all life and gladness. I have often noticed the
mute rapture with which he would gaze upon
her in company, of which her sprightly powers
made her the delight; and how, in the midst of
applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if
there alone she sought favour and acceptance.
When leaning on his arm, her slender form
contrasted finely with his tall, manly person.
The fond confiding air with which she looked
up to him, seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant
pride and cherishing tenderness, as
if he doated on his lovely burthen for its very

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helplessness. Never did a couple set forward
on the flowery path of early and well-suited
marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity.

It was the mishap of my friend, however,
to have embarked his fortune in large speculations;
and he had not been married many
months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters,
it was swept from him, and he found
himself reduced almost to penury. For a time
he kept his situation to himself, and went about
with a haggard countenance, and a breaking
heart. His life was but a protracted agony;
and what rendered it more insupportable, was
the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence
of his wife; for he could not bring himself
to overwhelm her with the news. She
saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection,
that all was not well with him. She marked
his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not
to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts
at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly
powers and tender blandishments to win him
back to happiness; but she only drove the

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arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw
cause to love her, the more torturing was the
thought that he was soon to make her wretched.
A little while, thought he, and the smile
will vanish from that cheek—the song will die
away from those lips—the lustre of those eyes
will be quenched with sorrow; and the happy
heart which now beats lightly in that bosom,
will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares
and miseries of the world.

At length he came to me one day, and related
his whole situation in a tone of the deepest
despair. When I had heard him through, I
inquired, “does your wife know all this?”—At
the question he burst into an agony of tears.
“For God's sake!” cried he, “if you have any
pity on me, don't mention my wife; it is the
thought of her that drives me almost to madness!”

“And why not?” said I. “She must know it
sooner or later: you cannot keep it long from
her, and the intelligence may break upon her in
a more startling manner, than if imparted by

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yourself; for the accents of those we love soften
the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving
yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and
not merely that, but also endangering the only
bond that can keep hearts together—an unreserved
community of thought and feeling. She
will soon perceive that something is secretly
preying upon your mind; and true love will not
brook reserve, but feels undervalued and outraged,
when even the sorrows of those it loves
are concealed from it.”

“Oh, but, my friend! to think what a blow I
am to give to all her future prospects—how I
am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling
her that her husband is a beggar!—that
she is to forego all the elegancies of life—all
the pleasures of society—to shrink with me
into indigence and obscurity! To tell her that
I have dragged her down from the sphere in
which she might have continued to move in
constant brightness—the light of every eye—
the admiration of every heart!—How can
she bear poverty? she has been brought up in

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all the refinements of opulence. How can she
bear neglect? she has been the idol of society.
Oh, it will break her heart, it will break her
heart!—”

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have
its flow; for sorrow relieves itself by words.
When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had
relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject
gently, and urged him to break his situation
at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully,
but positively.

“But how are you to keep it from her? It
is necessary she should know it, that you may
take the steps proper to the alteration of your
circumstances. You must change your style of
living—nay,” observing a pang to pass across
his countenance, “don't let that afflict you. I
am sure you have never placed your happiness
in outward show—you have yet friends, warm
friends, who will not think the worse of you
for being less splendidly lodged: and surely it
does not require a palace to be happy with
Mary—”

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“I could be happy with her,” cried he convulsively,
“in a hovel!—I could go down with
her into poverty and the dust!—I could—I
could—God bless her!—God bless her!”
cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and
tenderness.

“And believe me, my friend,” said I, stepping
up, and grasping him warmly by the
hand, “believe me, she can be the same with
you. Aye, more: it will be a source of pride
and triumph to her—it will call forth all the latent
energies and fervent sympathies of her nature;
for she will rejoice to prove that she
loves you for yourself. There is in every true
woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which
lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity;
but which kindles up, and beams and blazes
in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows
what the wife of his bosom is—no man knows
what a ministering angel she is—until he has
gone with her through the fiery trials of this
world.”

There was something in the earnestness of

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my manner, and the figurative style of my language,
that caught the excited imagination of
Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with;
and following up the impression I had made, I
finished by persuading him to go home and unburden
his sad heart to his wife.

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had
said, I felt some little solicitude for the result.
Who can calculate on the fortitude of one
whose whole life has been a round of pleasures?
Her gay spirits might revolt at the
dark, downward path of low humility, suddenly
pointed out before her, and might cling to
the sunny regions in which they had hitherto
revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is
accompanied by so many galling mortifications,
to which, in other ranks, it is a stranger.—In
short, I could not meet Leslie, the next morning,
without trepidation. He had made the
disclosure.

“And how did she bear it?”

“Like an angel! It seemed rather to be
a relief to her mind, for she threw her arms

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around my neck, and asked if this was all that
had lately made me unhappy—but, poor girl,”
added he, “she cannot realize the change we
must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but
in the abstract: she has only read of it in poetry,
where it is allied to love. She feels as
yet no privation: she experiences no want of
accustomed conveniences or elegancies. When
we come practically to experience its sordid
cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations—
then will be the real trial.”

“But,” said I, “now that you have got over
the severest task, that of breaking it to her, the
sooner you let the world into the secret the
better. The disclosure may be mortifying; but
then it is a single misery, and soon over; whereas
you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every
hour in the day. It is not poverty, so much
as pretence, that harasses a ruined man—the
struggle between a proud mind and an empty
purse—the keeping up a hollow show that must
soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear
poor, and you disarm poverty of its

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sharpest sting.” On this point I found Leslie perfectly
prepared. He had no false pride himself,
and as to his wife, she was only anxious to
conform to their altered fortunes.

Some days afterwards he called upon me in
the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling
house, and taken a small cottage in the country,
a few miles from town. He had been busied
all day in sending out furniture. The new
establishment required few articles, and those of
the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of
his late residence had been sold, excepting his
wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated
with the idea of herself; it belonged to
the little story of their loves; for some of the
sweetest moments of their courtship were those
when he had leaned over that instrument, and
listened to the melting tones of her voice. I
could not but smile at this instance of romantic
gallantry in a doating husband.

He was now going out to the cottage, where
his wife had been all day, superintending its arrangement.
My feelings had become strongly

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interested in the progress of this family story,
and as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany
him.

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day,
and as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy
musing.

“Poor Mary!” at length broke, with a heavy
sigh, from his lips.

“And what of her,” asked I, “has any thing
happened to her?”

“What,” said he, darting an impatient
glance, “is it nothing to be reduced to this
paltry situation—to be caged in a miserable
cottage—to be obliged to toil almost in the menial
concerns of her wretched habitation?”

“Has she then repined at the change?”

“Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness
and good humour. Indeed, she seems in
better spirits than I have ever known her; she
has been to me all love, and tenderness, and
comfort!”

“Admirable girl!” exclaimed I. “You call
yourself poor, my friend; you never were so

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rich—you never knew the boundless treasures
of excellence you possessed in that woman.”

“Oh, but my friend, if this first meeting at
the cottage were over, I think I could then be
comfortable. But this is her first day of real
experience: She has been introduced into a
humble dwelling—she has been employed all
day in arranging its miserable equipments—
she has for the first time known the fatigues of
domestic employment—she has for the first
time looked around her on a home destitute of
every thing elegant, and almost convenient; and
may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless,
brooding over a prospect of future poverty.”

There was a degree of probability in this
picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked
on in silence.

After turning from the main road, up a narrow
lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees, as
to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came
in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough
in its appearance for the most pastoral poet;

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and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild
vine had overrun one end with a profusion of
foliage; a few trees threw their branches
gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of
flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and
on the grass plot in front. A small wicket gate
opened upon a footpath that wound through
some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached,
we heard the sound of music—Leslie
grasped my arm; we paused and listened.
It was Mary's voice, in a style of the most
touching simplicity, singing a little air of which
her husband was peculiarly fond.

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He
stepped forward, to hear more distinctly. His
step made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright
beautiful face glanced out at the window, and
vanished—a light footstep was heard—and Mary
came tripping forth to meet us. She was in
a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers
were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom
was on her cheek; her whole countenance
beamed with smiles—I had never seen her
look so lovely.

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“My dear George,” cried she, “I am so glad
you are come; I've been watching and watching
for you; and running down the lane, and
looking out for you. I've set out a table under
a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I've
been gathering some of the most delicious
strawberries, for I know you are fond of them—
and we have such excellent cream—and
every thing is so sweet and still here—Oh!”
said she, putting her arm within his, and looking
up brightly in his face, “Oh, we shall be so
snug!”

Poor Leslie was overcome.—He caught her
to his bosom—he folded his arms around her—
he kissed her again and again—he could not
speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes. And
he has often assured me, that though the world
has since gone prosperously with him, and his
life has been a happy one, yet never has he experienced
a moment of such unutterable felicity.

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