wonder is that not being gods--being mere men and women--marriage
works out as well as it does. We take two creatures with the instincts
of the ape still stirring within them; two creatures fashioned on the law
of selfishness; two self-centred creatures of opposite appetites, of
desires opposed to one another, of differing moods and fancies; two
creatures not yet taught the lesson of self-control, of
self-renunciation, and bind them together for life in an union so close
that one cannot snore o'nights without disturbing the other's rest; that
one cannot, without risk to happiness, have a single taste unshared by
the other; that neither, without danger of upsetting the whole applecart,
so to speak, can have an opinion with which the other does not heartedly
agree.

Could two angels exist together on such terms without ever quarrelling? I
doubt it. To make marriage the ideal we love to picture it in romance,
the elimination of human nature is the first essential. Supreme
unselfishness, perfect patience, changeless amiability, we should have to
start with, and continue with, until the end.

The real Darby and Joan.

I do not believe in the "Darby and Joan" of the song. They belong to
song-land. To accept them I need a piano, a sympathetic contralto voice,
a firelight effect, and that sentimental mood in myself, the foundation
of which is a good dinner well digested. But there are Darbys and Joans
of real flesh and blood to be met with--God bless them, and send more for
our example--wholesome living men and women, brave, struggling, souls
with common-sense. Ah, yes! they have quarrelled; had their dark house
of bitterness, of hate, when he wished to heaven he had never met her,
and told her so. How could he have guessed those sweet lips could utter
such cruel words; those tender eyes, he loved to kiss, flash with scorn
and anger?

And she, had she known what lay behind; those days when he knelt before
her, swore that his only dream was to save her from all pain. Passion
lies dead; it is a flame that burns out quickly. The most beautiful face
in the world grows indifferent to us when we have sat opposite it every
morning at breakfast, every evening at supper, for a brief year or two.
Passion is the seed. Love grows from it, a tender sapling, beautiful to
look upon, but wondrous frail, easily broken, easily trampled on during
those first years of wedded life. Only by much nursing, by long caring-
for,