ic priests or
laymen more frank and open than ourselves. Which brings me back to my
question,--does any man confess all? Does yonder dear creature know all
my life, who has been the partner of it for thirty years; who, whenever
I have told her a sorrow, has been ready with the best of her gentle
power to soothe it; who has watched when I did not speak, and when I was
silent has been silent herself, or with the charming hypocrisy of woman
has worn smiles and an easy appearance so as to make me imagine she
felt no care, or would not even ask to disturb her lord's secret when he
seemed to indicate a desire to keep it private? Oh, the dear hypocrite!
Have I not watched her hiding the boys' peccadilloes from papa's anger?
Have I not known her cheat out of her housekeeping to pay off their
little extravagances; and talk to me with an artless face, as if she did
not know that our revered captain had had dealings with the gentlemen
of Duke's Place, and our learned collegian, at the end of his terms, had
very pressing reasons for sporting his oak (as the phrase is) against
some of the University tradesmen? Why, from the very earliest days, thou
wise woman, thou wert for ever concealing something from me,--this
one stealing jam from the cupboard; that one getting into disgrace at
school; that naughty rebel (put on the caps, young folks, according to
the fit) flinging an inkstand at mamma in a rage, whilst I was told
the gown and the carpet were spoiled by accident. We all hide from one
another. We have all secrets. We are all alone. We sin by ourselves,
and, let us trust, repent too. Yonder dear woman would give her foot to
spare mine a twinge of the gout; but, when I have the fit, the pain is
in my slipper. At the end of the novel or the play, the hero and heroine
marry or die, and so there is an end of them as far as the poet is
concerned, who huzzas for his young couple till the postchaise turns the
corner; or fetches the hearse and plumes, and shovels them underground.
But when Mr. Random and Mr. Thomas Jones are married, is all over? Are
there no quarrels at home? Are there no Lady Bellastons abroad? are
there no constables to be outrun? no temptations to conquer us, or be
conquered by us? The Sirens sang after Ulysses long after his marriage,
and the suitors whispered in Penelope's ear, and he and she had many a
weary day of doubt and care, and so have we all. As regards money I was
put out of trouble by the inheritance I mad