I have been happier as Arthur Campbell's wife
than I could ever have been as Ernest Dalton's, and I shall state why:
When we are young, we develop a tendency to exalt and idealize the
common-place phases of life beyond all limits of reason or
possibility. We flatter our buoyant expectations with the conviction
that there is honey in the heart of every trifling flower we must
gather by life's dusty roadside, and that it needs but the magic touch
of our own hand to have it brought to the surface. This is a pleasant
delusion, which, however, is susceptible of being rudely and roughly
dispelled by an impartial experience as we grow older, when this
exaggerated tendency creeps into our loves, and it is there it holds
the fullest sway, and does the maddest mischief, the danger of a
disenchanting awakening is still greater and more hazardous. For when
we love in an abstract sense we exclusively, love in utter oblivion of
the exactions of real life; we never stop to consider that that love
which purposes to endure and strengthen with time must be coupled with
a broad, impartial view of the stubborn circumstances, which are the
facts of existence. A love that is all poetry and moonshine dies a
sudden death in the face of practical dilemmas.
I have become convinced of this many a time, though my experience of
wedded life is necessarily limited. Arthur and I have counted the
grocer's bills, and made out the wash account, with the pleasantest
smiles and most playful manner possible; and I have felt as I leaned
upon his shoulder and scanned the items before us, that he was the
dearest and best of husbands, whereas--Mr.
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