DIVORCE A VINCULO; or, THE TERRORS OF
SIR CRESSWELL CRESSWELL.
(Continued from p. 101.)
ow would Flora take it? There was a good deal to be said for this new theory of keeping two human beings chained up together only so long as they themselves chose to wear the fetters; but it was clear enough, even to me, that the female mind wouldn’t give up the notion of the eternity of the marriage bond without a severe struggle. Look at the wedding ring, and its circular form
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How smooth, and round, and never-ending it is; made, too, of metal—of enduring, uncorroding gold!
Now the British feminine theory is, that women are angels. This, however, must be a loose way of talking; for, as far as I am aware, it is difficult to bring an angel into Court and institute a comparison. Certainly, as far as we know anything about the matter, women have much the advantage. Speaking as an individual, I have no opinion of that combination of heads and wings which painters and sculptors have imagined as typical of the angelic nature. It is an unsatisfactory sort of mixture at the best; and at the worst it would be an awful idea to have the partner of your toils, and the sharer of your joys, buzzing about you in true Caudle mood, and humming her sweet reproaches into your overwrought ear. I should always be afraid by day lest Mrs. Jones should settle on my nose, and at night she might perhaps singe her dove-like pinions in the candle. One might put her in a cage, indeed; but what a sad thought if she was to hurt her sweet nose against the bars; besides, what would Sir Cresswell say?
This, I think, is fairly put; but, at the same time, I feel very sure that any suggestion for curtailing the eternity of the marriage-bond will not meet with the approval of the British female, especially in the middle rank of English life: on the whole, women have got on pretty well under the old system, and like things to proceed in the regular way, and without disturbance of the old ideas. If the Irish bricklayer in the lane round the comer is in the habit of knocking his Norah Creina down every Sunday morning, and executing a pas—which certainly cannot be called a shadow-dance—upon her prostrate form, my dear little friend Mrs. Cozyville still continues to decorate her own humming-bird’s nest with Spartan firmness. The Irish girl must take her chance, and bear her own cross, as she, Sophy Cozyville, must bear hers. Poor Norah has drawn a bad number in the man-lottery—worse luck! She, Sophy, has her own trials: didn’t she take that big husband of hers to Madame Elise’s but the other day, and point out to him the sweetest little bonnet after which her soul lusted, but of which she was resolved to deny herself the acquisition upon economical grounds; and did that hulking fellow take the hint? Not he; although she had not faintly indicated several sources, connected with C.’s personal expenses, on which such a saving might have been effected that the transaction with Madame E. might have been completed without imprudence. To be sure, she had declared that “she wouldn’t hear of such a thing for the world!” but C. might have been magnanimous for once, and taken a spring into the sacrificial gulf without craning. The stupid fellow simply drew her to his heart behind the door of the back drawing-room in Madame’s establishment. Sophy came out of the contest, kissed, praised, and angry, and immediately bought a “straw” in the Arcade for 7s. 6d., and made C. carry it home in the paper. All women have their trials. It is not, however, necessary to summon Nemesis in the presence of Sir Cresswell, nor to invoke from his lips the dreadful fiat, “As you were!”
I think I have noticed since “The Divorce Court” has become a fact, a great falling-off in