“It was one preached upon by your mother’s great-great-grandfather, the very savory and much-respected Simeon Shuttleworth, ‘on the occasion of the melancholy defections and divisions among the godly in the town of West Dofield’; and it runs thus,--‘_Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes._’” “It’s a curious text enough; but I can’t imagine what you are going to make of it.” “Simply an essay on Little Foxes,” said I, “by which I mean those unsuspected, unwatched, insignificant _little_ causes, that nibble away domestic happiness, and make home less than so noble an institution should be. “You may build beautiful, convenient, attractive houses,--you may hang the walls with lovely pictures and stud them with gems of Art; and there may be living there together persons bound by blood and affection in one common interest, leading a life common to themselves and apart from others; and these persons may each one of them be possessed of good and noble traits; there may be a common basis of affection, of generosity, of good principle, of religion; and yet, through the influence of some of these perverse, nibbling, insignificant little foxes, half the clusters of happiness on these so promising vines may fail to come to maturity. A little community of people, all of whom would be willing to die for each other, may not be able to live happily together; that is, they may have far less happiness than their circumstances, their fine and excellent traits, entitle them to expect. “The reason for this in general is that home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserves; it is life’s undress rehearsal, its back-room, its dressing-room, from which we go forth to more careful and guarded intercourse, leaving behind us much _débris_ of cast-off and every-day clothing. Hence has arisen the common proverb, ‘No man is a hero to his _valet-de-chambre_’; and the common warning, ‘If you wish to keep your friend, don’t go and live with him.’” “Which is only another way of saying,” said my wife, “that we are all human and imperfect; and the nearer you get to any human being, the more defects you see. The characters that can stand the test of daily intimacy are about as numerous as four-leaved clovers in a meadow; in general, those who do not annoy you with positive faults bore you with their insipidity. The evenness and beauty of a strong, well-defined nature, perfectly governed and balanced, is about the last thing one is likely to meet with in one’s researches into life.”