My mother who has always been careful, feared water quite as much as she did fire, and accordingly was fain to accept this umbrella, never dreaming that it would lead me to the altar of Hymen. {151} I purposely refrain from dwelling on details as uninteresting to the reader as they are irritating to myself. The bold musician taking advantage of the introduction afforded by an unlucky shower of rain had paid us several visits, when at last my mother said to me, “Eliza, tell me frankly, what do you think of him?” “Who, mamma?” I said inquiringly; “the musician?” “Yes, little rogue, the clarionet, the young Bull-dog who wants your hand. You know quite well I am speaking of him.” “But, mamma, I find him so horribly ugly.” “So do I, my dear; but you have not answered my question.” “Oh! ah! well! he is vulgar, grotesque, and is as disagreeable as the rain.” “Quite so,” said my mother; “but again that is not the point. Does he please you when viewed as a sober, steady, desirable husband?” “I won’t say he does not,” and I burst into tears. “Come, no nonsense,” said my mother; “I know you would like to be married, and this Bull-dog has many advantages. His double position as clarionet and trombone to the parish secures for him a comfortable living. What more can one require of a husband? I think, my child, that physical beauty and grace are only fleeting, besides you yourself have beauty enough and to spare to adorn a whole family. It is by the intelligent union of opposite natures that conjugal felicity is best secured. Well, that being so, it becomes a positive advantage for you to acquire a thoroughly ugly husband, a heavy, taciturn, serious, hard-working husband, who is certain to be a model of economy and affection.” I saw at a glance that my mother was right, and gave my consent. Had it all to be done over again, I think now I should do exactly as I did then. A sure, steady husband is a great prize in life. It is always good to have bread on the shelf, and one must be very stupid indeed not to be able to get little luxuries. I therefore said: “Let us marry!” Do not human beings say: “Let us take our degree; it will be the making of us.” To say my honeymoon was long and delightful, or that I discovered a hitherto unknown mine of devotion and romance beneath the hard crust of my husband’s unsightly exterior, would be simply fiction. It is much nearer the mark to say at once that the coarse {152} nature of my spouse soon revealed itself in all its odiousness. His every look, every movement, wounded my refined susceptibility. He rose at daybreak, and awoke me with the snorting of his clarionet, which he played with that degree of obstinacy and labour which belongs to mediocrity. “Softly, my dear, softly; I tell you it would be better so,” I would say.