ingenious wits against wet-blanketism. The funniest part of the
transaction is that John never suspects the ruse, even at the
hundredth repetition, and esteems himself, in dogged complacency, the
author of his spouse's goodliest ideas.

Such a one dreads nothing more than the reputation of being ruled by
his wife. The more hen-pecked he is, the less he knows it--and vice
versâ. "He jests at scars who never felt a wound." She who has her
John well in hand has broken him in too thoroughly to allow him to
resent the curb, or to play with the bit.

His intentions--so far as he knows them--are so good, he tries so
steadfastly to please his wife--he is so often piteously
perplexed--this big, burly, blundering, blind-folded, _blesséd_ John
of ours--that our knowledge of his disabilities enwraps him in a
mantle of affectionate charity. His efforts to master the delicate
intricacy of his darling's mental and spiritual organization may be
like the would-be careful hold of thumb and finger upon a butterfly's
wing, but the pain he causes is inconceivable by him. The suspicion of
hurt to the beautiful thing would break his heart. He could more
easily lie down and die for her than sympathize intelligently in her
vague, delicious dreams, the aspirations, half agony, half rapture,
which she cannot convey to his comprehension--yet which she feels that
he ought to share.

Ah! the pathos and the pity--sometimes the godlike patience of that
silent side of our dear John! Mrs. Whitney, writing of Richard
Hathaway, tells us enough of it to beget in us infinite tolerance.

"Everything takes hold away down where I can't reach or help," says