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AN ORIGINAL SKETCH IN A HOMELY FRAME.

BY ELIZA COOK.

GEORGE CLAYTON was as good-tempered and well-conducted a young man-taking the worldly average of temper and morals-as one would meet with among a thousand. He had served a respectable apprenticeshipas a cabinet maker to an old-established firm, and at the age of twentyfive, found himself foreman of the workshop, and in a condition to marry and settle in life." George had been born of the humblest of the middle classes, left an orphan at fourteen, and had been put out in the world by the united means of a few kind-hearted relatives, who wisely thought that pity and Christian-like sympathy would be more valuable if rendered practical, by giving the lad a little moral looking after and a trade; and George well repaid them. He grew into a sober and industrious man, and managed to save a hundred pounds during the four years he was courting Emma Serle, a very nice looking, finehearted girl, the sister of one of his shopmates, and who seemed to possess all the qualities most desirable in the wife of an artisan. They seemed well suited to each other, but George had a failing; it was that

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of being somewhat overbearing and exacting where he could control; and Emma had a spot in her disc, it was in being apt to become silent and sensitively reserved if any mortifying incident jostled against her spirit but there seemed every probability of their forming a very contented couple: and when George stood at the altar one fine July morning in his blue surtout, with Emma beside him, in her neat gray silk, the clergyman had a private opinion that they were a remarkably good looking pair. A pleasant little dinner at the bride's father's, and a ramble in the suburbs, filled up the sunshiny hours, and that day two months we saw them snugly ensconced in a pretty four-roomed house, in the neighbourhood of Camden Town. Cleanliness and comfort pervaded the little domicile, with Emma as the sole presiding spirit, blending in her own proper person, cook, housemaid, and page. Everything went on smoothly for some few months; her whole attention was given to George, for she loved him truly and fondly. Emma was perfectly happy, but as the long winter nights came on, and George sometimes stayed at his Mechanic's Institute, or had a chat with a friend until ten o'clock, why Emma began to find it a little dull; and as her husband had entreated that she would form no gossiping intimacy with her neighbours, sewing, scrubbing, and washing became somewhat monotonous.

George belonged to an amateur musical society, and when he did come home soon, generally sat down to practise a quartette part on the violin; unfortunately, his wife had no great love for music, but she bore his scraping and squeaking bravely, and even managed to appear delighted with his efforts, though she would often have preferred a game at cribbage, or a walk, or a little reading; however, she never interfered with his will and pleasure, and George fiddled away to his heart's content. It so happened, that Emma's brother Harry dropped in two or three times when his sister was alone, and found her rather mopy: and the next time he came, he brought under his arm a very pretty spaniel. "Here, Emma," said he, "you are a good deal by yourself, and I thought this little fellow would serve to amuse you, and be a sort of company when George is out; I know how fond you are of dogs, and I'm sure you'll soon like this one." Emma was, of course, pleased and gratified with the gift, and gave her brother an extra kiss as payment for Tiney. Sure enough the evening did pass much more cheerfully, though she had only a stupid, little, long-eared "bow-wow" to talk to, and she sat, with glistening eyes, expecting George, being sure that he would be as pleased with Tiney as she

was.

When the young husband came home, he was received with the accustomed kind words, and comfortable meal, and due presentation of Tiney: but George frowned on the little animal with a look of supreme contempt, and angrily said, "What do you want with that beast; hav'nt you got enough to employ you without a dog? you had better give it back to Harry to-morrow, I won't have it here." These few words turned These few words turned poor Emma's

heart into an icicle; and if we might reveal the secret thoughts that flashed across her brain, we should tell of a momentary impression that George was unkind and somewhat tyrannical, but she smothered her feelings, and said nothing. Tiney was kept for a day or two, but when George saw Emma caress it, or give it food, he betrayed symptoms of ridiculous and pettish jealousy which rendered her unhappy, and, at last, Tiney was given back to Harry. "Well," said her brother, as he took the animal, "I did not think that George was so selfish; you are all day long by yourself, and he goes to his club, and 'Mechanics' three or four times a week, and does everything he likes; and yet he won't let you have a little dog to keep you company. think he's very unkind, Emma, but you mustn't mind it.

I

Emma did mind it though, and had a "good cry" by herself, not that she cared so much about the relic of King Charles, as about George's selfishness in denying her such an innocent indulgence; and it is hardly to be wondered at, when he returned home that night, and sat down to his music, Emma went up stairs, and commenced needlework in the bedroom. She had no taste for music, and if George would not tolerate her little spaniel, why should she be plagued with his scraping? Days went on, and matters did not mend. George saw he had pained his young wife, but he was too proud to "give way," and rather increased in dictatorial supremacy, and adopted a sort of cold distance towards her. Emma was human as well as he, and though expected by all moral and practical teaching to submit to George's authority with amiable patience and dove-like docility, we must confess that she felt his "rule" rather unnecessarily exacting; and while she remembered how often he stayed out of an evening to gratify his own wish, and how he kept rabbits in the garden, and how he spent his money in "chopping and changing" of fiddles, why, there was a sense of injustice arose in her bosom, and she positively began to agree with her brother that George was somewhat selfish; and George was selfish ; he possessed the distinguishing characteristic which marks many men, a love of sway in his home, even in the smallest matters, and he thought his manly prerogative invaded if his word or will met with the slightest resistance. He was deeply attached to his wife, but his wife must have no interest in anything but himself. She was to wait for him, and wait on him; she was not to gossip with Mrs. Simpson next door, though he kept up a considerable talk with his fellow-workmen all day long. She must give up a longpromised visit to Windsor on her birthday, because George had an invitation to a "club dinner at Hampstead;" in short, she was to be a "perfect" woman, and be above all the little weaknesses which mark our frail nature, whilst he was to be indulged in any fancy that chose to come uppermost. George certainly was a little selfish, and had now made the first serious false steps on domestic boards.

Emma was less attentive to his comforts, and less particular in studying his will than she had hitherto been, and George resented the neglect smartly. Small quarrels arose, and happiness seemed taking

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flight from the little dwelling. George stayed out oftener, and Emma found it more dull than ever; at last, he continually saw traces of tears on her face when he returned, and his conscience began to get uneasy. He was good at heart, and when Harry asked him one day "why he left Emma so much by herself?" he grew rather red in the face, and changed the subject as soon as possible. But the question clung to him: he began to think that he had not been quite as considerate of Emma's pleasures as a husband ought to have been, and, in fact, he was rather ashamed of Harry's remarks on his sister's very recluse life. It so happened that George was engaged that night at a debating society, but he suddenly thought he would not go, and, turning to his brotherin-law, said, "Have you got that little spaniel yet that you gave Emma?" "Yes," replied Harry, "my wife and young 'un dote on him; but I wish you had let Emma keep him, for I think she fretted at your unkindness in sending it back; you know she is a capital girl, and makes a good wife, and you might have let her have a bit of a dog, just to keep her company when you were out." Well," said George, "do me a favour, Harry, and let me give Tiney back to her." Harry was truly glad, for he was aware of his brotherin-law's besetting sin, and the spaniel was carefully tucked under George's arm, when he left the shop. "Here, Emma," said he, as he entered his neat parlour, "I have brought back Tiney, and you must take care of him for my sake. I'm not going to the club, but if you'll put on your bonnet we'll have a walk, and buy him a collar. Poor Emma never looked at the dog, but flung her arms about George's neck, and kissed him, while great big tears were rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, George," she exclaimed, "and will you indeed let me keep him without being jealous or angry? I did think it was very unkind of you to be so cross about a trifle, and I know I have not been so good as I ought to be ever since, but now I feel quite happy, and you are my own dear George again." The young couple went out for their walk, and George began to find that he lost nothing by conferring a little attention upon Emma, for her extra cheerfulness became contagious, and he was happier than he had been for a month. On their return they met Harry and his wife, and while the two women went on. Harry took the opportunity of telling his shopmate "a bit of his mind." "I tell you what, George," said he, "you'll find it won't do to expect a wife to think of nothing else than cooking and stitching, and to stop at home for ever; they want some amusement, and some change as well as we do, and I don't think its right of us to go out to our clubs so often and leave them at home sitting up for us; it is'nt fair, and we can't expect 'em to be so mighty goodtempered when we do come home; and I say it was very stupid of you not to let Emma keep Tiney; women that love dogs, and birds, and dumb things are always fonder of their husbands and children than other women. You've got your fiddle and your rabbits, you know, and why shouldn't Emma have that bit of a dog? take my word for

it, George, that a man is a great fool when he acts like a selfish master instead of a kind husband.' George slightly winced under this rough truth, but certain it is, that he laid the counsel up and acted upon it. Some three years pass on since these humble incidents occurred, and what do we see? There is big George dancing little George after the most approved headlong fashion; and there is Emma holding up Tiney for little George's express delectation, while the popular nursery theme, of "Catch'er, catch'er, catch'er!" is a signal for Tiney's silken ears to be clutched at most unceremoniously by the juvenile gentleman. And now we see the quartette on Hampstead Heath, in the summer twilight, where the duodecimo Clayton makes a dozen consecutive summersets over as many pebbles while in pursuit of Tiney's tail."

Why, dear me, George," says Emma, suddenly, "this is the day you always went to the bean-feast."

"I know it is," replies he, "but it always cost me a good bit of money, and I always had a headache next day, so I think I'm quite as well off here with you and my boy." His young wife gives him a look which does him more good than a pot of ale would. "Thanks to Tiney and your brother Harry," continues George, "I am not so selfish in my pleasures as I used to be; I had a sort of a notion when I was first married, that you were to do everything I wanted, and I'm not quite so sure that I had a notion about caring for your wishes, but when I sent Tiney away, and found you crying upstairs of a night, I began to talk to myself, and thought I had not been quite so kind as I ought to have been, and then Harry said something to me, and so, you see, I've been a better fellow ever since; now haven't I, Emma?" There is no occasion to record Emma's reply.

Years have rolled on; we could now point to George Clayton as chief and wealthy agent to great building contractors, and to a descendant of Tiney, who claims especial favour in his household, Emma is as fond of her George as ever, and has never neglected him though he permitted her to keep a little spaniel, and took her out for a holiday ramble when he might have been at a bean-feast.

There are seven young Claytons flourishing "fast and fair,"-boys and girls, but we observe that George never permits that masculine domination to exist which deforms the social justice, and ultimate moral and mental happiness of so many families; he permits his daughters to wait upon his sons, but he is equally watchful that his sons should wait upon the daughters. We overheard him the other day talking to his eldest boy, just turned eighteen. "George," said he, "if ever you marry, be sure you don't expect too much of your wife; I should never have been so rich and happy as I am if I had been a selfish master' instead of a 'kind husband.' These "simple annals" are founded on facts, not imagination; and let every young, and, ay, and old married men, learn something from them.

From Eliza Cook's Journal.