“That is all very well, my dear—­but you must reflect, that, etc., etc., et cetera”—­each et cetera a dab of wet wool, taking out more and more stiffening and color, until the beautiful project hangs, a limp rag, on her hands, a forlorn wreck over which she could weep in self-pity.

This is one of the “spots” to be “humored.”  Wives there are, and not a few of them, sagacious and tender, who have learned the knack of insinuating a scheme upon husbandly attention until the logical spouses find themselves proposing—­they believe of their own free will—­the very designs born of their partner’s brains.  This is genius, and the practical application thereof is an art in itself.  It may also be classified for John’s admonition, as the natural reaction of 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 versa.  “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, blessed 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 the poor fellow of his sensitive, poetical wife.  “She is all the time holding up her soul to me with a thorn in it.”

“He did not know that that was poetry and pathos.  It was a natural illustration out of his homely, gentle, compassionate life.  He knew how to help dumb things in their hurts.  His wife he could not help.”

It reminds us of Ham Peggotty’s tender adjustment upon his palm of the purse committed to him by Emily for fallen Martha.

“‘Such a toy as it is!’ apostrophized Ham, thoughtfully, looking on it.  ‘With, such a little money in it, Em’ly, my dear.’”