"But I am not at liberty to control him thus; when parents do not pull together in the harness, the reins of government will slacken; when I would restrain and correct him, his father interferes; children are quick-witted, and my boy sees his advantage. What can I do, unsustained and single-handed?" True--true--God help the child then. Better for him had he never been born; better for you both, for so surely as the beard grows upon that little chin, so surely shall he bring your gray hairs with sorrow to the grave; and so surely shall he curse you for your very indulgence, before he is placed in the dishonored one your parental hands are digging for him.
These things need not be--ought not to be. Oh! if parents had but a firm hand to govern, and yet a ready ear for childish sympathy; if they would agree--whatever they might say in private--never to differ in presence of their children, as to their government; if the dissension-breeding "Joseph's coat" were banished from every hearthstone; if there were less weak indulgence and less asceticism; if the bow were neither entirely relaxed, nor strained so tightly that it broke; if there were less out-door dissipation, and more home-pleasures; if parents would not forget that they were once children, nor, on the other hand, forget that their children will be one day parents; if there were less form of godliness, and more godliness (for children are Argus-eyed; it is not what you preach, but what you practice), we should then have no beardless skeptics, no dissolute sons, no runaway marriages, no icy barriers between those rocked in the same cradle--nursed at the same breast.
To-morrow, at eleven, then, I am to be married! I feel like a mouse conscious of coming cheese. Is it usual for bachelors to feel this way, or am I a peculiar institution? I trust the parson, being himself a married man, will be discreet enough to make a _short_ prayer after the ceremony. Good gracious, my watch has stopped! no it hasn't, either; I should like to put the hands forward a little. What to do with myself till the time comes, that's the question. It is useless to go over to Mary's--she is knee-deep in dressmaker's traps. I never could see, when one dress is sufficient to be married in, the need women have to multiply them to such an indefinite extent. Think of postponing a man's happiness in such circumstances, that one more flounce may be added to a dress! Phew! how stifled this room is! I'll throw up the window; there now--there goes a pane of glass; who cares? I think I will shave; no I won't--I should be sure to cut my chin--how my hand trembles. I wonder what Mary is thinking about? bless her little soul. Well, for the life of me I don't know what to do with myself. Suppose I write down