THE FLUTE-PLAYER;

A TALE.

“Oh! bless’d with temper, whose unclouded ray

Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day!

She who ne’er answers till a husband cools,

Or if she rules him, never shows she rules;

Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,

Yet has her humour most when she obeys.”—Pope.

Harry Jones was one of the smartest young men of the village in which he was born. His parents were industrious and contented; and he himself was of that active and cheerful disposition which derives a pleasure from habitual employment, and requires no excitement of vice or folly in the hours of leisure. Harry Jones was by trade a cabinet-maker. He was a skilful and ingenious workman, and his master delighted to exhibit the tables and drawers which Harry manufactured, as the best specimens of his workshop. He lived in a small town to which the refinement of large societies was almost entirely unknown. On a summer evening he might be distinguished on a neighbouring green as the best bowler at cricket; and at the annual revel he could try a fall with any lad of the surrounding villages. But his chief delight was his proficiency as a flute-player. He made himself master of the newest country-dances; and occasionally astonished his friends with some more elaborate piece of harmony, which required considerable science and taste in its execution. He was a distinguished member of the band of volunteer performers at his parish church; and had several times received the praises of the clergyman for the skill with which he regulated the less practised abilities of his companions. All these recreations were in themselves innocent: and Harry Jones had sufficient sense and virtue not to permit them to divert his attention from the duties of his occupation, nor to make him forget that life had more important objects than the pursuit even of sinless amusement.

By his industry and frugality, Harry, at the age of five and twenty, had saved a little money. His master was kind and liberal towards him, and having himself other occupations to attend to, resigned his little interest as a cabinet-maker to the hero of our story. Harry became, if possible, more assiduous; he did not want friends and customers, and there was a particular object which gave an additional spur to his industry; he naturally and properly desired a wife as soon as he had acquired the means of maintaining one. In a neighbouring village he had formed an acquaintance with a young woman, who possessed those excellences which strongly recommended themselves to the prudential part of his character. Her parents were honest and pious people, who had brought up their daughter with the strictest attention to economy, and with those habits of regularity which assign to every duty an exact time and place for its fulfilment. These habits of order and punctuality had become a second nature to Martha. She would not allow herself to deviate from the prescribed path, nor could she endure any deviation in those by whom she was surrounded. She had a sincere and affectionate heart; but this precision had given something of coldness and formality to her character. Harry, with the fondness of a lover’s eyes, saw every thing to admire; he considered that her seriousness would properly regulate his cheerfulness, and that the strict discipline which she exercised over her own actions would control his inclination for hasty and various modes of occupation. He was satisfied that he could not make a more prudent choice, and the world thought so also. They married.

At the end of the first fortnight after their union, Harry sat down by his evening fireside exceedingly fatigued; he felt incapable of exertion, and remained for some time listless and dispirited. Martha began to read aloud from a serious book;—but she did not choose the most favourable moment for making a proper impression: Harry yawned and almost fell asleep. Martha laid down her book, and recommended him to look over his accounts: with every disposition to do right and oblige his wife, Harry felt that the labours of the day were past. He thought of his flute. The sense of fatigue was at once forgotten, as he again placed his old book of tunes before him. He played his briskest jigs—but Martha did not beat time: he tried his most pathetic airs—but Martha remained unmoved. He discovered to his mortification that his wife did not love music.

The next evening Harry did not forget the recreation of his flute; he played in his very best style, and he appealed to Martha for encouragement and approbation. Her praise was of a very negative quality. Sunday came, and Harry, as usual, took his place in the music gallery; he put forth all his powers, and exercised no common address to make his associates play in tune. As they walked home he ventured to ask Martha what she thought of their little band. She answered in a tone between indifference and contempt. His pride was hurt, and he determined to say no more upon the subject.

The flute continued to be produced every evening, and Harry ceased to expect the praise, or ask the attention of his wife. But even this indifference did not long continue. On one occasion he observed something like a frown upon her brow; on another, he heard a pettish expression pronounced in a whispered and hurried tone. At length hostility was openly declared against the flute; and Martha wondered how a man of any sense could waste his time, and annoy his family by such a stupid pursuit.

Harry bore this exceedingly well; for the love of his wife came to the aid of his naturally good temper. He locked up the flute. But he was disappointed in expecting Martha would offer him any substitute for his favourite amusement after his hours of labour. Her notions were those of rigid and unsparing industry. She was never tired of her domestic occupations, and she could not understand how a man who had his living to get could ever tire in the pursuit of his calling. When the hour of work was over, Harry sat down in his little parlour,—but his wife was seldom with him. It was true that the boards of his house were cleaner than the floor of any of his neighbours;—that the saucepans of his kitchen shone with a brightness which all the good housewives of the parish envied;—and that not a cinder deformed the neatness of his hearth without calling forth the brush and the shovel for its instant removal. But then it was also true that he sometimes caught cold at his dinner-hour, from the wetness which the floor acquired from the indefatigable cleanliness of his mate; that he sometimes made a fatal error when he forgot to clean his shoes before he crossed the sanded threshold; that while his wife was rubbing the skillets into looking-glasses, he was desirous of the conversation of a friend and companion; and that his well-swept hearth had no charms for his eyes while he was left alone to enjoy its neatness. He was debarred too of his favourite flute;—and it cannot therefore be wondered that he sometimes said in his heart, “why did I marry?”

It was at this juncture that Harry met with an old companion who had something of the vivacity, but nothing of the goodness which he himself possessed. Harry appeared uneasy and dispirited;—the cause of his discomfort was at length communicated. His companion told him, with the common cant of libertines, that the way to make wives amiable was to neglect them;—that his home was uncomfortable because he appeared too fond of it;—and that he might find society where his merits would be properly rated. Harry was persuaded to fetch his flute, to spend the evening at a neighbouring ale-house.

The harmless vanity which had been so long pent up now broke forth beyond its natural boundaries. Harry 79played well, and he played to a late hour, for he was flattered and caressed. On his return home, Martha was angry, and he was sullen.

The next night brought with it the same temptation. What was intended to be a rare indulgence at length became a confirmed habit. The public-house could not be frequented without expense; and late hours could not be kept without diminishing the capacity for the performance of ordinary duties. Harry, too, acquired the practice of drinking freely; and, as his mind was ill at ease, the morning draught often succeeded to the evening’s intoxication. He was not, as before, seen constantly at his workshop, to receive orders with good temper, and to execute them with alacrity. He was not distinguished for the brightest shoes and the cleanest apron of any mechanic in the town: his habits were idle, and his garb was slovenly. He slunk away from public observation to bury himself in the haunts of drunkenness and profligacy. As his business failed, he made to himself pretences for employment in vagabond parties of anglers or lark-shooters. One by one every article of furniture was pawned for present support. The fatal flute was the last thing consigned to the grasp of the money-lender.

Martha did not want sense. She reflected deeply upon the causes of their misery; and she at length perceived the error which she had committed in opposing her own fixed habits to the equally confirmed inclinations of her husband. She took her resolution. Honestly and impartially she stated her distresses, and the cause of them, to the vicar of the parish. He was a pious, a sensible, and a charitable pastor. He pointed out to her, what she herself at length acknowledged, that a small portion of time devoted to an innocent amusement is not incompatible with the more serious duties of a citizen and a Christian; that the engagements even of the most lowly might afford some leisure for cheerful relaxation; and that religion did not require a course of intense exertion and unbending gravity. The worthy clergyman furnished Martha the means of realizing a plan which her own judgment had devised.

Martha expended the good pastor’s friendly loan in procuring the restoration of their furniture; but she did not as yet bring it home. Her husband had one evening returned without intoxication, and in a temper which promised that the succeeding day would be one of industry. She exerted herself to accomplish her plan at this favourable moment. Before the next evening arrived her cottage was once more neat and comfortable; and the flute, which she had also redeemed, lay upon the table. Harry came in dejected, but his dejection became astonishment as Martha threw her arms around him and pointed to the indications of their future happiness. She confessed the error which had been the original cause of their misery. He felt her generosity, and with bitter tears made a vow of amendment. He was too much affected to take up his flute that evening;—but on the next his wife pressed it upon him. She listened to his performance;—she strove to fancy that she had a taste for music; she praised him. By this effort of kindness on one part, mutual kindness took the place of mutual discomfort. The hour of flute-playing was succeeded by the hour of serious meditation on the divine commands, and of humble prayer before the throne of grace. Their tastes and their pursuits gradually became assimilated. A timely concession saved Martha from hopeless misery, and a timely reformation saved Harry from the wretched life and the miserable death of a vagabond and a drunkard.