ess
in the mind of a man that his wife thinks him (with all possible
affection and tenderness) rather a poor creature for not taking his
position in the world. And if he happens to be a man of anything like
fine sensibility, this will make him exceedingly uneasy.

The uneasiness may then become sufficiently decided to make him willing
to undergo any amount of labor and outlay, rather than endure the
presence of this aethereal skeleton in the family closet. He is quite
right. He could barely preserve his self-respect otherwise. But he is
mistaken if he fancies that a single step or a single series of steps
will demolish the skeleton entirely. One compliance with the ambition of
his wife will speedily beget the necessity for another. It is notorious
that a thoroughly aspiring man is never content without the prospect of
scaling new heights. No more is an aspiring woman. Whether you are
directly ambitious, as a man is, and for yourself, or indirectly and for
somebody else, as a woman is, in either case the law is the same. New
summits ever glitter in the distance. You have got your husband into the
House of Commons. That glory suffices for a month.

At the end of two months it seems a very dim glory indeed, and having
long been at an end, it by this time sinks into the second place of a
means. The sacrificial calf must next be made to speak. He must acquire
a reputation. Here in a good many cases, we suspect, the process finally
stops. A man may be got into the House, but the coveted exaltation of
that atmosphere does not convert a quiet, peaceable, dull man into an
orator. It does not give him ideas and the faculty of articulate speech.
At this point, if he be wise, he draws the line. He endures the skeleton
as best he may, or else his wife, quenching her ambition, resigns
herself to incurable destiny, and learns to be content with the limits
set by the fates to her lord's capacities. There are still certain
fields open to her own powers, irrespective of what he is able to do.

For example, she may open a _salon_, and there may exert unspeakable
influence over all kinds of important people. This is not at present
particularly congenial to English ground. As yet, the most vigorous
intellectual people seem to have felt an active social life as something
beneath them, and the highly social people have not been conspicuous for
the activity of their intellectual life. The people who go so greatly to
parties do not care for w