 | The woman who dared |  |
177
VI.
BY THE SEASIDE.
Borne swiftly to the North Cape of the Bay,
Still on the wings of steam the travellers went;
And tenderly the purple sunset smiled
Upon their journey's end; a little cottage
With oaks and pines behind it, and, before,
High ocean crags, and under them the ocean,
Unintercepted far as sight could reach!
Foliage and waves! A combination rare
Of lofty sylvan table-land, and then—
No barren strip to mar the interval—
The watery waste, the ever-changing main!
Old Ocean, with a diadem of verdure
Crowning the summit where his reach was stayed!
The shore, a line of rocks precipitous,
Piled on each other, leaving chasms profound,
Into whose rifts the foamy waters rushed
With gurgling roar, then flowed in runlets back
Till the surge drove them furiously in,
Shaking with thunderous bass the cloven granite!
Yet to the earth-line of the tumbled cliffs
The wild grass crept; the sweet-leafed bayberry
Scented the briny air; the fern, the sumach,
The prostrate juniper, the flowering thorn,
The blueberry, the clinging blackberry,
Tangled the fragrant sod; and in their midst
The red rose bloomed, wet with the drifted spray.
From the main shore cut off, and isolated
By the invading, the circumfluent waves,
A rock which time had made an island, spread
With a small patch of brine-defying herbage,
Is known as Norman's Woe; for, on this rock,
Two hundred years ago, was Captain Norman,
In his good ship from England, driven and wrecked
In a wild storm, and every life was lost.
Still on the wings of steam the travellers went;
And tenderly the purple sunset smiled
Upon their journey's end; a little cottage
With oaks and pines behind it, and, before,
High ocean crags, and under them the ocean,
Unintercepted far as sight could reach!
Foliage and waves! A combination rare
178
No barren strip to mar the interval—
The watery waste, the ever-changing main!
Old Ocean, with a diadem of verdure
Crowning the summit where his reach was stayed!
The shore, a line of rocks precipitous,
Piled on each other, leaving chasms profound,
Into whose rifts the foamy waters rushed
With gurgling roar, then flowed in runlets back
Till the surge drove them furiously in,
Shaking with thunderous bass the cloven granite!
Yet to the earth-line of the tumbled cliffs
The wild grass crept; the sweet-leafed bayberry
Scented the briny air; the fern, the sumach,
The prostrate juniper, the flowering thorn,
The blueberry, the clinging blackberry,
Tangled the fragrant sod; and in their midst
The red rose bloomed, wet with the drifted spray.
179
By the invading, the circumfluent waves,
A rock which time had made an island, spread
With a small patch of brine-defying herbage,
Is known as Norman's Woe; for, on this rock,
Two hundred years ago, was Captain Norman,
In his good ship from England, driven and wrecked
In a wild storm, and every life was lost.
Stand on the cliff near by,—southeasterly
Are only waves on waves to the horizon;
But easterly, less than two miles across,
And forming with the coast-line, whence you look,
The harbor's entrance, stretches Eastern Point,
A lighthouse at its end; a mile of land
Arm-like thrust out to keep the ocean off;
So narrow that beyond its width, due east,
You see the Atlantic glittering, hardly made
Less inconspicuous by the intervention.
The cottage fare, the renovating breeze,
The grove, the piny odors, and the flowers,
Rambles at morning and the twilight time,
Sea-bathing, joyous and exhilarant,
Siestas on the rocks, with inhalations
Of the pure breathings of the ocean-tide,—
Soon wrought in both the maidens visible change.
Each day their walks grew longer, till at last
A ten-mile tramp was no infrequent one.
Are only waves on waves to the horizon;
But easterly, less than two miles across,
And forming with the coast-line, whence you look,
The harbor's entrance, stretches Eastern Point,
A lighthouse at its end; a mile of land
Arm-like thrust out to keep the ocean off;
So narrow that beyond its width, due east,
You see the Atlantic glittering, hardly made
Less inconspicuous by the intervention.
180
The grove, the piny odors, and the flowers,
Rambles at morning and the twilight time,
Sea-bathing, joyous and exhilarant,
Siestas on the rocks, with inhalations
Of the pure breathings of the ocean-tide,—
Soon wrought in both the maidens visible change.
Each day their walks grew longer, till at last
A ten-mile tramp was no infrequent one.
“And where to-day?” asked Rachel, one fair morning.
“To Eastern Point,” said Linda; “with our baskets!
For berries, there 's no place like Eastern Point;
Blackberries, whortleberries, pigeon-pears,—
All we shall find in prodigality!”
And so by what was once the old stage-road
Contiguous to the shore, and through the woods,—
Though long abandoned save by scenery-hunters,
And overgrown with grass and vines and bushes;
Then leaving on their right the wooded hill
Named from the rattlesnakes, now obsolete;
Then by the Cove, and by the bend of shore
Over Stage-rocks, by little Half-moon beach,
Across the Cut, the Creek, by the Hotel,
And through the village, even to Eastern Point,—
The maidens went, and had a happy day.
And, when the setting sun blazed clear and mild,
And every little cloud was steeped in crimson,
To a small wharf upon the harbor side,
Along the beach they strolled, and looked across
The stretch of wave to Norman's Woe;—and Linda
Wistfully said: “Heigho! I own I'm tired;
And you, too, Rachel, you look travel-worn,
And hardly good for four miles more of road.
Could we but make this short cut over water!
What would I give now for a boat to take us
To Webber's Cove! O, if some timely oarsman
Would only come and say, ‘Fair demoiselles,
My skiff lies yonder, rocking on the tide,
And eager to convey you to your home!’
Then would I—Rachel!”
“What, Miss Percival?”
“Look at those men descending from the ridge!”
“Well, I can see an old man and a young.”
“And is that all you have to say of them?”
“How should I know about them? Ah! I see!
Those are the two we met three weeks ago,—
The day we left New York,—met in the cars.”
“Ay, Rachel, and their name is Lothian;
Father and son are they. Who would have thought
That they would find their way to Eastern Point?”
“Why not, as well as we, Miss Percival?
Look! To the wharf they go; and there, beside it,
If I'm not much mistaken, lies a boat.
The wished-for oarsman he! O, this is luck!
They 're going to the boat,—he'll row us over,
I'll run and ask him. See you to my basket.”
“Rachel! Stop, Rachel! Fie, you forward girl!
Don't think of it: come back! back, back, I say!”
“To Eastern Point,” said Linda; “with our baskets!
For berries, there 's no place like Eastern Point;
Blackberries, whortleberries, pigeon-pears,—
All we shall find in prodigality!”
And so by what was once the old stage-road
Contiguous to the shore, and through the woods,—
181
And overgrown with grass and vines and bushes;
Then leaving on their right the wooded hill
Named from the rattlesnakes, now obsolete;
Then by the Cove, and by the bend of shore
Over Stage-rocks, by little Half-moon beach,
Across the Cut, the Creek, by the Hotel,
And through the village, even to Eastern Point,—
The maidens went, and had a happy day.
And, when the setting sun blazed clear and mild,
And every little cloud was steeped in crimson,
To a small wharf upon the harbor side,
Along the beach they strolled, and looked across
The stretch of wave to Norman's Woe;—and Linda
Wistfully said: “Heigho! I own I'm tired;
And you, too, Rachel, you look travel-worn,
And hardly good for four miles more of road.
Could we but make this short cut over water!
182
To Webber's Cove! O, if some timely oarsman
Would only come and say, ‘Fair demoiselles,
My skiff lies yonder, rocking on the tide,
And eager to convey you to your home!’
Then would I—Rachel!”
“What, Miss Percival?”
“Look at those men descending from the ridge!”
“Well, I can see an old man and a young.”
“And is that all you have to say of them?”
“How should I know about them? Ah! I see!
Those are the two we met three weeks ago,—
The day we left New York,—met in the cars.”
“Ay, Rachel, and their name is Lothian;
Father and son are they. Who would have thought
That they would find their way to Eastern Point?”
“Why not, as well as we, Miss Percival?
Look! To the wharf they go; and there, beside it,
183
The wished-for oarsman he! O, this is luck!
They 're going to the boat,—he'll row us over,
I'll run and ask him. See you to my basket.”
“Rachel! Stop, Rachel! Fie, you forward girl!
Don't think of it: come back! back, back, I say!”
But Rachel did not hear, or would not heed,
Straight to the boat she ran, and, as the men
Drew nigh and stopped,—to Linda's dire dismay
She went up and accosted them, and pointed
To Norman's Woe,—then back to her companion,—
And then, with gesture eloquent of thanks
For some reply the younger man had made,
She seemed to lead the way, and he to follow
Along the foot-path to the granite bench
Where Linda sat, abashed and wondering.
And, when they stood before her, Rachel said
“Miss Percival, here 's Mr. Lothian;
He has a boat near by, and will be glad
To give us seats and row us both across.”
Charles Lothian bowed, and Linda, blushing, said,
“Against my orders did this little lady
Accost you, sir, but I will not affect
Regret at her success, if you 're content.”
“More than content, I'm very glad,” said Charles;
“My boat is amply large enough for four,
And we are bound, it seems, all the same way.
My father and myself have taken rooms
At Mistress Moore's, not far from where you live:
So count your obligation very slight.”
“An obligation not the first!” said Linda.
“So much the better!” said Charles Lothian:
“Come, take my arm, and let me hold your basket.
What noble blackberries! I'll taste of one.”
“Why not of two? As many as you will?”
“Thank you. You 've been adventurous, it seems.”
“Yes, Fortune favors the adventurous:
See the old proverb verified to-day!”
“Praise a good day when ended. Here 's my father:
Father, Miss Percival!” The senior bowed,
And said, “I used to know—” And then, as if
Checked by a reminiscence that might be
Unwelcome, he was silent, and they went
All to the boat. “Please let me take an oar,”
Said Linda. “Can you row?” asked Charles. “A little!
My father taught me.” Then old Lothian
Looked at her with a scrutinizing glance.
Straight to the boat she ran, and, as the men
Drew nigh and stopped,—to Linda's dire dismay
She went up and accosted them, and pointed
To Norman's Woe,—then back to her companion,—
And then, with gesture eloquent of thanks
For some reply the younger man had made,
She seemed to lead the way, and he to follow
Along the foot-path to the granite bench
Where Linda sat, abashed and wondering.
And, when they stood before her, Rachel said
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He has a boat near by, and will be glad
To give us seats and row us both across.”
Charles Lothian bowed, and Linda, blushing, said,
“Against my orders did this little lady
Accost you, sir, but I will not affect
Regret at her success, if you 're content.”
“More than content, I'm very glad,” said Charles;
“My boat is amply large enough for four,
And we are bound, it seems, all the same way.
My father and myself have taken rooms
At Mistress Moore's, not far from where you live:
So count your obligation very slight.”
“An obligation not the first!” said Linda.
“So much the better!” said Charles Lothian:
“Come, take my arm, and let me hold your basket.
What noble blackberries! I'll taste of one.”
“Why not of two? As many as you will?”
185
“Yes, Fortune favors the adventurous:
See the old proverb verified to-day!”
“Praise a good day when ended. Here 's my father:
Father, Miss Percival!” The senior bowed,
And said, “I used to know—” And then, as if
Checked by a reminiscence that might be
Unwelcome, he was silent, and they went
All to the boat. “Please let me take an oar,”
Said Linda. “Can you row?” asked Charles. “A little!
My father taught me.” Then old Lothian
Looked at her with a scrutinizing glance.
The ocean billows melted into one,
And that stretched level as a marble floor.
All winds were hushed, and only sunset tints
From purple cloudlets, edged with fiery gold,
And a bright crimson fleece the sun had left,
Fell on the liquid plain incarnadined.
The very pulse of ocean now was mute;
From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell!
Motionless on the coastwise ships the sails
Hung limp and white, their very shadows white.
The lighthouse windows drank the kindling red,
And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit.
And that stretched level as a marble floor.
All winds were hushed, and only sunset tints
From purple cloudlets, edged with fiery gold,
186
Fell on the liquid plain incarnadined.
The very pulse of ocean now was mute;
From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell!
Motionless on the coastwise ships the sails
Hung limp and white, their very shadows white.
The lighthouse windows drank the kindling red,
And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit.
“A heavenly eve!” sighed Linda, rapt in praise,
As with poised oars the two looked oceanward.
Then, keeping time, they pulled out from the shore.
“But you row well!” cried Charles. “I might return
The compliment,” said Linda. “See that duck!
How near, how still he floats! He seems to know
The holy time will keep him safe from harm.”
“Had I a gun,” said Charles—“You would not use it,”
Cried Linda, flushing. “And why not?” quoth he.
“‘Nobility obliges’; sympathy
Now makes all nature one and intimate;
And we 'd respect, even in a duck, his share
In this tranquillity, this perfect rest.”
“I'm glad, then, that I'm gunless,” Charles replied.
“Hear him!” the sire exclaimed; “he 'd have you think
He 's a great sportsman. Be not duped, my dear!
He will not shoot nor fish! He got a wound
At Gettysburg, I grant you,—what of that?
He would far rather face a battery
Than kill a duck, or even hook a cunner.”
“See now,” said Charles, “the mischievous effect
Of this exhilarating Cape Ann air!
'T is the first taunt I 've heard from lips of his
Since my return from Europe. Look you, father,
If I'm to be exposed before young ladies,
Your rations shall be stopped, and your supply
Of oxygen reduced,—with no more joking.
Don't eye those berries so feloniously.
Because you 've now an appetite,—because
You 've just begun to gain a little flesh,—
Must I be made the target of your jeers?”
As with poised oars the two looked oceanward.
Then, keeping time, they pulled out from the shore.
“But you row well!” cried Charles. “I might return
The compliment,” said Linda. “See that duck!
How near, how still he floats! He seems to know
The holy time will keep him safe from harm.”
“Had I a gun,” said Charles—“You would not use it,”
187
“‘Nobility obliges’; sympathy
Now makes all nature one and intimate;
And we 'd respect, even in a duck, his share
In this tranquillity, this perfect rest.”
“I'm glad, then, that I'm gunless,” Charles replied.
“Hear him!” the sire exclaimed; “he 'd have you think
He 's a great sportsman. Be not duped, my dear!
He will not shoot nor fish! He got a wound
At Gettysburg, I grant you,—what of that?
He would far rather face a battery
Than kill a duck, or even hook a cunner.”
“See now,” said Charles, “the mischievous effect
Of this exhilarating Cape Ann air!
'T is the first taunt I 've heard from lips of his
Since my return from Europe. Look you, father,
188
Your rations shall be stopped, and your supply
Of oxygen reduced,—with no more joking.
Don't eye those berries so feloniously.
Because you 've now an appetite,—because
You 've just begun to gain a little flesh,—
Must I be made the target of your jeers?”
Smiling, but with sad eyes, the father said:
“Ah! Charlie, Charlie, when I think of it,—
Think how you've thrown, poor boy, your very life
Into the breach of ruin made for me,—
Sacrificed all, to draw the lethal dart
Out of my wounded honor—to restore—”
“Give us a song, Miss Percival, a song!”
Charles, interrupting, said. “The time, the place,
Call for a song. Look! All the lighthouses
Flash greeting to the night. There Eastern Point
Flames out! Lo, little Ten Pound Island follows!
See Baker's Island kindling! Marblehead
Ablaze! Egg Rock, too, off Nahant, on fire!
And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge!
Like the wise virgins, all, with ready lamps!
Now might I turn fire-worshipper, and bow
In adoration at this solemn rite:
I'll compromise, however, for a song.”
“Lest you turn Pagan, then, I'll sing,” quoth Linda.
And, while they rested on their oars, she sang.
“Ah! Charlie, Charlie, when I think of it,—
Think how you've thrown, poor boy, your very life
Into the breach of ruin made for me,—
Sacrificed all, to draw the lethal dart
Out of my wounded honor—to restore—”
“Give us a song, Miss Percival, a song!”
Charles, interrupting, said. “The time, the place,
Call for a song. Look! All the lighthouses
Flash greeting to the night. There Eastern Point
189
See Baker's Island kindling! Marblehead
Ablaze! Egg Rock, too, off Nahant, on fire!
And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge!
Like the wise virgins, all, with ready lamps!
Now might I turn fire-worshipper, and bow
In adoration at this solemn rite:
I'll compromise, however, for a song.”
“Lest you turn Pagan, then, I'll sing,” quoth Linda.
And, while they rested on their oars, she sang.
LINDA'S SONG.
A little bird flew
To the top of a tree:
The sky it was blue,
And the bird sang to me.
So tender and true was the strain
The singer, I hoped, would remain:
O little bird, stay and prolong
The rapture the grief of that song!
To the top of a tree:
The sky it was blue,
And the bird sang to me.
So tender and true was the strain
The singer, I hoped, would remain:
O little bird, stay and prolong
The rapture the grief of that song!
190
A little thought came,
Came out of my heart;
It whispered a name
That made me to start:
And the rose-colored breath of my sigh
Flushed the earth and the sea and the sky.
Delay, little thought! O, delay,
And gladden my life with thy ray!
Came out of my heart;
It whispered a name
That made me to start:
And the rose-colored breath of my sigh
Flushed the earth and the sea and the sky.
Delay, little thought! O, delay,
And gladden my life with thy ray!
“Such singing lured Ulysses to the rocks!”
Old Lothian said, applauding. “Charles, look out,
Or, ere we reck of it, this reckless siren
Will have us all a wreck on Norman's Woe.
See to your oars! Where are we drifting, man?”
“Who would not drift on such a night as this?”
Said Charles; “all 's right.” Then, heading for the Cove,
Slowly and steadily the rowers pulled.
Old Lothian said, applauding. “Charles, look out,
Or, ere we reck of it, this reckless siren
Will have us all a wreck on Norman's Woe.
See to your oars! Where are we drifting, man?”
“Who would not drift on such a night as this?”
Said Charles; “all 's right.” Then, heading for the Cove,
Slowly and steadily the rowers pulled.
But, when the moon shone crescent in the west,
And the faint outline of the part obscured
Thread-like curved visible from horn to horn,—
And Jupiter, supreme among the orbs,
And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth,
And the great concave opened like a flower,
Unfolding firmaments and galaxies,
Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy white
With undistinguishable suns beyond,—
They paused and rested on their oars again,
And looked around,—in adoration looked.
For, gazing on the inconceivable,
They felt God is, though inconceivable;—
And, while they mutely worshipped, suddenly
A change came over Linda's countenance,
And her glazed mortal eyes were functionless;
For there, before her in the boat, stood two
Unbidden, not unwelcome passengers,
Her father and her mother. ....
“Why, Miss Linda,
Wake! Are you sleeping? What has been the matter?
Here we 've been waiting for you full five minutes.
And I have called, and Mr. Lothian
He too has called, and yet you make no answer!”
“Rachel! What is it? There! Excuse me all,
If I seemed impolite. Now, then, I'm ready.
A strong pull shall it be? So! Let her dart!”
And the faint outline of the part obscured
Thread-like curved visible from horn to horn,—
191
And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth,
And the great concave opened like a flower,
Unfolding firmaments and galaxies,
Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy white
With undistinguishable suns beyond,—
They paused and rested on their oars again,
And looked around,—in adoration looked.
For, gazing on the inconceivable,
They felt God is, though inconceivable;—
And, while they mutely worshipped, suddenly
A change came over Linda's countenance,
And her glazed mortal eyes were functionless;
For there, before her in the boat, stood two
Unbidden, not unwelcome passengers,
Her father and her mother. ....
“Why, Miss Linda,
Wake! Are you sleeping? What has been the matter?
Here we 've been waiting for you full five minutes.
192
He too has called, and yet you make no answer!”
“Rachel! What is it? There! Excuse me all,
If I seemed impolite. Now, then, I'm ready.
A strong pull shall it be? So! Let her dart!”
And in ten minutes they were at the landing
And on their homeward way; and, as they parted,
The spoils were shared, and the old man accepted
One of the baskets, and all cried, “Good night!”
And on their homeward way; and, as they parted,
The spoils were shared, and the old man accepted
One of the baskets, and all cried, “Good night!”
The morning sea-fog like an incense rose
Up to the sun and perished in his beam;
The sky's blue promise brightened through the veil.
With her unopened sketch-book in her hand,
Linda stood on the summit looking down
On Norman's Woe, and felt upon her brow
The cooling haze that foiled the August heat.
Near her knelt Rachel, hunting curiously
For the fine purple algæ of the clefts.
Good cause had Linda for a cheerful heart;
For had she not that day received by mail
A copy of “The Prospect of the Flowers,”—
Published in chromo, and these words from Diggin?
“Your future is assured: my bait is swallowed,
Bait, hook, and sinker, all; now let our fish
Have line enough and time enough for play,
And we will land him safely by and by.
A good fat fish he is, and thinks he 's cunning.
Enclosed you'll find a hundred-dollar bill;
Please send me a receipt. Keep very quiet.”
Up to the sun and perished in his beam;
The sky's blue promise brightened through the veil.
With her unopened sketch-book in her hand,
Linda stood on the summit looking down
On Norman's Woe, and felt upon her brow
The cooling haze that foiled the August heat.
193
For the fine purple algæ of the clefts.
Good cause had Linda for a cheerful heart;
For had she not that day received by mail
A copy of “The Prospect of the Flowers,”—
Published in chromo, and these words from Diggin?
“Your future is assured: my bait is swallowed,
Bait, hook, and sinker, all; now let our fish
Have line enough and time enough for play,
And we will land him safely by and by.
A good fat fish he is, and thinks he 's cunning.
Enclosed you'll find a hundred-dollar bill;
Please send me a receipt. Keep very quiet.”
Yet Linda was not altogether happy.
Why was it that Charles Lothian had called
Once, and once only, after their adventure?
Called just to ask her, How she found herself?
And, Did she overtask herself in rowing?
How happened it, in all her walks and rambles,
They rarely met, or, if they met, a bow
Formal and cold was all the interview?
While thus she mused, she started at a cry:
“Ah! here 's our siren, cumbent on the rocks!
Where should a siren be, if not on rocks?”
Old Lothian's voice! He came with rod and line
To try an angler's luck. Behind him stepped
Charles, who stood still, as if arrested, when
He noticed Linda.
Then, as if relenting
In some resolve, he jumped from rock to rock
To where she leaned; and, greeting her, inquired:
“Have you been sketching?”—“No, for indolence
Is now my occupation.”—“Here 's a book;
May I not look at it?”—“You may.”—“Is this
An album?”—“'T is my sketch-book.”—“Do you mean
These are your sketches, and original?”
“Ay, truly, mine; from nature every one.”
“But here we have high art! No amateur
Could color flower like that.”—“Ah! there you touch me;
For I'm no amateur in painting flowers,—
I get my living by it.”—“I could praise
That sea-view also,—what a depth of sky!
That beach,—that schooner flying from a squall,—
If I'm a judge, here 's something more than skill!”
Why was it that Charles Lothian had called
Once, and once only, after their adventure?
Called just to ask her, How she found herself?
And, Did she overtask herself in rowing?
194
They rarely met, or, if they met, a bow
Formal and cold was all the interview?
While thus she mused, she started at a cry:
“Ah! here 's our siren, cumbent on the rocks!
Where should a siren be, if not on rocks?”
Old Lothian's voice! He came with rod and line
To try an angler's luck. Behind him stepped
Charles, who stood still, as if arrested, when
He noticed Linda.
Then, as if relenting
In some resolve, he jumped from rock to rock
To where she leaned; and, greeting her, inquired:
“Have you been sketching?”—“No, for indolence
Is now my occupation.”—“Here 's a book;
May I not look at it?”—“You may.”—“Is this
An album?”—“'T is my sketch-book.”—“Do you mean
These are your sketches, and original?”
195
“But here we have high art! No amateur
Could color flower like that.”—“Ah! there you touch me;
For I'm no amateur in painting flowers,—
I get my living by it.”—“I could praise
That sea-view also,—what a depth of sky!
That beach,—that schooner flying from a squall,—
If I'm a judge, here 's something more than skill!”
Then the discourse slid off to woman's rights;
For Lothian held a newspaper which told
Of some convention, the report of which
Might raise a smile. One of the lady speakers,
It seems, would give her sex the privilege
Of taking the initiative in wooing,
If so disposed!
“Indeed, why not?” cried Linda.
“Indeed, you almost take my breath away
With your Why not, Miss Percival! Why not?”
“Yes, I repeat,—if so disposed, why not?
For why should woman any more than man
Play the dissembler, with so much at stake?
I know the ready taunt that here will rise:
‘Already none too backward are our girls
In husband-seeking.’ Seeking in what way?
Seeking by stratagem and management,—
Not by frank, honest means! What food for mirth
'T would give to shallow men to see a woman
Court the relation, intertwined with all
Of purest happiness that she may crave,—
The ties of wife and mother! O, what pointing,
Sneering, and joking! And yet why should care
Thoughtful and pure and wisely provident,
That Nature's sacred prompting shall not fail,
Be one thing for a man, and quite another
For her, the woman? Why this flimsy mask?
This playing of a part, put on to suit,
Not the heart's need, but Fashion custom-bound?
Feigning we must be sought, and never seek?
Now, through these social hindrances and bars,
The bold, perhaps the intriguing, carry off
Prizes the true and modest ought to win.
And so we hear it coarsely said of husbands,
‘Better a poor one far, than none at all!’
A thought ignoble, and which no true woman
Should harbor for a moment. Give her freedom,
Freedom to seek, and she'll not harbor it!
Because if woman, equally with man,
Were privileged thus, she would discriminate
Much more than now, and fewer sordid unions
Would be the sure result. For what if man
Were chained to singleness until some woman
Might seek his hand in marriage, would he be
Likely as now to make a wise election?
Would he not say, ‘Time flies; my chances lessen
And I must plainly take what I can get?’
True, there are mercenary men enough,
Seeking rich dowries; they 'd find fewer dupes,
Were women free as men to seek and choose,
Banish the senseless inequality,
And you make marriage less a vulgar game
In which one tries to circumvent the other.
Oh! all this morbid ribaldry of men,
And all this passive imbecility,
And superstitious inactivity,
Dissimulation and improvidence,
False shame and lazy prejudice of women,
Where the great miracle of sex concerns us,
And Candor should be innocently wise,
And Knowledge should be reverently free,—
Is against nature
the whole question with scientific accuracy and force, so far as
analogies drawn from the habits of the lower animals can settle it.
But if the critic, while buttering his daily bread or putting cream
into his daily coffee, had acquainted himself with the habits of
the useful animal to which he is indebted, he would never have
been guilty of so prodigious a blunder. So far from passively
“waiting to be wooed,” the cow, when the sexual impulse is
awakened, will disturb the whole neighborhood by her bellowings.
Should the critic reply that this is because she is kept in an unnatural
state of restraint, such reply would add only additional
force to the contradiction of the argument which he would offer.
,—helps to hide the way
Out of the social horrors that confound us,
And launches thousands into paths impure,
Shutting them out from holy parentage.”
For Lothian held a newspaper which told
Of some convention, the report of which
Might raise a smile. One of the lady speakers,
It seems, would give her sex the privilege
Of taking the initiative in wooing,
If so disposed!
“Indeed, why not?” cried Linda.
“Indeed, you almost take my breath away
With your Why not, Miss Percival! Why not?”
196
For why should woman any more than man
Play the dissembler, with so much at stake?
I know the ready taunt that here will rise:
‘Already none too backward are our girls
In husband-seeking.’ Seeking in what way?
Seeking by stratagem and management,—
Not by frank, honest means! What food for mirth
'T would give to shallow men to see a woman
Court the relation, intertwined with all
Of purest happiness that she may crave,—
The ties of wife and mother! O, what pointing,
Sneering, and joking! And yet why should care
Thoughtful and pure and wisely provident,
That Nature's sacred prompting shall not fail,
Be one thing for a man, and quite another
For her, the woman? Why this flimsy mask?
This playing of a part, put on to suit,
Not the heart's need, but Fashion custom-bound?
Feigning we must be sought, and never seek?
197
The bold, perhaps the intriguing, carry off
Prizes the true and modest ought to win.
And so we hear it coarsely said of husbands,
‘Better a poor one far, than none at all!’
A thought ignoble, and which no true woman
Should harbor for a moment. Give her freedom,
Freedom to seek, and she'll not harbor it!
Because if woman, equally with man,
Were privileged thus, she would discriminate
Much more than now, and fewer sordid unions
Would be the sure result. For what if man
Were chained to singleness until some woman
Might seek his hand in marriage, would he be
Likely as now to make a wise election?
Would he not say, ‘Time flies; my chances lessen
And I must plainly take what I can get?’
True, there are mercenary men enough,
Seeking rich dowries; they 'd find fewer dupes,
Were women free as men to seek and choose,
198
And you make marriage less a vulgar game
In which one tries to circumvent the other.
Oh! all this morbid ribaldry of men,
And all this passive imbecility,
And superstitious inactivity,
Dissimulation and improvidence,
False shame and lazy prejudice of women,
Where the great miracle of sex concerns us,
And Candor should be innocently wise,
And Knowledge should be reverently free,—
Is against nature
A curious instance of the temerity with which flagrant errors are pressed into the service of criticism is presented in some remarks in the N. Y. Nation. “There is probably,” it says, “no incident of woman's condition which is more clearly natural than her passivity in all that relates to marriage. In waiting to be wooed, she not only complies with one of the conventional proprieties, but obeys what appears to be a law of sex, not amongst human beings only, but among all animals.”
These remarks have been adopted by many American journalists, and have been accepted perhaps by many readers as settling
270
Other examples in abundance, in confutation of his assumption, could no doubt be furnished. But even were that assumption true, we might sometimes be led to rather awkward results if we were to take the habits of the lower animals as authoritative. Certain animals have not infrequently an eccentric habit of destroying their offspring. Some of our Chinese brethren, borrowing a hint perhaps from the brute creation, are said to think it no sin to kill such female children as they have no use for. We hope that no enterprising critic will recommend such a solution as this of the woman problem.
Out of the social horrors that confound us,
And launches thousands into paths impure,
Shutting them out from holy parentage.”
“I hold,” said Charles, “the question is not one
Of reasoning, but of simple sentiment.
As it would shock me, should a woman speak
In virile baritone, so would I shudder
To hear a grave proposal marriageward
In alto or soprano.”
“'T would depend!
Depend on love,” said Linda; “love potential,
Or present.”—“Nay, 't would frighten love!” cried Charles,—
“Kill it outright.”—“Then would it not be love!
What! would you love a woman less because
She durst avow her love, before the cue
Had been imparted by your lordly lips?
Rare love would that be truly which could freeze
Because the truth came candid from her heart,
And in advance of the proprieties!”
“But may the woman I could love,” cried Charles,
“Forbear at least the rash experiment!”
“I doubt,” said Linda, “if you know your heart;
For hearts look to the substance, not the form.
Why should not woman seek her happiness
With brow as unabashed as man may wear
In seeking his? Ah! lack of candor here
Works more regrets, for woman and for man,
Than we can reckon. Let but woman feel
That in the social scheme she 's not a cipher,
The remedy, be sure, is not far off.”
Of reasoning, but of simple sentiment.
As it would shock me, should a woman speak
In virile baritone, so would I shudder
199
In alto or soprano.”
“'T would depend!
Depend on love,” said Linda; “love potential,
Or present.”—“Nay, 't would frighten love!” cried Charles,—
“Kill it outright.”—“Then would it not be love!
What! would you love a woman less because
She durst avow her love, before the cue
Had been imparted by your lordly lips?
Rare love would that be truly which could freeze
Because the truth came candid from her heart,
And in advance of the proprieties!”
“But may the woman I could love,” cried Charles,
“Forbear at least the rash experiment!”
“I doubt,” said Linda, “if you know your heart;
For hearts look to the substance, not the form.
Why should not woman seek her happiness
With brow as unabashed as man may wear
200
Works more regrets, for woman and for man,
Than we can reckon. Let but woman feel
That in the social scheme she 's not a cipher,
The remedy, be sure, is not far off.”
“To me it seems,” said Lothian, “that you war
Against our natural instincts: have they not
Settled the point, even as the world has done?”
Said Linda: “Instincts differ; they may be
Results of shallow prejudice or custom.
The Turk will tell you that polygamy
Is instinct; and the savage who stalks on
In dirty painted grandeur, while his squaw
Carries the burdens, might reply that instinct
Regulates that. So instinct proves too much.
Queens and great heiresses are privileged
To intimate their matrimonial choice,—
Simply because superiority
In power or riches gives an apt excuse:
Let a plurality of women have
The wealth and power, and you might see reversed
What now you call an instinct. When a higher
Civilization shall make woman less
Dependent for protection and support
On man's caprice or pleasure, there may be
A higher sort of woman; one who shall
Feel that her lot is more in her own hands,
And she, like man, a free controlling force,
Not a mere pensioner on paternal bounty
Until some sultan throws the handkerchief.”
Against our natural instincts: have they not
Settled the point, even as the world has done?”
Said Linda: “Instincts differ; they may be
Results of shallow prejudice or custom.
The Turk will tell you that polygamy
Is instinct; and the savage who stalks on
In dirty painted grandeur, while his squaw
Carries the burdens, might reply that instinct
Regulates that. So instinct proves too much.
Queens and great heiresses are privileged
To intimate their matrimonial choice,—
Simply because superiority
In power or riches gives an apt excuse:
201
The wealth and power, and you might see reversed
What now you call an instinct. When a higher
Civilization shall make woman less
Dependent for protection and support
On man's caprice or pleasure, there may be
A higher sort of woman; one who shall
Feel that her lot is more in her own hands,
And she, like man, a free controlling force,
Not a mere pensioner on paternal bounty
Until some sultan throws the handkerchief.”
A cry of triumph from the fisherman,
Exuberant at having caught a bass,
Here ended the discussion, leaving Linda
With the last word. Charles went to chat with Rachel;
And Linda, summoned by vociferations
From the excited, the transported captor,
Descended to inspect the amazing fish.
“A beauty, is it not, Miss Percival?
A rare one, too, for this part of the coast!
'T will be a study how to have it cooked.
Now sit here, in the shadow of this rock.
Your father's name was Albert Percival?
So I supposed. I 've often heard my wife
Speak of him as of one she knew was wronged
Most foully in his wrestle with the law.
Have you not met with Harriet Percival?”
“Once only, and our interview was brief.
Is she not married?”—“No, nor like to be,
Although her fortune is a pretty one,
Even for these times,—two millions, I believe;
All which her mother may inherit soon;
For Harriet is an invalid, but hoards
Her income quite as thriftily as if
She looked for progeny and length of days.
The mother, as you may not be aware,
Has married an aspiring gentleman
Who means to build a palace on the Hudson,
And Harriet's money hence is greatly needed.”
The mist now cleared, and the sun shone in power,
So that the heat soon drove them to the woods.
The senior took his capture home for dinner;
Rachel strolled, picking berries by the brook;
And, under lofty pines, sat Charles and Linda,
And talked discursively, till Linda's thoughts,
Inclining now to memory, now to hope,
Vibrating from the future to the past,
Took, in a silent mood, this rhythmic form.
Exuberant at having caught a bass,
Here ended the discussion, leaving Linda
With the last word. Charles went to chat with Rachel;
And Linda, summoned by vociferations
From the excited, the transported captor,
Descended to inspect the amazing fish.
202
A rare one, too, for this part of the coast!
'T will be a study how to have it cooked.
Now sit here, in the shadow of this rock.
Your father's name was Albert Percival?
So I supposed. I 've often heard my wife
Speak of him as of one she knew was wronged
Most foully in his wrestle with the law.
Have you not met with Harriet Percival?”
“Once only, and our interview was brief.
Is she not married?”—“No, nor like to be,
Although her fortune is a pretty one,
Even for these times,—two millions, I believe;
All which her mother may inherit soon;
For Harriet is an invalid, but hoards
Her income quite as thriftily as if
She looked for progeny and length of days.
The mother, as you may not be aware,
Has married an aspiring gentleman
Who means to build a palace on the Hudson,
And Harriet's money hence is greatly needed.”
203
So that the heat soon drove them to the woods.
The senior took his capture home for dinner;
Rachel strolled, picking berries by the brook;
And, under lofty pines, sat Charles and Linda,
And talked discursively, till Linda's thoughts,
Inclining now to memory, now to hope,
Vibrating from the future to the past,
Took, in a silent mood, this rhythmic form.
UNDER THE PINES.
O pine-trees! bid the busy breeze be still
That through your tops roars like the constant surge:
Such was the sound I heard in happy days
Under the pines.
That through your tops roars like the constant surge:
Such was the sound I heard in happy days
Under the pines.
In happy days, when those I loved were by;
In happy days, when love was daily food;
And jocund childhood, finding it, found joy
Under the pines.
In happy days, when love was daily food;
And jocund childhood, finding it, found joy
Under the pines.
204
Again I hear the west-wind in your tops;
Again I scent the odor you exhale;
But sound and odor now provoke but tears
Under the pines.
Again I scent the odor you exhale;
But sound and odor now provoke but tears
Under the pines.
O pine-trees! shall a different joy be mine,
One day when I shall seek your fragrant shade?
Whisper it faintly, breezes, to my heart
Under the pines
“Truly, Miss Percival, you puzzle me,”One day when I shall seek your fragrant shade?
Whisper it faintly, breezes, to my heart
Under the pines
Said Charles, upon her silent revery
Breaking abruptly in: “ay, you could fire
And wound the villain bearing off the child,
And you can brave the radical extreme
On this great woman question of the day,—
Yet do you seem a very woman still,
And not at all like any man I know,—
Not even like an undeveloped man!
And I'm not greatly exercised by fear,
Leaning here by your side thus lazily.”
“Don't mock me now,” said Linda; “I'm not armed;
205
“Not armed? Then will I venture to propose
That when the tide is low this afternoon
We try the beach on horseback. Will you venture?”
The joy that sparkled in her eyes said “Yes”
Before her tongue could duplicate assent.
Said Charles, “I'll bring the horses round at six.”
“I will be ready, Mr. Lothian.”
There was no breach of punctuality:
Though sighs, from deeper founts than tears, were heaved,
When she drew forth the summer riding-habit
Worn last when in the saddle with her father.
“Here are the horses at the door!” cried Rachel;
“A bay horse and a black; the bay is yours.”
When they were mounted, Lothian remarked:
“Little Good Harbor Beach shall be our point;
So called because an Indian once pronounced
206
A broad and open beach, from which you see.
Running out southerly the ocean side
Of Eastern Point; its lofty landward end
Gray with huge cliffs. There shall you mark ‘Bass Rock,’
Rare outlook when a storm-wind from the east
Hurls the Atlantic up the craggy heights.”
The air was genial, and a rapid trot
Soon brought them to the beach. The ebb had left
A level stretch of sand, wide, smooth, and hard,
With not a hoof-mark on the glistening plain.
The horses tossed their heads with snorting pride,
Feeling the ocean breeze, as curved and fell
Up the long line the creeping fringe of foam,
Then backward slid in undulating glass,
While all the west in Tyrian splendor flamed.
207
Her horse to all his speed, and shook her whip.
They skimmed the sand, they chased the flying wave,
They walked their horses slow along the beach:
And, as the light fell on a far-off sail,
And made it a white glory to the eye,
Said Linda: “See! it fades into the gray,
And now 't is dim, and now is seen no more!
Yet would a little height reveal it still.
So fade from memory scenes which higher points
Of vision shall reveal: the beautiful,
The good, shall never die; and so to-day
Shall be a lasting, everlasting joy!”
“Would I might see more of such days!” said he,
“In the obscure before me! Fate forbids.
My time of idlesse terminates to-night.
To-morrow to the city we return.
Thither I go, to open, in October,
208
And make my preparations.”
On they rode,
After these words, in silence for a mile
Upon their homeward way. Then Lothian:
“And what will your address be, in the city?”
“I do not know, nor care,” said Linda, switching
Her horse's ear, to start a quicker trot.
Another mile of silence! “Look!” cried he;
“The lighthouse light salutes us!”—“Yes, I see.”
“Why do you go so fast?”—“I'll slacken speed
If you desire it. There!” They breathed their horses;
Then Lothian: “Indeed, I hope that we
Shall meet again.”—“Why not? The world is wide,
But I have known a letter in a bottle,
Flung over in mid-ocean, to be found
And reach its owner. Doubtless, we may meet.”
“I'm glad to find you confident of that.”
209
Till they saw Rachel coming from the house
To greet them. Charles helped Linda to dismount,
Held out his hand, and said, “Good by, Miss Linda.”
“Good by!” she cheerily answered; “bid your father
Good by for me. And so you go indeed
To-morrow?”—“Yes, we may not meet again.”
“Well; pleasant journey!”—“Thank you. Good by, Rachel.”
He rode away, leading her panting horse;
And, when the trees concealed him, Linda rushed
Up stairs, and locked the door, and wept awhile.
As, early the next morning, she looked forth
On the blue ocean from the open window,
“Now, then, for work!” she cried, and drew her palm
210
Thoughts that too perseveringly came back
She heard a step. 'T is he! “I hardly hoped,
Miss Percival, to find you up so early:
Good by, once more!”—“Good by! Don't miss the train.”
At this a shadow fell on Lothian's face,
As with uplifted hat and thwarted smile,
He turned away. Then off with hasty stride
He walked and struck the bushes listlessly.
“What did I mean by speaking so?” said Linda,
With hand outstretched, as if to draw him back.
“Poor fellow! He looked sad; but why—but why
Is he so undemonstrative? And why
Could he not ask again for my address,
I 'd like to know?” Poor Linda! She could preach,
But, like her elders, could not always practise.
| The woman who dared | |