 | Traits of American life |  |
AN OLD MAID.
“Do not smile at me that I boast her off,
For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise,
And make it halt behind her.”
“Miss Atherton, Mr. Burton,”—said Mrs.
Carvill, as she led forward the lady whom she had
met at the door, and embraced with an affectionate
warmth that could not be mistaken for common-place
courtesy. The smile of welcome is not like
that of politeness, and it must be a novice who is
deceived in such matters. Mr. Burton admired
Mrs. Carvill's taste and honoured her judgment,
and respected her sincerity—and he saw she loved
Miss Atherton; but how any mortal could love an
old maid was, to him, matter of astonishment. Had
she only been called Mrs., he would have seen at
once in her countenance that kindness of expression
which tells the tale of the devoted wife, and affectionate
mother, and all the soft charities of life—
but a Miss, who had evidently lived her ten lustres,
was associated, in his mind and feelings, with
all the disagreeable peculiarities of temperament
“Do you not think Miss Atherton a very elegant
woman?” asked Mrs. Carvill, as the first
named lady departed.
Burton assented, for he was too polite to disagree
with a lady, and respecting her friend, too—
but there was an expression in his eye which Mrs.
Carvill understood—she heeded it not, but continued—“Miss
Atherton is my beau ideal of female
excellence, and I am always exacting of my
friends the same homage to her virtues. I hope
you will trust me as voucher, till you are acquainted
with her, and then she will need no eulogist.”
“And yet, notwithstanding her perfections, she
has, it seems, lived only for herself, and wasted her
sweetness on the desert air.”
“A very gentlemanly manner of expressing
your dislike of an old maid,” said Mrs. Carvill,
smiling.
Mr. Burton returned the smile, as he replied:
“I have, I confess, an aversion to the whole tribe
of antiquated maidens; not doubting, however, that
there may be amiable and intelligent ladies among
them. You will ask my reasons—well, it seems
to my mind impossible they can possess the true,
feminine virtues and graces of character in the perfection
they would have done, had they been married,
of social and domestic duties, and imbued with the
charities and affections of their own sweet home.
I think they must be egotists, because they have
had no engrossing object of love that would make
them forget self—and they must be discontented,
too, from that constitution of our nature which
makes us invest the unattained, and especially the
unattainable, with extraordinary attractions; and
these feelings, selfishness and discontent, will make
them envious, suspicious and ill-natured. I do not
include Miss Atherton in this picture—she is your
friend, and I said there were exceptions; but, I
own, my interest in her is not increased by the circumstance
of finding her a single lady.”
Mrs. Carvill did not reply to these opinions of
her guest. She knew such were entertained by
most men, and that they would never be altered
by the arguments of a woman. It is strange a lady
will argue—she never convinces a man by arguments
addressed to his reason; but she may by appeals
to his feelings—to his heart. Nor need she
think this course at all derogatory to the character
of her influence, or to the truths she would impress.
It is more important to the cause of virtue and
public morals, that men's feelings and affections
should be kept right and pure, than that they should
and purity.
Mrs. Carvill changed the subject of conversation—the
last new poem was discussed; the transition
to the sister art, painting, was easy, and then
engraving seemed to glide in as naturally as the
ghost in Hamlet illustrated the story of Bernardo.
“I have lately obtained an engraving that I think
tolerable,” observed the lady, at the same time
producing from her port-folio the piece in question.
“This drawing,” continued Mrs. Carvill, “has, to
my taste, a charm more divine than beauty—it has
truth. It is no ideal representation; but a record
of filial devotion and love. I was acquainted with
the originals, and have often seen Calista thus
kneeling to help on her father's shoe, for he was a
man of many infirmities, and more fears. `The
grasshopper shall be a burden,' is a melancholy,
but striking description, of the imbecile feelings of
the aged. Among other weaknesses, they usually
have a dread of strange attendants, and a querulous
impatience when such would assist them. This
old gentleman was afflicted with the gout in his
feet, and the approach of a servant to put on his
shoe would have been torture; yet he would sit
with folded hands, and that look of quiet and trusting
abandonment, which an infant wears in the
him, and with her white fingers so skilfully and
tenderly performed her office. She was a lovely
girl!”
“She was, indeed, if this is a good likeness.”
“The features are faithfully drawn—but the
beauty of her countenance, the mingled expression
of spirit and sweetness, the sparkling vivacity of
her dark eye and ready smile, tempered and chastened
by that air of thoughtfulness, which seemed
the effect of her watchful love and care for the
happiness of others, not the affectation of superior
wisdom or deep study—these, sir, are traits which
can never be delineated. The painter might as
well fix on his canvas the changing light of the
evening cloud.”
“I hope her destiny has been a happy one,” remarked
Mr. Burton; “she must have made an estimable
wife.”
Mrs. Carvill smiled as she answered: “I see
you have no faith in female excellence, unless developed
in the matronly character. Now, I would
have a wider field for woman's usefulness. I would
have our young ladies impressed with the idea that
their happiness and respectability does not necessarily
result from marriage, but from the cheerful
and faithful discharge of the duties before them, in
whatever state or station they may be placed. But
me to tell you the story of my drawing.
This old gentleman was twice married, and had
three daughters, just the number for a fairy tale,
and Calista was the youngest and the favourite, as
all such stories have it. She was the daughter of
the second wife, and ten or twelve years younger
than her half-sisters, who, according to our mode
of early marriages, were wooed and won before
Calista was out of the nursery. Her mother died
soon after; and whether it was that her father felt
the deep loneliness which nothing but the presence
of some beloved object can dispel, or whether he
feared the plan pursued in educating his two elder
daughters was injurious, I cannot say, but he adopted
a very different method with Calista than is
usually pursued by the rich and fashionable among
us. He did not send her to a boarding-school, to
learn frivolous accomplishments, and make romantic
friendships, and have her head filled with the
fashions and the beaux, before any principles for
the guidance of her conduct in life, or any distinct
ideas of what constituted rational happiness, had
been conveyed to her mind. Certain it is, that the
love of home and the habit of domestic confidence
must pervade female education, or merely being
married will never make a woman fond of domestic
pleasures, or capable of discharging domestic
sense, learning, and knowledge of the world, can
believe that a weak-minded, sentimental, frivolous
young lady, whose whole heart is devoted to dress,
amusements, and husband-hunting, will make a
kind, and submissive, and judicious wife! Such
apparently gentle girls are the most unreasonable
beings in the universe—as wives, I mean.”
“I will never marry such an one, Mrs. Carvill.”
“Not an unreasonable one, you mean. But you
will not believe, till you find by conjugal experience,
that a pretty, soft-spoken, sentimental young
creature, whose deepest learning is a few French
phrases, and a few tunes on the piano, can exhibit
passions violent as Queen Elizabeth, or be obstinate
as Madame de Stael in an argument.”
“Will you not, my dear madam, when understanding
so well the danger, instruct me how to
avoid it? I will do any thing you enjoin, except to
marry a blue—that, I hope, you will not propose.”
“No—that would be to condemn you to celibaey,
for blues are as scarce here as honest men were
in the days of Diogenes. I can give you only one
rule that will always apply. Before proposing to
marry a young lady, consider if she has qualities
you would esteem in an intimate friend—if she
have not, never dream your love will last, though
she be beautiful as a Houri. Beauty is a fascinating
her beauty?”
“But your Calista was handsome.”
“True—and I think it an advantage that she
was handsome. I admire beauty, but I do not love
it. Our pride is flattered to possess personal charms
ourselves, or contemplate them in our friends, but
they never yet made an individual more worthy
our esteem; and true love must be fostered by esteem,
founded on the qualities of the heart and
mind. Calista was lovely, and her father used to
gaze on her with parental exultation; but it was
her winning ways, her gentleness and cheerfulness,
that made her seem dearer to him than life; and it
was her good sense, and ready ability to assist him,
that won his undoubting reliance on her judgment,
and made her his confidant and counsellor in every
emergency. She was, as I observed, educated
at home; a widowed aunt, an accomplished, judicious,
elegant and pious woman, supplying the
mother's place; and with occasional lessons from
masters, and the superintendence of her father's
watchful care, she grew up one of the most perfect
and fascinating beings I ever beheld. She had
learning enough to make a woman vain, and was
mistress of every lady-like accomplishment—had
beauty that made her the cynosure of all eyes; and
yet, though I have heard her eulogium from young
goodness. She did not live for display. Her father
had cultivated her reason, and like a reasonable
being, she found her happiness in the performance
of her duties.”
“Was she not fond of society, of amusements?”
demanded Mr. Burton.
“Certainly; she enjoyed society with that keen
relish which cultivated minds only know. It was
not with her the silly, selfish pleasure of exciting
admiration by her appearance, but of improving
herself by that most exalted privilege of humanity
—conversation. And she had, in perfection, the
happy art of making all around her enjoy themselves.
Her intelligence and vivacity were not
reserved for brilliant occasions, that she might
shine in company. I have never seen her more
gay and agreeable than in her father's apartment,
when nursing him during his periodical returns of
ill health. The intercourse between them always
reminded me of Winter in the lap of May. The
tastes and feelings, that usually seem checked and
chilled in one of his years, were by her sunshine
and freshness of spirit kept alive, and he retained,
at eighty years, the relish for those innocent and
mental pleasures that charmed him in youth; that
is, when Calista was present—but he would droop
and complain if she were detained from his side,
this that determined her not to marry during her
father's life.”
“Your heroine is then to turn out an old maid,
I find,” said Mr. Burton, smiling; “and you are
reading me a homily on my prejudices against single
damsels.”
“No, not exactly that. I am simply relating
the circumstances that made me love, almost worship,
an old maid; and you may draw your own
inferences. For myself, I believe that the happiness
and respectability of a woman is most permanently
secured by a good marriage—but I think it
highly injurious to my own sex, and to society,
that our young girls should be educated only with
a view to marriage. I would have females instructed
that the fulfilment of their duties is, in any
fortune, any station, sufficient for their happiness—
and I would have them respected, when filling up
their lives by acts of usefulness and benevolence,
as among the excellent of the earth.”
“Why, so would I; but you know, Mrs. Carvill,
that all single ladies are not as perfect as your
friend. I cannot but hope Calista wedded some
worthy man at last.”
A smile crossed the lady's benevolent countenance,
as she replied, “that wish was often breathed
for her, but I believe never by her. While her
into her calculations. She never gave any encouragement
that permitted an offer—and though so
handsome and agreeable, and with the expectancy
of a tolerable fortune, she, by her prudence, prevented
any gentlemen from falling in love with
her. All who approached her, seemed to consider
her beyond their reach; and this circumstance
has always made me feel very intolerant towards
those coquettes who keep a train of lovers around
them, when they have no intention of accepting
any one of the number. Against such heartless
coquettes, when left to be old maids, the ridicule
of the world is not unjustly directed. I never wish
to hear a single lady boast of her offers. There is
something undignified and unfeeling in the exhibition
of the disappointments she may have inflicted,
unless the offers were dictated by mercenary considerations.
In such cases, the lady has sufficient
provocation to be severe. Calista's father lived till
she was nearly forty. The days of romance were
over. She had engaged in many charities—had
taken one of her nieces to educate—had, in short,
fixed her routine of life, and felt that her habits
must be altered, and favourite occupations perhaps
foregone, should she marry then; for a man suitable
to her age, would also have formed his habits,
and fixed his opinions, to which her's must have
unexceptionable in character and fortune, applied
to her friends—and her answer decided for celibacy
for life. Yet she was one of the most lovely, and
is now one of the most agreeable women I ever
saw. Her heart, her affections, have always been
engrossed by some dear object; and I do not think
a wife or mother ever fulfilled their duties with
more tender devotion. The fountain of woman's
love has flowed out in benevolence to her friends;
and in making others happy, she has found the reward
of her own happiness. Would she, in the
character of a wife and mother, be more amiable,
more justly entitled to our esteem, than she is now
as an old maid?”
“No—I think not; and I like your ideas respecting
the education of young women. I have, myself,
been disgusted to hear calculations for the
marriage of their daughters, enter into all the plans
of mothers; and I have vowed never to wed with
such an one, educated for the market! But your
friend—I wish you would introduce me to her.”
“It has already been done, sir. The original of
that picture is Miss Atherton.”
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