The coronal a collection of miscellaneous pieces, written at various times |
THE SAGACIOUS PAPA:
A HINT FOR THOSE IN SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCES. |
 | The coronal |  |
THE SAGACIOUS PAPA:
A HINT FOR THOSE IN SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCES.
And if she won't, she won't—so there's an end on't.”
“I think it is very cruel of papa,” said
Olive May,—a pretty little, pouting, petted,
rose-bud beauty,—“I had rather he would refuse
me any thing else, than try to cross me
in my affections. I could never love anybody
else but James Ingraham; yet he will
try to persuade me that Robert King is much
the best match. I wish I might never see
that coxcomb again.”
These peevish words were spoken to a
fashionable aunt, “no longer Is-a-bel, but
Was-a-belle,” who had abundantly proved
the vanity of the world; “yet loved the
dear delusion still.” A smile, half malicious
and half playful, curled her thin lips, as she
answered composedly, “You should never
suffer yourself to speak in such a vixenish
tone, Olive; you will spoil the sweetness of
misfortune to a belle.” Then patting her
cheek with her fan, she said, “I will go talk
with this cruel father. He shan't abuse it,
darling—It shall love who it pleases, and
marry who it pleases; so it shall.” And
Olive, hoping great things from her aunt Isabel's
intercession, smiled sweetly, and was
herself again.
Before we acquaint our readers with the
result of this intercession, we will give them
a brief sketch of Olive's lovers. She had
three declared ones; and a hundred, or so,
that looked at her, and sighed for her fortune.
The first in date, was James Ingraham; with
whom she had become acquainted during her
father's absence in Europe. He was a worthy
young man; short and fat; with a sort
of rosy, vulgar beauty about his square face;
and the most important of all his qualifications
was, that he was the very first lover
Olive ever had. He had good abilities, and
was a promising scholar; but he wore dirty
white silk gloves, longer than his hand; and
he would lean back in his chair; and some
mathematical demonstrations; and his
shoulders alone pourtrayed the curving line
of beauty.
The next was a Polish count, who showed
a dozen stars and garters, and told how much
he had suffered in the cause of liberty, and
swore, forty times a week, that Olive was
fairer than the moon, and his love eternal as
the sun.
Last of all, was Robert King, tall, graceful,
well-proportioned, and just returned from
Paris. In all external graces, he was a model;
and the ladies only wondered at one
thing, viz. that he should have spent two
years in Paris, and yet wear his hair just as
he did when he went away. But Robert
King had studied the subject of his own
physiognomy even more deeply than they
had; elaborate thought, and patient experiment,
had led him to the conclusion that he
had chosen the best style for displaying his
magnificent white forehead to advantage.
Moreover, his residence in Europe had filled
him with high hopes, and lofty aspirations:
merely ambitious to follow every turn of fashion;
but now, convinced he could outdo the
volatile goddess, his great ambition was, that
the fashion should follow him.
The ladies were all in a twitter about him;
he danced so lazily, and he flattered so delicately;
and he drove such beautiful horses;
and he so often made them think how difficult
it was to please a man who had waltzed
and sung with European beauties! To overcome
his provoking indifference was a glorious
achievement, which every one was anxious
to perform. The victory was gained
by Olive May, with her pretty face, and still
prettier fortune, without an effort on her
part; and probably for the very reason that
he saw she made no effort.
Robert King had the father's wishes and
exertions on his side; for he was the son of
a wealthy Broker, and the leading star of
fashion. It was not at all wonderful that
the fop should be preferred to the clown, and
discount triumph over the Count.
But Olive was not quite as wise as her
seldom places old heads on lily-white
shoulders. She had read in novels, that the
first love never changed; and she was determined
“to love James Ingraham forever,
and forever; and should her cruel father disinherit
her, she would love him the more—
that she would.”
Such was the state of affairs, when aunt
Isabel volunteered her services. It seemed
that she was eminently successful; for the
next day, Mr. May told his daughter that he
was very sorry to see her so unhappy; that
since the subject was disagreeable to her, he
would never again mention the name of Robert
King; that he had a great regard for Mr.
Ingraham, and certainly would not thwart
her wishes by any opposition. One thing,
however, he should expect her to yield to
him; she was quite too young to be married
at present; and it was absolutely necessary
she should travel a little, to finish her education,
and give her the air and manner of
the world.”
Olive was delighted at the thoughts of
she was very much delighted with permission
to retain her old lover; but perhaps she
felt a little disappointed, after all, to find the
course of true love run so smooth—martyrdom
is certainly a very exciting sort of thing,
and mortals in all ages have been eager for it.
Olive kissed aunt Isabel a hundred times
over, and said she would write to James
every day of her life; and asked what colours
she thought most becoming; and had
James' hair put into a golden locket; and
sent all over the city for the last La Belle
Assemblee, with its tasteful print of fashions;
and ordered a dozen new sets of jewels,
and tried twice a dozen styles of dressing
her hair; and always ended all her operations
by wondering whether James would
pine away during her absence. What an
odd jumble of gauze and love, trinkets and
expectation, is the mind of a belle!
The important day came; and the lovers
parted with many vows. At New-York, at
the Springs, at Quebec, every where, the
world stood furbelowed and on tip-toe, to
head began to spin round; and no wonder
that her heart began to spin with it. It is
true they seldom unite their operations in
the world of fashion; but then they are both
unimportant articles—it is all the better to
have extremely little of the one, and none
at all of the other.
At first, Olive adhered to her resolution
of writing every day; but by and by she
felt the necessity of letting the mail go without
any token of her love. She danced so
late; and she was so sleepy in the morning;
and crowds of beaux came the moment she
was dressed; and she found it was impossible
to get along without a dozen new dresses;
and positively the mantua-makers took so
much of her time, that she could not write
to James—she was sure he would'nt blame
her, if he knew how she was situated. Her
father reproved her for this neglect, and urged
her not to let another day pass without sending
a letter; and aunt Isabel reminded her
how often she had said, “James would be
lonesome as death when she was gone.” “I
the wayward beauty, “I wonder they need
to tease me so. I am sure I love James just
as well as ever I did. I wonder whether he
wears silk gloves, now? I mean to tell him
it is not genteel. I wish he could dance as
well as Robert King—Robert King is certainly
a very elegant young man; and all the
young ladies are bewitched about him.”
Our readers will naturally suppose that
Olive was not gratified in her angry wish of
“never seeing that coxcomb again.” Everywhere
she went, he was her shadow. If she
raised her eyes, she met his, resting upon
her in silent worship; he sighed when she
danced with another; and stood at her side
when she was fatigued. All her companions
envied her; and not one would allow she
was beautiful. “He thinks I am,” thought
Olive, as she glanced at her full length figure
in the mirror; and as she sat with one tiny
shoe in her hand, and the other half untied,
she said audibly. “He is'nt so much of a
coxcomb, after all.” “Who?” inquired
aunt Isabel, with great gravity of manner.
detest him; but I really think he is quite
agreeable. Don't you think he has altered
very much lately?” “I think he has,” answered
aunt Isabel: and unperceived by
Olive, a mischievous light sparkled and mantled
all over her face, as she held out a letter,
saying, “Here is news from James.”
Olive blushed deeply; and as she read the
letter, the blush grew warmer and warmer.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, “he does nothing
but preach—preach. His letters are
full of complaints and advice. I am sure he
knows my constancy well enough—and he
might know it is utterly impossible for me to
write every day.” Now, the fact was, she
had not written for four weeks—and three
weeks more passed, and still she could not
find time to write. Her father blamed her—
and her aunt scolded her. It was very vexatious—but
indeed it was impossible for her
to write.
At last James came, in person, to ascertain
the state of affairs. She met him with
blushes and welcomes—and she glanced her
she wondered James would make a bow
sideways—it was so very awkward.
She danced with him, and she thought she
saw the young ladies laugh. She asked him
to go to dancing school, and to buy kid
gloves. She wondered what made her father
give up his opposition so easily—she
wondered when Robert King meant to offer
himself again—and she wondered when
James was going away.
Is there need to tell the catastrophe?
James left the Springs in high displeasure;
and papa and aunt Isabel exchanged very
knowing looks.
I leave good arithmeticians to balance the
loss and gain—James lost the heart of a
belle, and Olive gained the heart of a coxcomb!
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