University of Virginia Library

FRANKNESS.

There is one kind of frankness, which is the
result of perfect unsuspiciousness, and which
requires a measure of ignorance of the world
and of life: this kind appeals to our generosity
and tenderness. There is another, which is the
frankness of a strong but pure mind, acquainted
with life, clear in its discrimination and upright
in its intention, yet above disguise or concealment:
this kind excites respect. The first
seems to proceed simply from impulse, the second
from impulse and reflection united; the
first proceeds, in a measure, from ignorance,
the second from knowledge; the first is born
from an undoubting confidence in others, the
second from a virtuous and well-grounded reliance
on one's self.

Now if you suppose that this is the beginning
of a sermon or of a Fourth of July oration,
you are very much mistaken, though, I must
confess, it hath rather an uncertain sound. I
merely prefaced it to a little sketch of character,

which you may look at if you please, though
I am not sure you will like it.

It was said of Alice H— that she had the
mind of a man, the heart of a woman, and the
face of an angel: a combination that all my
readers will think peculiarly happy.

There never was a woman who was so unlike
the mass of society in her modes of thinking
and acting, yet so generally popular. But the
most remarkable thing about her was her proud
superiority to all disguise, in thought, word, and
deed. She pleased you; for she spoke out a hundred
things that you would conceal, and spoke
them with a dignified assurance that made you
wonder that you had ever hesitated to say them
yourself. Nor did this unreserve appear like
the weakness of one who could not conceal, or
like a determination to make war on the forms
of society. It was rather a calm, well-guided
integrity, regulated by a just sense of propriety;
knowing when to be silent, but speaking
the truth when it spoke at all.

Her extraordinary frankness often beguiled
superficial observers into supposing themselves
fully acquainted with her real character long
before they were, as the beautiful transparency
of some lakes is said to deceive the eye as to
their depth; yet the longer you knew her, the

more variety and compass of character appeared
through the same transparent medium. But
you may just visit Miss Alice for half an hour
to-night, and judge for yourselves. You may
walk into this little parlour. There sits Miss
Alice on that sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves
into a satin dress, in which peculiarly angelic
employment she may persevere till we have finished
another sketch.

Do you see that pretty little lady, with sparkling
eyes, elastic form, and beautiful hand and
foot, that is sitting opposite to her? She is a
belle: the character is written in her face—it
sparkles from her eye—it dimples in her smile,
and pervades the whole woman.

But there—Alice has risen, and is gone to the
mirror, and is arranging the finest auburn hair
in the world in the most tasteful manner. The
little lady watches every motion as comically
as a kitten watches a pin-ball.

“It is all in vain to deny it, Alice—you are
really anxious to look pretty this evening,” said
she.

“I certainly am,” said Alice, quietly.

“Ay, and you hope you shall please Mr. A.
and Mr. B.,” said the little accusing angel.

“Certainly I do,” said Alice, as she twisted
her fingers in a beautiful curl.

“Well, I would not tell of it, Alice, if I did.”

“Then you should not ask me,” said Alice.

“I declare! Alice!”

“And what do you declare?”

“I never saw such a girl as you are!”

“Very likely,” said Alice, stooping to pick
up a pin.

“Well, for my part,” said the little lady, “I
never would take any pains to make anybody
like me—particularly a gentleman.”

“I would,” said Alice, “if they would not
like me without.”

“Why, Alice! I should not think you were
so fond of admiration.”

“I like to be admired very much,” said Alice,
returning to the sofa, “and I suppose everybody
else does.”

“I don't care about admiration,” said the little
lady. “I would be as well satisfied that
people shouldn't like me as that they should.”

“Then, cousin, I think it's a pity we all like
you so well,” said Alice, with a good-humoured
smile. If Miss Alice had penetration, she never
made a severe use of it.

“But really, cousin,” said the little lady, “I
should not think such a girl as you would think
anything about dress, or admiration, and all
that.”

“I don't know what sort of a girl you think
I am,” said Alice, “but, for my own part, I only
pretend to be a common human being, and am
not ashamed of common human feelings. If
God has made us so that we love admiration,
why should we not honestly say so. I love it
—you love it—everybody loves it; and why
should not everybody say it?”

“Why, yes,” said the little lady, “I suppose
everybody has a—has a—a general love for admiration.
I am willing to acknowledge that I
have; but—”

“But you have no love for it in particular,”
said Alice, “I suppose you mean to say; that
is just the way the matter is commonly disposed
of. Everybody is willing to acknowledge
a general wish for the good opinion of others,
but half the world are ashamed to own it when
it comes to a particular case. Now I have
made up my mind, that if it is correct in general,
it is correct in particular, and I mean to
own it both ways.”

“But, somehow, it seems mean!” said the
little lady.

“It is mean to live for it, to be selfishly engrossed
in it, but not mean to enjoy it when it
comes, or even to seek it, if we neglect no
higher interest in doing so. All that God made

us to feel is dignified and pure, unless pervert
it.”

“But, Alice, I never heard any person speak
out so frankly as you do.”

“Almost all that is innocent and natural may
be spoken out; and as for that which is not innocent
and natural, it ought not even to be
thought.”

“But can everything be spoken that may be
thought?” said the lady.

“No; we have an instinct which teaches us
to be silent sometimes: but, if we speak at all,
let it be in simplicity and sincerity.”

“Now, for instance, Alice,” said the lady,
“it is very innocent and natural, as you say,
to think this, that, and the other good thing of
yourself, especially when everybody is telling
you of it; now would you speak the truth if
any one asked you on this point?”

“If it were a person who had a right to ask,
and if it were a proper time and place, I would,”
said Alice.

“Well, then,” said the bright lady, “I ask
you, Alice, in this very proper time and place,
do you think that you are handsome?”

“Now I suppose you expect me to make a
courtesy to every chair in the room before I
answer,” said Alice; “but, dispensing with

that ceremony, I will tell you fairly, I think I
am.”

“Do you think that you are good?”

“Not entirely,” said Alice.

“Well, but don't you think you are better
than most people?”

“As far as I can tell, I think I am better than
some people; but really, cousin, I don't trust
my own judgment in this matter,” said Alice.

“Well, Alice, one more question. Do you
think James Martyrs likes you or me best?”

“I do not know,” said Alice.

“I did not ask you what you knew, but what
you thought,” said the lady; “you must have
some thought about it.”

“Well, then, I think he likes me best,” said
Alice.

Just then the door opened, and in walked the
identical James Martyrs. Alice blushed, looked
a little comical, and went on with her sewing,
while the little lady began,

“Really, Mr. James, I wish you had come a
minute sooner, to hear Alice's confessions.”

“What has she confessed?” said James.

“Why, that she is handsomer and better than
most folks.”

“That's nothing to be ashamed of,” said
James.

“Oh, that's not all; she wants to look pretty,
and loves to be admired, and all—”

“It sounds very much like her,” said James,
looking at Alice.

“Oh, but, besides that,” said the lady, “she
has been preaching a discourse in justification
of vanity and self-love—”

“And next time you shall take notes when I
preach,” said Alice, “for I don't think your
memory is remarkably happy.”

“You see, James,” said the lady, “that Alice
makes it a point to say exactly the truth when
she speaks at all, and I've been puzzling her
with questions. I really wish you would ask
her some, and see what she will say. But,
mercy! there is Uncle C. come to take me to
ride. I must run.” And off flew the little humming-bird,
leaving James and Alice tête-à-tête.

“There really is one question—” said James,
clearing his voice.

Alice looked up.

“There is one question, Alice, which I wish
you would answer.”

Alice did not inquire what the question was,
but began to look very solemn; and just then
the door was shut—and so I never knew what
it was that Alice's friend James wanted to be
enlightened about.