University of Virginia Library

MRS. LETTRELL.

There is a great deal silently recognized and known in this
world, which, still, seems first discovered when first spoken of.
And there is a great deal understood which seems misunderstood;
for society, very often, confidently expresses one opinion of a person,
and yet, whenever brought into contact with that same
person, acts upon an unexpressed and totally different estimate.
The truth is that most of us are far wiser than our words would
prove us to be—the art of first clothing an idea, being so different
and evasive that few try it at all, and most people so invariably
borrowing the word-clothes for their opinions, that the true
things they think are not recognizable in the erroneous things
they say.

The above truisms would probably occur to any one after reading
the sketch I am about to draw; but it would seem, at first
glance, to be something of a riddle, and those who are as little
fond of deferred revelations as I, will approve, perhaps, that I
have first given the solution.

Leaning, one enchanting summer's morning, two or three years

ago, from the upper balcony of a hotel on the road to a watering
place, I chanced to see, spread out upon the railing of the balcony
below, a lady's hand. A white cuff, with an inch or two of
the sleeve of a mourning dress, was all I could see, besides, of the
tranquil owner—tranquil I say, for she sat, during the fifteen
minutes that she was left alone by her companions, with that outspread
hand absolutely motionless—evidently drinking the summer
into its pores of pearl with the enjoyment and forgetful
luxuriousness of a water-lily newly ungloved. The party, of
which the lady was one, had arrived but a few minutes before,
and I had not yet seen her face or figure; but I insensibly
formed an estimate of her character from a study of her hand
only, and had even sketched to myself, though, of course, with a
mere chance of correctness, her expression of countenance, features
and form.

The hand is not always a reliable index to the character. It
is, more than any other portion of the body, likely to give a deformed
betrayal of any peculiar manual labor in those from whom
it has descended. A moderate experience in pahnistry will
enable one to distinguish a shoemaker's daughter from a tailor's, for
instance—the enlargement of one particular muscle or finger by
constant effort being handed down like a family feature. Where
it is unmodified by any special influence, however, the hand is expressive
of the presence, or want, of two or three leading qualities
in female character, and gives often a dumb but lively promise of
sweetness else undisclosed.

In the beautiful and motionless one spread out, so unconscious
of observation, on the railing below my eye, I read exquisite sensibility
to pleasure, joyous love of the beautiful, generous freedom
from suspicion, delicacy still un-alarmed, frankness, and, if I may

so express it, sensuous poetry of nature. It was not a small hand.
The dimples were round and scarce perceptible. The upper
joints of the long and taper fingers were so full as to give an exquisite
expression of dreamy and idle tenderness, while at the
same time there was a look of the finest dexterity and nicest elegance
in the slender and rosy nails. The whole posture and
form of the hand showed a habit of unreluctant and obedient
expansion to impulse, and it looked as unwithdrawing and trustful
as the opening petals of a rose.

I had thus far studied the viewlessly written page of character,
accidentally opened in its dewy fairness to my perusal, when I
was accosted by an acquaintance, who chanced to be one of the
lady's party. He told me who it was, sitting in the balcony below,
and, to a question or two of my own, gave me her character
—as that of a lady who disliked society, was very strict in the
education of her children, highly religious, devoted to the poor,
and passionately fond of riding on horseback. I tacitly made use
of my own better reading to separate what was probably true,
from what I knew to be erroncous, in this hearsay estimate of
character, but stored away a resolution to know more of the
owner of that hand, whom I had met and was likely to meet again,
but who had hitherto passed, gloved and unobserved, in the dazzle
of more pretentious society.

So easily do we let a superficial impression guide us, in our
selection of persons to observe and admire, that, (but for the
chance revealing by that expressive hand,) I might very possibly,
have continued, even till now, to meet, without recognition of its
veiled brightness, this one of the cluster of better spirits, moving,
like electric sparks, through the dull metal of every human
society Mrs. Lettrell is beautiful, certainly, but it is beauty of

that kind which dissolves film after film from off your eye as you
grow interested in gazing on it; and, much admiration as she
attracts from trifling observers, a man of sense would be very
likely to take this common attraction to express her whole value,
and not give her the after study which would disclose to him the
finer quality of the nature, admired thus partially yet instinctively.

To anticipate once more. Nature seems to have completed
the character of Mrs. Lettrell, and forgetfully, afterwards, to
have relifted its cup of perfect mixture and added to it an unneeded
drop of conscientiousness. To this double portion of the
corrective ingredient, the joyous and life-teeming impulses of a
heart, whose self-abandonment would be as safe as a fount's to
its overflow, are perpetually in check. No thrill of pleasure goes
through her heart unchallenged; no intention, save one of duty,
escapes being called to order; no glow of impassioned worship of
the beautiful kindles in her bosom unrebuked. Like an ingredient
added too late for solution, however, this last superfluous
drop has not tinctured, though it mingles with, the other qualities;
and often, in repose, separates quite, and leaves her else perfect
and impulsive nature all transparent. To this release she yields
with the feeling of escape from school—when on horseback, or
when the enchantments of summer or moonlight, poetry or music,
take her by surprise—though, for every such indulgence she calls
herself to account, and balances it by a self-imposed penance of
distasteful duty.

Forced into gay society by relatives and unavoidable influences,
Mrs. Lettrell constantly and sincerely expresses her unwillingness
to be there, dresses pertinaciously in a way to disguise whatever
beauty she has that might seem to invite admiration, and perpetually

checks her own joyousness and the careless conversation
of others, to suggest graver topics or make interest for a benevolent
object. The talk of society takes her at her own valuation,
and no one will express an opinion of her except as an over-exemplary
woman, who would not have been handsome if she could
have helped it—but around her, notwithstanding, cluster the life-loving,
the youthful and the impulsive, and, though none would
allow that she was not “too good for this world,” the most avowed
mirth-hunter feels uncondemned by her presence.

To those grasping monopolists, (of whom there is here and there
one!) who would possess that entire world, a woman's heart, as
unshared as Eden when Adam first looked around him alone, this
composition of character—like a summer's day with a lock and
key to it—is the treasure that rewards any cost of search, even
without beauty; but, coupled with beauty, of priceless rarity and
value.

I break off abruptly and unwillingly, leaving a singular and
beautiful character drawn only in outline; but to say more would
be an invasion of propriety, and perhaps, too, they who are capable
of best appreciating it, will be able to supply what is left unpencilled.
In great danger of giving offence, even as it is, I have
abstained from sketching form or features, describing only the
fair hand which so truly first revealed the character to my own
knowledge, and which few, whose recognition would be troublesome,
will ever chance to see ungloved.