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MALE COQUETTES.
“Well, disappointment 's the lot of all mankind!” said some
venerable sage. He should have added an expression of condolence
to the weaker half of community, for surely they are
still more subject to the evils of chance and change.
You can hardly read a poem by one of these fair angels that
does not complain of some direful calamity. Indeed, to our certain
knowledge, one lovelorn damsel has been bewailing in the
newspapers the loss of her husband, and some three or four
faithless suitors, within the past few weeks!
Now, don't put up both hands, and murmur, puritanically, “O,
Frailty, thy name is woman!” for every one knows that lovers
are not so plenty we can afford to throw them away. Every
instance of this kind only affords another example of the fickleness
of man! And this brings us to a subject we have long
desired to see properly discussed. We mean flirting and coquetry
among the “lords of creation.” There is already such an outcry
made about coquettes and faithless lady-loves, that one needs to
stop one's ears, to shut out the din; but no one seems to consider
that flirting is twice as common, and certainly three times
as dangerous, on the other side.
Perhaps one reason may be, that woman, the world over, is
too proudly noble to complain of these things. She locks whatever
grief there may be in her own heart, and the cold world can
only guess it by the proud step, and the haughty glance, which
a kind of mirage — a pageant as false as it is glittering. For
ourself, we cannot speak from experience, as we are very little
yet, and never had a beau! But we can see a thousand instances
of unprincipled coquetry on the part of those who decry
it the most.
It is very easy to clasp trembling fingers, until the heart sends
back an answering thrill; very easy to gaze in bright eyes, till
the fair cheek grows crimson with blushes; very easy to soften
the voice in its whispers to one ear, or to linger tremblingly over
one sweet name!
You can do all these things, very innocently, of course; and, if
they should awaken a heart-thrill that shall not be stilled in
time, — no, not in eternity, — you can shrug your shoulders, and,
throwing your cheroot to the ground, ejaculate, “Pity, pity!
she 's a fine girl; but I don't love her — never told her I did in
my life; and yet I 'm sorry for her, — I am, 'pon honor!”
Most magnanimous young man! One could almost consign
you to the tender mercies of a second Mrs. Caudle! No, worse
than that, — for it has been proved, to a demonstration, that a poor
wife is better than none, — one could wish that you might suffer
all the miseries of an old bachelor! — the direst lot that can
befall humanity.
There are friends for the old maid — the universal aunt!
Children love her, and kittens come and lie in the fire-shine at
her feet, and purr! There are pleasant homes where her presence
is welcome, and, by and by, some poor soul she has comforted
will put a flower on her grave. But, for the old bachelor,
— Heaven help him, — for man cares not for him!
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