"Indeed, you almost take my breath away
With your Why not, Miss Percival! Why not?"
"Yes, I repeat,--if so disposed, why not?
For why should woman any more than man
Play the dissembler, with so much at stake?
I know the ready taunt that here will rise:
'Already none too backward are our girls
In husband-seeking.' Seeking in what way?
Seeking by stratagem and management,--
Not by frank, honest means! What food for mirth
'Twould give to shallow men to see a woman
Court the relation, intertwined with all
Of purest happiness that she may crave,--
The ties of wife and mother! O, what pointing,
Sneering, and joking! And yet why should care
Thoughtful and pure and wisely provident,
That Nature's sacred prompting shall not fail,
Be one thing for a man, and quite another
For her, the woman? Why this flimsy mask?
This playing of a part, put on to suit,
Not the heart's need, but Fashion custom-bound?
Feigning we must be sought, and never seek?
Now, through these social hindrances and bars,
The bold, perhaps the intriguing, carry off
Prizes the true and modest ought to win.
And so we hear it coarsely said of husbands,
'Better a poor one far, than none at all!'
A thought ignoble, and which no true woman
Should harbor for a moment. Give her freedom,
Freedom to seek, and she'll not harbor it!
Because if woman, equally with man,
Were privileged thus, she would discriminate
Much more than now, and fewer sordid unions
Would be the sure result. For what if man
Were chained to singleness until some woman
Might seek his hand in marriage, would he be
Likely as now to make a wise election?
Would he not say, 'Time flies; my chances lessen
And I must plainly take what I can get?'
True, there are mercenary men enough,
Seeking rich dowries; they'd find fewer dupes,
Were women free as men to seek and choose,
Banish the senseless inequality,
And you make marriage less a vulgar game
In which one tries to circumvent the other.
Oh! all this morbid ribaldry of _men_,
And all this passive imbecility,
And superstitious inactivity,
Dissimulation and improvidence,
False shame and lazy prejudice of _women_,
Where the great miracle of sex concerns us,
And Candor should be innocently wise,
And Knowledge should be reverently free,--
Is against nature,[9]--helps to hide the way
Out of the social horrors that confound us,
And launches thousands into paths impure,
Shutting them out from holy parentage."
"I hold," said Charles, "the question is not one
Of reasoning, but of simple sentiment.
As it would shock me, should a woman speak
In virile baritone, so would I shudder
To hear a grave proposal marriageward
In alto or soprano."
"'Twould depend!
Depend on love," said Linda; "love potential,
Or present."--"Nay, 'twould frighten love!" cried Charles,--
"Kill it outright."--"Then would it not be love!
What! would you love a woman less because
She durst avow her love, before the cue
Had been imparted by your lordly lips?
Rare love would that be truly which could freeze
Because the truth came candid from her heart,
And in advance of the proprieties!"
"But may the woman I could love," cried Charles,
"Forbear at least the rash experiment!"
"I doubt," said Linda, "if you know your heart;
For hearts look to the substance, not the form.
Why should not woman seek her happiness
With brow as unabashed as man may wear
In seeking his? Ah! lack of candor here
Works more regrets, for woman and for man,
Than we can reckon. Let but woman feel
That in the social scheme she's not a cipher,
The remedy, be sure, is not far off."
"To me it seems," said Lothian, "that you war
Against our natural instincts: have they not
Settled the point, even as the world has done?"
Said Linda: "Instincts differ; they may be
Results of shallow prejudice or custom.
The Turk will tell you that polygamy
Is instinct; and the savage who stalks on
In dirty painted grandeur, while his squaw
Carries the burdens, might reply that instinct
Regulates that. So instinct proves too much.
Queens and great heiresses are privileged
To intimate their matrimonial choice,--
Simply because superiority
In power or riches gives an apt excuse:
Let a plurality of women have
The wealth and power, and you might see reversed
What now you call an instinct. When a higher
Civilization shall make woman less
Dependent for protection and support
On man's caprice or pleasure, there may be
A higher sort of woman; one who shall
Feel that her lot is more in her own hands,
And she, like man, a free controlling force,
Not a mere pensioner on paternal bounty
Until some sultan throws the handkerchief."
A cry of triumph from the fisherman,
Exuberant at having caught a bass,
Here ended the discussion, leaving Linda
With the last word. Charles went to chat with Rachel;
And Linda, summoned by vociferations
From the excited, the transported captor,
Descended to inspect the amazing fish.
"A beauty, is it not, Miss Percival?
A rare one, too, for this part of the coast!
'Twill be a study how to have it cooked.
Now sit here, in the shadow of this rock.
Your father's name was Albert Percival?
So I supposed. I've often heard my wife
Speak of him as of one she knew was wronged
Most foully in his wrestle with the law.
Have you not met with Harriet Percival?"
"Once only, and our interview was brief.
Is she not married?"--"No, nor like to be,
Although her fortune is a pretty one,
Even for these times,--two millions, I believe;
All which her mother may inherit soon;
For Harriet is an invalid, but hoards
Her income quite as thriftily as if
She looked for progeny and length of days.
The mother, as you may not be aware,
Has married an aspiring gentleman
Who means to build a palace on the Hudson,
And Harriet's money hence is greatly needed."
The mist now cleared, and the sun shone in power,
So that the heat soon drove them to the woods.
The senior took his capture home for dinner;
Rachel strolled, picking berries by the brook;
And, under lofty pines, sat Charles and Linda,
And talked discursively, till Linda's thoughts,
Inclining now to memory, now to hope,
Vibrating from the future to the past,
Took, in a silent mood, this rhythmic form.
UNDER THE PINES.
O pine-trees! bid the busy breeze be still
That through your tops roars like the constant surge:
Such was the sound I heard in happy days
Under the pines.
In happy days, when those I loved were by;
In happy days, when love was daily food;
And jocund childhood, finding it, found joy
Under the pines.
Again I hear the west-wind in your tops;
Again I scent the odor you exhale;
But sound and odor now provoke but tears
Under the pines.
O pine-trees! shall a different joy be mine,
One day when I shall seek your fragrant shade?
Whisper it faintly, breezes, to my heart
Under the pines.
"Truly, Miss Percival, you puzzle me,"
Said Charles, upon her silent revery
Breaking abruptly in: "ay, you could fire
And wound the villain bearing off the child,
And you can brave the radical extreme
On this great woman question of the day,--
Yet do you seem a very woman still,
And not at all like any man I know,--
Not even like an undeveloped man!
And I'm not greatly exercised by fear,
Leaning here by your side thus lazily."
"Don't mock me now," said Linda; "I'm not armed;
Be generous, therefore, in your raillery."
"Not armed? Then will I venture to propose
That when the tide is low this afternoon
We try the beach on horseback. Will you venture?"
The joy that sparkled in her eyes said "Yes"
Before her tongue could duplicate assent.
Said Charles, "I'll bring the horses round at six."
"I will be ready, Mr. Lothian."
There was no breach of punctuality:
Though sighs, from deeper founts than tears, were heaved,
When she drew forth the summer riding-habit
Worn last when in the saddle with her father.
"Here are the horses at the door!" cried Rachel;
"A bay horse and a black; the bay is yours."
When they were mounted, Lothian remarked:
"Little Good Harbor Beach shall be our point;
So called because an Indian once pronounced
The harbor 'little good,' meaning 'quite bad';
A broad and open beach, from which you see
Running out southerly the ocean side
Of Eastern Point; its lofty landward end
Gray with huge cliffs. There shall you mark 'Bass Rock,'
Rare outlook when a storm-wind from the east
Hurls the Atlantic up the craggy heights."
The air was genial, and a rapid trot
Soon brought them to the beach. The ebb had left
A level stretch of sand, wide, smooth, and hard,
With not a hoof-mark on the glistening plain.
The horses tossed their heads with snorting pride,
Feeling the ocean breeze, as curved and fell
Up the long line the creeping fringe of foam,
Then backward slid in undulating glass,
While all the west in Tyrian splendor flamed.
"But this is life!" cried Linda, as she put
Her horse to all his speed, and shook her whip.
They skimmed the sand, they chased the flying wave,
They walked their horses slow along the beach:
And, as the light fell on a far-off sail,
And made it a white glory to the eye,
Said Linda: "See! it fades into the gray,
And now 'tis dim, and now is seen no more!
Yet would a little height reveal it still.
So fade from memory scenes which higher points
Of vision shall reveal: the beautiful,
The good, shall never die; and so to-day
Shall be a lasting, everlasting joy!"
"Would I might see more of such days!" said he,
"In the obscure before me! Fate forbids.
My time of idlesse terminates to-night.
To-morrow to the city we return.
Thither I go, to open, in October,
A private school; and I must find a house
And make my preparations."
On they rode,
After these words, in silence for a mile
Upon their homeward way. Then Lothian:
"And what will your address be, in the city?"
"I do not know, nor care," said Linda, switching
Her horse's ear, to start a quicker trot.
Another mile of silence! "Look!" cried he;
"The lighthouse light salutes us!"--"Yes, I see."
"Why do you go so fast?"--"I'll slacken speed
If you desire it. There!" They breathed their horses;
Then Lothian: "Indeed, I hope that we
Shall meet again."--"Why not? The world is wide,
But I have known a letter in a bottle,
Flung over in mid-ocean, to be found
And reach its owner. Doubtless, we may meet."
"I'm glad to find you confident of that."
Silence again! And so they rode along
Till they saw Rachel coming from the house
To greet them. Charles helped Linda to dismount,
Held out his hand, and said, "Good by, Miss Linda."
"Good by!" she cheerily answered; "bid your father
Good by for me. And so you go indeed
To-morrow?"--"Yes, we may not meet again."
"Well; pleasant journey!"--"Thank you. Good by, Rachel."
He rode away, leading her panting horse;
And, when the trees concealed him, Linda rushed
Up stairs, and locked the door, and wept awhile.
As, early the next morning, she looked forth
On the blue ocean from the open window,
"Now, then, for work!" she cried, and drew her palm
Across her brow, as if to thrust away
Thoughts that too perseveringly came back
She heard a step. 'Tis he! "I hardly hoped,
Miss Percival, to find you up so early:
Good by, once more!"--"Good by! Don't miss the train."
At this a shadow fell on Lothian's face,
As with uplifted hat and thwarted smile,
He turned away. Then off with hasty stride
He walked and struck the bushes listlessly.
"What did I mean by speaking so?" said Linda,
With hand outstretched, as if to draw him back.
"Poor fellow! He looked sad; but why--but why
Is he so undemonstrative? And why
Could he not ask again for my address,
I'd like to know?" Poor Linda! She could preach,
But, like her elders, could not always practise.
VII.
FROM LINDA'S DIARY.
I.
Home again! Home? what satire in the word!
If home is where the heart is, where's my home?
Well: here's my easel; here my old piano;
Here the memorials of my early days!
Here let me try at least to be content.
This din of rolling wheels beneath my window,
Let it renew for me the ocean's roar!
II.
It is the heart makes music musical!
My neighbor has a mocking-bird: its song
Has been as little heeded as the noise
Of rattling wheels incessant; but to-day
One of its strains brought all Elysium back
Into my heart. What was it? What the tie
Linking it with some inexpressive joy?
At length I solve the mystery! Those notes,
Pensively slow and sadly exquisite,
Were what the wood-thrush piped at early dawn
After that evening passage in the boat,
When stars came out, that never more shall set.
Oh! sweet and clear the measured cadence fell
Upon my ear in slumber--and I woke!
I woke, and listened while the first faint flush
Of day was in the east; while yet the grove
Showed only purple gloom, and on the beach
The tidal waves with intermittent rush
Broke lazily and lent their mingling chime.
And O the unreckoned riches of the soul!
The possible beatitudes, of which
A glimpse is given, a transitory glimpse,
So rarely in a lifetime! Then it was,
Hearing that strain, as if all joy the Past
Had in its keeping,--all the Future held,--
All love, all adoration, and all beauty,--
Made for a moment the soul's atmosphere,
And lifted it to bliss unspeakable.
O splendor fugitive! O transport rare!
Transfiguring and glorifying life!
III.
This strange, inexplicable human heart!
My lawyer sends me more good news; he writes:
"The picture's sale will reach ten thousand copies,
And for the first year only! We shall have
A big bill to send in; and do not fear
But the 'old man' will pay it, every dime.
To escape the heavy damages the law
Allows for such infringement, he'll be glad
To compromise for the amount I fix;
And what I shall compel him to disgorge
Will simply be fair copyright on all
Your published works; and this will give you clear
Some fifteen thousand dollars, not to speak
Of a fixed interest in future sales."
So writes my lawyer. Now one would suppose
That news like this would make me light of heart,
Spur my ambition; and, as taste of blood
Fires the pet tiger, even so touch of gold
Would rouse the sacred appetite of gain.
But with attainment cometh apathy;
And I was somewhat happier, methinks,
When life was all a struggle, and the prayer,
"Give me my daily bread," had anxious meaning.
IV.
Is it then true that woman's proper sphere
Is in the affections? that she's out of place
When these are balked, and science, art, or trade
Has won the dedication of her thought?
Nay! the affections are for all; and he,
Or she, has most of life, who has them most.
O, not an attribute of sex are they!
Heart loneliness is loneliness indeed,
But not for woman any more than man,
Were she so trained, her active faculties
Could have a worthy aim.
What worthier,
Than the pursuit, the discipline of beauty?
He who finds beauty helps to interpret God:
For not an irreligious heart can dwell
In him who sees and knows the beautiful.
I'll not believe that one whom Art has chosen
For a high priest can be irreverent,
Sordid, unloving; his veil-piercing eye
Sees not in life the beauty till it sees
God and the life beyond; not in a dream
Of Pantheistic revery where all
In all is lost, diluted, and absorbed,
And consciousness and personality
Vanish like smoke forever; but all real,
Distinct, and individual, though all
Eternally dependent on the One!
Who gave the Eye to see, shall He not see?
Who gave the Heart to feel, shall He not love?
Of knowledge infinite we know a letter,
A syllable or two, and thirst for more:
Is there not One, Teacher at once and Cause,
Who comprehends all beauty and all science,
Holding infinity, that, step by step,
We may advance, and find, in what seems good
To Him, our gladness and our being's crown?
If this were not, then what a toy the world!
And what a mockery these suns and systems!
And how like pumping at an empty cistern
Were it to live and study and aspire!
Come, then, O Art! and warm me with thy smile!
Flash on my inward sight thy radiant shapes!
August interpreter of thoughts divine,
Whether in sound, or word, or form revealed!
Pledge and credential of immortal life!
Grand arbiter of truth! Consoler! come!
Come, help even me to seek thee and to find!
V.
Winter is here again; it sees me still
At work upon my picture. This presents
Two vases, filled with flowers, upon a slab.
"Which will you choose?" I call it: 'tis in oil.
Three hours a day are all I give to it,
So fine the work, so trying to the eyes.
Thus have I ample time for teaching Rachel:
A good child and affectionate! I've found
Her aptitude; she has a taste in bonnets,
With an inventive skill in ornament.
And so I have her regularly taught
By an accomplished milliner; and Rachel
Already promises to lead her teacher.
Had I a fortune, still I'd have her feel
That she must conquer something worthily;
Something to occupy her active powers,
And yield a fair support, should need require.
VI.
Whom should I meet to-day but Meredith!
My washerwoman, Ellen Blount, is ill,
So ill I fear she never will be well.
'Tis the old story, every day renewed:
A little humble, tender-hearted woman,
Tied to a husband whom to call a brute
Would be to vilify the quadrupeds!
A fellow, who must have his pipe, his whiskey,
And his good dinner, let what may befall
His wife and children. He could take the pittance
She got from her hard toil, and spend it on
Himself and his companions of the jug.
When out of work, as he would often be,
Then double toil for her! with peevish words
From him, the sole requital of it all!
Child after child she bore him; but, compelled
Too quickly after childbirth to return
To the old wash-tub, all her sufferings
Reacted on the children, and they died,
Haply in infancy the most of them,--
Until but one was left,--a little boy,
Puny and pale, gentle and uncomplaining,
With all the mother staring from his eyes
In hollow, anxious, pitiful appeal.
In this one relic all her love and hope
And all that made her life endurable
At length were centred. She had saved a dollar
To buy for him a pair of overshoes;
But, as she went to get them, Blount waylaid her,
Learnt that she had the money, forced it from her.
Poor Teddy had to go without his shoes.
'Twas when the January thaw had made
The streets a-reek with mud and melting snow.
Poor Teddy wet his feet, took cold, and died.
"Come soon, mamma," were his last feeble words.
Blount was a cunning ruffian; well he knew
How far to go, and where and when to pause.
Fluent and specious with his tongue, he kept,
In his small sphere, a certain show of credit;
And he could blow in tune for mother church,
Though few the pennies he himself would give her.
"Cast off the wretch," was my advice to Ellen.
She loved him not; she might as well have tried
To love a load that galled and wearied her.
But custom, social fear, and, above all,
Those sacramental manacles the church
Had bound her in, and to the end would keep,
Forbade the poor, scared, helpless little woman
To free herself, by one condign resolve,
From the foul incubus that sucked her life.
So a false sense of duty kept her tied,
Feeding in him all that was pitiless.
And now she's dying. I had gone to-day
To take some little dainties, cream and fruit,
And there, administering consolation,
Was Meredith.
Hearing his tones of faith,
Seeing his saintly look of sympathy,
I felt, there being between us no dissent
In spirit, dogmas were of small account:
And so I knelt and listened to his prayer.
At length he noticed me, and recognized.
"Miss Percival!" he cried; "can this be you?
But when and why did you return from England?"
"I've never been in England, never been
Out of my native country," I replied.
"But that is unaccountable," said he;
"For I've seen letters, written as from you,
Signed with your name, acknowledging receipts
Of certain sums of money, dated London."
"No money have I had but what I've earned,"
Was my reply; "and who should send me money?"
Said he: "I have a carriage at the door;
I would learn more of this; you'll not object
To take a seat with me? Thank you; that's right."
Leaving the patient in good hands, we went,
And through the noisy streets drove to the Park.
Then all I'd ever known about my parents
He drew from me; and all my history
Since I had parted from him; noted down
Carefully my address, and gave me his.
Then to my lodgings driving with me back,
He left me with a _Benedicite_!
He's rich: has he been sending money, then?
What means it all? Conjecture finds no clew.
VII.
Gently as thistle-downs are borne away
From the dry stem, went Ellen yesterday.
I heard her dying utterance; it was:
"I'm coming, Teddy! Bless you, dear Miss Linda!"
No priest was by, so sudden was her going.
When Blount came in, there was no tenderness
In his sleek, gluttonous look; although he tried,
Behind his handkerchief, to play the mourner.
What will he do without a drudge to tread on?
Counting himself a privileged lord and master,
He'll condescend to a new victim soon,
And make some patient waiter a sad loser.
VIII.
"Some patient waiter!" Such a one I know.
There was a time when I resolved, if ever
I could secure a modest competence,
I would be married; and the competence
Is now secure--but where is my resolve?
Shall I conclude 'tis all fatality?
Leave it to chance, and take no active step
Myself to seek what I so hope to find?
Accepting it as heaven's fixed ordinance,
That man should change his single lot at will,
But woman be the sport of circumstance,
A purposeless and passive accident,
Inert as oysters waiting for a tide,
But not like oysters, sure of what they wait for?
"Ah! woman's strength is in passivity,"
Fastidio says, shaking his wise, wise head,
And withering me with a disdainful stare.
Nay! woman's strength is in developing,
In virtuous ways, all that is best in her.
No superstitious waiting then be mine!
No fancy that in coy, alluring arts,
Rather than action, modest and sincere,
Woman most worthily performs her part.
Here am I twenty-five, and all alone
In the wide world; yet having won the right,
By my own effort, to hew out my lot,
And create ties to cheer this arid waste.
How bleak and void my Future, if I stand
Waiting beside the stream, until some Prince--
Son of Queen Moonbeam by King Will-o'-the wisp--
Appears, and jumping from his gilded boat,
Lays heart and fortune at my idle feet!
Ye languid day-dreams, vanish! let me act!
But ah! Fastidio says, "A woman's wooing
Must always be offensive to a man
Of any dignity." The dignity
That modest truth can shock is far too frail
And sensitive to mate with love of mine,
Whose earnestness might crush the feeble hand
Linked in its own. So good by, dignity!
I shall survive the chill of your repulse.
Defiance, not of Nature's law, but Custom's,
Is what disturbs Fastidio. Does he think
That a _man's_ wooing never is offensive
To _woman's_ dignity? In either sex
The disaffection is not prompted by
The wooing but the wooer; love can never
Be an unwelcome tribute to the lover;
Though freedom premature, or forwardness
Unwarranted, may rightly fail to win.
And so I'll run my risk; for I confess--
(Keep the unuttered secret, sacred leaf!)--
That there is one whom I could love--could die for,
Would he but--Tears? Well, tears may come from strength
As well as weakness: I'll not grudge him these;
I'll not despair while I can shed a tear.
IX.
I've found him--seen him! The Directory
Gave me his residence. He keeps a school,
One for young ladies only; and at once
My coward heart hit on a good excuse
For calling on him: Would he take a pupil?
Rachel, my protegee? Of course he would.
A flush of tender, joyful wonderment,
Methought, illumed his face at seeing me;
Then, as it faded, I was grieved to mark
How pale and thin and worn with care he looked.
I took my leave, promising to return
Within a week; and on the outer steps
I met his father. "Turn and walk with me
A square or two," said I; and he complied.
"What ails him?" I inquired. "Only hard work:
He puts too much of conscience into it.
Needs help, but shrinks from debt, and so keeps on
Doing the labor two or three should share.
What shall I do, Miss Percival, to stop it?"
"I know not,--only something must be done,
And that at once," said I, in tones which made
The old man turn to get a look at me.
I hailed an omnibus, and there we parted....
What if I write Charles Lothian a letter?
Nay, I'll not skulk behind a sheet of paper,
But face to face say what I have to say.
This very evening must I call again.
Let a firm will bear up my fainting heart!
X.