attained that awkward corner in man’s life, which must be turned, and
the pathway from which leads rather down hill. Mr. De Courcy Waldie
reached his forty-fifth birth-day, ere he had decided upon a profession
or concluded to take a wife, but his time had glided away so calmly,
that he scarcely noted its loss, till a second domestic bereavement
aroused him. Quiet old ladies, who do not trouble themselves about their
neighbors and never talk scandal, generally spin out life to its most
attenuated thread, and thus Mrs. Waldie dozed away until she had
completed her eighty-fourth year, when she fell into a sound sleep from
which she never woke. It was not until the bustle attendant upon the
funeral, had subsided, that the son had time to think of his loss, and
then, when left to the utter solitude of his home—for the first time in
his life he was sensible of actual profound grief. He did not know how
essential his mother’s presence had become to him. He was so accustomed
to see her in the warmest corner in winter, and by the recess of the
window in summer, that the apartment seemed to have lost, not only one
of its inmates, but part of its furniture. Her tiny work-table and easy
chair still held their wonted place, but she who was almost a part of
them, was gone forever, and a feeling of loneliness took possession of
his heart. He knew not, until the form of that revered parent was hidden
from his sight, how often his eye had wandered from the page of his
favourite book, to rest on her placid face. He remembered how carefully
she had studied his tastes, how scrupulously she had obeyed his wishes,
how well she had adapted herself to his peculiar habits; and when he
reflected upon the different degree of his grief at the loss of his
father, he began to think that there was something in the nature of
woman particularly calculated to make man happy. This thought was
followed by regret at not having secured a continuance of womanly
tenderness for his future life. In the natural order of events, he must
long outlive his mother, and who would have supplied her place, like a
devoted wife. Mr. De Courcy Waldie began to wish he was married.
The longer he dreamed over this new idea, however, the more his
difficulties seemed to increase. He thought of the pretty delicate girls
whom he had admired in his college days, but he recollected them now as
fat comfortable matrons, or thin, withered spinsters; and he looked in
his mirror as if to discover whether age had made the same havoc with
his appearance. But the daily use of the said useful appendage of the
toilet had rendered him so gradually habituated to time’s changes, that
he could discern little difference in himself. He had never possessed
much of the bloom of youth, and his face had early worn the pale
student-like ‘cast of thought,’ which years had only traced in deeper
characters. His dapper little figure, still trim and upright, was not
spoiled by the obesity so much dreaded by elderly gentlemen; his teeth
were still perfect—his incipient baldness—but this was an exceedingly
delicate point—we will draw the veil of silence over his reflections on
this painful subject. Suffice it to say that Mr. De Courcy Waldie came
to the conclusion that he was yet young enough to think of matrimony.
It was necessary for him to proceed with great caution however, for he
knew that he was reputed rich, and he heard that society contained such
anomalies as mercenary young ladies. While thinking over his new
project, he was one day called upon for a subscription to some
benevolent association, by one of those charitable persons who relieve
the real or fancied distresses of their fellow mortals, by a free
expenditure of _their own time_ and their _neighbor’s money_. With his
usual generosity, Mr. Waldie handed her a liberal contribution, not
sorry perhaps, to buy off her garrulity at such a price. But the lady
dropped some words ere she departed, which set him off upon a new track.
She had suggested the propriety of his adopting some orphan boy and
educating him as his own. This was quite a new idea to him, but he
viewed it in rather a different light from that which his visitor had
intended. “Adopt a son,” said he to himself, in a tone that seemed
strangely like disgust, “no indeed. I should go crazy with a rollicking
boy ransacking the house, and turning every thing upside down. Besides,
boys have always got dirty faces, and they are forever cutting their
fingers with their penknives, breaking their heads against horse posts
or cracking their skulls on skating ponds; then they always tear their
trousers, lose their gloves, and stump their toes through their shoes.
Faugh! I can’t endure great rude bearish boys. If she had said a
daughter now, I might have thought better of it; there is certainly
something very pleasant in a nice little quiet girl.”
The more he reflected upon this fancy, the better he liked it, but the
idea of adopting a daughter soon gave place to a more eccentric scheme.
He determined to make an experiment. He would ‘train up’ a child in the
way she should go; he would _educate a wife_.
Whether it was the loss of his mother which had awakened him from his
apathy, or whether the long latent affections of his nature were now
only developing themselves, cannot be determined, but, certain it is,
that before he had dreamed over his project three months, Mr. De Courcy
Waldie actually applied to the managers of the Orphan Asylum for
permission to adopt _three_ of the female inmates. He engaged to educate
them according to their different capacities, to furnish them with the
means of obtaining a future livelihood, and to settle the sum of two
thousand dollars on each, when she should either marry or attain her
majority. His character for probity and honor, was as well known as his
eccentricity, and as no doubt existed of the fulfilment of his promises,
his proposition was accepted. He was allowed to select his three
protégées, and however ignorant he might be of female character, he
showed himself no mean judge of female beauty, for his choice fell on
three of the loveliest children in the institution. He wished them to be
about twelve years of age, and there was but the difference of a few
months between them. They were poor, friendless orphans, destined to a
life of hardship if not of want, and he knew that if his experiment
terminated unsuccessfully, the girls would be better provided for by his
means, than if they were apprenticed to some hard task-master. He
determined to bestow on all the same care, to educate them after his own
peculiar notions, and when they should have attained a proper age, to
decide upon their individual claims to his affections.
The old servants shook their heads in ominous silence, when they learned
the sudden increase of family. Old Dinah went so far as to hint that his
mother’s death had touched Mr. Waldie’s brain, and indeed wiser folks
than she came to something like the same conclusion. But your quiet
people, who are so amazingly slow in waking up to any purpose, pursue it
with wonderful perseverance, when once fairly placed on the track. Mr.
Waldie engaged an elderly governess to take charge of his young wards,
and an apartment in the upper part of the house was appropriated to her
use as a schoolroom. It was agreed that the privacy of Mr. Waldie’s
sitting room should never be violated by the intrusion of the females,
except when he invited them to enter its hallowed precincts. His
old-fashioned politeness regulated the etiquette of the table at their
daily meals, and very soon the household assumed its usual regularity,
notwithstanding the presence of three little girls. Mr. Waldie did not
consider them old enough to deserve his particular attention for the
present, and he therefore left them to the care of their very competent
governess: only stipulating that they were never to be allowed to read
poetry or fiction—never to wear any other dress than a calico frock,
white apron and cottage bonnet,—and by no means, to form an
acquaintance with other children. Having made these rules he returned to
his former abstract studies, until such a time as he should deem it
proper to undertake the instruction of his young protégées.
He had chosen the little girls rather on account of their personal
beauty than with any regard to their mental gifts, for of these he
determined to judge for himself, and it was not surprising, therefore,
that he should discover great diversity in their characters. Fanny
Morris, the elder of the three, possessed that regular and classical
beauty which ever charms the eye in the remnants of Grecian art. Her
features were perfect, her complexion exquisite, her form symmetry
itself, but unfortunately, she seemed born to verify the oft-repeated
criticism on that paragon of ideal beauty, the Venus de Medici, of whom
it has been said that “if a woman exactly resembling her could be found
in this breathing world, she would in all probability, (judging by the
rules of physiognomy and phrenology) be _an idiot_.” Fanny’s small and
beautifully shaped head was utterly destitute of brains—her soft dark
eyes were never lighted up with any loftier expression than that of
pleasure at sight of a box of sugar plums—and her lovely mouth gave
utterance to none but the silliest of speeches. She could learn nothing,
and after a year spent in fruitless attempts to impart more than the
mere rudiments of knowledge, she was given up as incorrigible. But
mindful of his promise Mr. Waldie gave her the choice of an avocation,
and finding her only capable of the most mechanical employment, he
apprenticed her to a fringe and fancy-button maker; at the same time he
purchased, in her name, bank stock to the amount of two thousand
dollars, as her future dowry. Fanny seemed to have as little heart as
mind, and parted from her benefactor with no regret. As we shall not
have occasion to allude to her again, it may be as well to satisfy the
reader’s curiosity by stating that her beauty afterwards attracted the
attention of a young artist, who wanted just such a model. Finding that
her quiet stupidity rendered her a most untiring _sitter_, while her two
thousand dollars added weight to her other attractions, the painter
married her, and much of his present celebrity is owing to the matchless
loveliness of his silly wife.
Of the two children who now remained under Mr. Waldie’s roof, Emily
Rivers was by far the most strikingly beautiful. Her blonde hair fell in
rich curls upon her fat, white shoulders, while her delicate features,
and large clear blue eyes gave an infantile grace to her lovely
countenance. There was a frank joyousness in her expression, which was
very attractive, and, at that time, few would have hesitated in giving
her the preference over her young companion. Celina Morley was one of
those children whose personal characteristics develop very slowly. She
was short in stature, and slightly inclined to stoop, while her gray
eyes, whose hue was deepened almost into blackness by the shadow of the
fringed lid, and a small mouth filled up with pearly teeth, formed her
only claims to admiration. Her face appeared out of proportion—her
forehead was so immensely high, her brows so thick and dark her cheeks
so colorless, that her countenance seemed like some modern engravings,
all _black and white_, without tints of light and shadow.
Nor was this difference in their personal appearance the only one which
existed between the two girls. The shy, quiet demeanor of Celina,
contrasted strongly with the frank, bold manner of her companion. Emily
would run to meet Mr. Waldie with a gay laugh, and throwing herself on a
footstool beside him, would beguile him with her merry prattle, without
seeming to care whether he were annoyed by her intrusion. But Celina
would stand timidly awaiting an encouraging word from her benefactor,
and thus it often happened, in the little household as in the great
world, that modest merit was overlooked in favor of obtrusive
importunity, and Celina was forgotten for the more clamorous Emily. Yet
it was Celina who brought the dressing-gown the very moment it was
wanted, and drew the easy-chair into the accustomed corner—it was
Celina who laid the slippers just where his feet would be sure to find
them without giving the head trouble to think about them; it was Celina
who, when he was confined to his bed by sickness, watched in his room
through the long day, and listened at his door in the silent hours of
the night. But the caresses of Emily had opened a fountain of tenderness
in Mr. Waldie’s bosom, and after they had been inmates of his family for
rather more than two years, he felt that the time had come when his
course of instruction must commence. What that course was it is needless
to specify; let it suffice to know that he destined them to pursue a
series of studies which would have appalled the most zealous aspirant
for college honors.
The true character of the two girls began now to be exhibited. They were
approaching their fifteenth year, and the fresh, glowing beauty of Emily
Rivers had already excited the notice of strangers. She had observed the
stolen glance of admiration, she had even heard the sudden exclamation
of delight, as some ardent youth peeped under the close cottage bonnet,
while she walked demurely beside her benefactor or her governess, in
their daily promenades, and the latent vanity of her nature had been
fully aroused. The calico dress and white apron annoyed her sadly. She
was full of projects for making Mr. Waldie sensible of the folly of his
restrictions, and while he was busied in teaching them to solve
algebraic problems, she was as busy in devising schemes for eluding his
vigilance. She had no taste for study, but she had tact and quickness of
comprehension and thus it often happened that her adroitness stood her
in the stead of application and industry. While Celina devoted herself
to the performance of her required tasks, Emily exerted her ingenuity in
evading them, or in skilfully applying to her own use, the industry and
talent of her young companion. But Emily had a most decided love for
dress. She was wonderfully tasteful in trimming bonnets and furbelowing
dresses and debarred from any such pleasures for her own account, she
amused her leisure hours by furbishing up old Dinah (who was
particularly fond of a fine spreading knot of ribbons) and regarnishing
the head gear of all the dingy dame’s dressy acquaintances.
At length her vanity would no longer be controlled. The girls received a
regular allowance of pocket-money, which it was expected they would
spend in charity, and this sum Emily hoarded up until she was enabled to
purchase some of the long-coveted finery. Determined to try the strength
of Mr. Waldie’s rules, she came down to the parlor one Sunday morning,
prepared to accompany him to church, clad in her new attire. For a few
minutes he looked at her in stern silence, while, with a beating heart
but resolute spirit, she awaited his reproaches. The little cottage
bonnet had given place to a tawdry pink silk hat, flaunting with
streamers of lace and ribbons, and instead of her simple white cape her
shoulders were now covered with a bright yellow gauze scarf. She had
certainly not improved her appearance by her new display, but she wished
to try the effect of a little rebellion, and she was fully satisfied.
Mr. Waldie quietly desired her to change her dress,—she
remonstrated,—he insisted,—she grew angry and exhibited a degree of
fiery passion, which, though by no means strange to the other members of
the family, had hitherto been carefully concealed from him; until at
length, irritated by her vehement opposition, he led her to her
apartment and locked her in. There were three faults which Mr. Waldie
regarded with peculiar abhorrence in the female character, and these
were a passionate temper, a love of dress, and a determined will. He was
perfectly horror-stricken, therefore, at the sudden discovery of all
these most dreaded attributes in the beautiful Emily. Nor was his
disgust much diminished, when, on his return from church, he proceeded
to her apartment to receive, as he hoped, an humble confession of her
fault. He found her leaning from the window engaged in an interesting
conversation with a beardless young gentleman who resided in the
adjoining house, and who was now standing on the top of a ladder placed
against the garden wall, in order to be within whispering or rather
murmuring distance of the young lady, with whom he had for some months
carried on a flirtation by means of billets tied to pebbles and flung
into her window. This of course decided the matter. Emily was desired by
her benefactor to make choice of some trade, and, as she fancied it must
be perfectly delightful to live among finery, she decided upon adopting
the _profession_ of a milliner. Accordingly, Latin and Geometry were
exchanged for frippery and folly. Emily soon became a most skilful
_artiste_, and, by exhibiting their effect on her beautiful face, which
nothing could spoil, was the means of selling so many ugly bonnets and
turbans, that she was quite a prize to her employer. At the age of
eighteen she married a fashionable draper and tailor, when she received
her promised dowry from the hand of Mr. Waldie. As the business of both
husband and wife was one which ministered to the master spirit of
vanity, they made a large fortune in a few years, and I have heard—but
I will not vouch for the truth of the story—that after their
retirement, Colonel Fitwell and his beautiful wife made quite a figure
in the saloons of Paris, where she could boast of the honor of having
been noticed by royalty; his majesty having been heard to ask the name
of that very _large woman_ with blonde hair! What an honor for a simple
republican!
Celina Morley was now left alone, and the punishment inflicted on her
companion, for such to her sensitive nature it seemed, rather tended to
increase her timid reserve. But she possessed high intellectual gifts
and a great love for study, so that her progress in learning equalled
her eccentric benefactor’s highest anticipations. I am afraid she would
have been deemed a blue-stocking in the circles of fashion, for she was
a fine Latin scholar, read Greek with great ease, had not even been
delayed on the Pons Asinorum in her mathematical career, and in short,
when she had attained her eighteenth year, knew considerably more than
most collegians when they take their degree. Do not think this is an
over-estimate of the attainments of our heroine, gentle reader. Let an
intelligent woman be endowed with industry, perseverance and a love for
study, then give her a powerful motive, such as love or gratitude, to
stimulate her, and all the boasted intellect of man will hardly outstrip
her in the race of learning.
The person of Celina had developed as fully as her mind. Her swarthy
complexion had cleared into a fine brunette, her dark hair parted
smoothly on her high forehead, added feminine grace to a rather
masculine feature, while the intellectual expression which beamed in her
fine eyes, lighted up her whole face with positive beauty. Her form had
become tall and majestic, scarcely rounded enough for perfect symmetry,
but just such a figure as expands with queenly grace in later life. In
short, Celina had become a stately, beautiful, and gifted woman. But
while all these things had been going on, Mr. Waldie had become some six
or seven years older, and already passed his _fiftieth_ year; yet some
how or other, he did not seem to be very impatient to change his
condition. It is true, Celina had attained the age which he had
originally destined to be the period of marriage, but he felt so very
comfortable and was so much the creature of habit, that he seemed rather
to dread any innovation. He had taken the precaution to keep his wards
in ignorance of his final intentions, and therefore, Celina loved him
with truly filial affection, without dreaming that she might be called
upon to cherish any warmer emotion. As she grew up to the stature of
womanhood, Mr. Waldie had been induced, by the remonstrance of the
governess, to withdraw some of his restrictions in female attire; and
though he still insisted on a rigid proscription of bows, feathers,
flowers and lace, he allowed Celina to assume a garb somewhat in
accordance with the prevailing fashion. But he had forbidden her to
acquire any feminine accomplishment except sewing and knitting. The
first act he found very necessary to his own comfort, as strings would
break, and buttons would come off, which evils no one could repair with
such neat-handed rapidity as Celina; while the second mystery he looked
upon as essential to every well-trained woman, because it had been the
sole occupation of his mother for the last twenty years of her life. But
sad to tell! the young victim of theory could neither dance, nor play on
the piano, nor sketch in crayons, nor paint velvet, nor make filigree
boxes, nor work worsted:—in short, she was utterly unskilled in the
thousand lady-like arts of _idle industry_.
Yet nature had made her beautiful and good, education had made her a
fine scholar, and her innate tact (without which talent and learning are
often but useless gifts) had taught her womanly duties and womanly
tastes. Indeed she had rather too much feminine delicacy to suit the
peculiar notions of Mr. Waldie. He had an idea that the want of physical
courage, which characterizes the sex, was simply an error in female
education, and, not content with the passive endurance and moral
strength which make woman a heroine in the chamber of pestilence, he
determined that Celina should possess some share of masculine boldness.
Accordingly, he practised various fantastic experiments to habituate her
to pain and terror. He dropped hot sealing-wax on her bare arms, fired
pistols within six inches of her head, and practised various feats of a
similar nature, until, after having thrice set fire to her dress by
accident, and once shocked her into a fit of sickness, he gave up his
attempt in despair of ever bringing her to the required point of
courage. Mr. Waldie was a little disappointed. Celina did not quite
realize his ideal of the partner of his life. She bore little
resemblance to the dull, drowsy, quiet creature, who, soon after his
mother’s death, seemed to fulfil his notions of wifely excellence, and
neither was she that most unfeminine of all females—a plodding and
slovenly book-worm. She was simply a gentle, lovely, intellectual woman,
whom profound learning had failed to make either a pedant or a
metaphysician. Do not listen to your prejudices, friend reader, and
fancy that I am portraying an immaterial character: such women are to be
found—sometimes in the saloons of gaiety but more frequently in the
shades of private life, and the fire on the domestic hearth may still
burn brightly and cheerfully even when lighted by the torch of wisdom.
A year or two more passed on. Mr. Waldie seemed to linger long on the
threshold of celibacy ere he could summon courage to cross it, and in
the meantime he was spared all future anxiety about the matter. Among
the few, who still kept up their acquaintance with the eccentric Mr.
Waldie, was the head-clerk of his deceased father, who, grateful for the
liberal treatment which he had received at the settlement of the estate,
was always ready to do a kindness for the heir. Unpunctual tenants and
troublesome debtors were peculiar objects of his watchfulness, and Mr.
Waldie was saved from many a loss and many a vexation by his honest
friend. The son of this gentleman, after receiving a liberal education,
had devoted himself to the church, and, as Mr. Waldie’s extensive
library furnished a great variety of polemical works, he had gladly
accepted the bachelor’s kind invitation to visit it at all times,
without restraint. At first young Willington Merwyn came rarely, and
taking some dusty volume of controversial divinity would retire to his
own quiet study. By degrees he learned to linger longer, and ponderous
tomes which he formerly sought were often forgotten when he took his
departure. He came frequently and staid late, while Mr. Waldie, absorbed
in his own speculative philosophy, always greeted the presence of the
clergyman as a tribute to the value of his intellectual stores, or a
compliment to his own scholarship. He fancied, good man, that the long
metaphysical discussions and ingenious theories, in which he took so
much delight, were the young man’s chief attraction, and never dreamed
that even the presence of philosophy herself,
“Attired in all
The star-gemmed robes of speculative truth”