happen to young men among us every day. And do they not lead in a
thousand ways to sorrows just like these? And is there not a
responsibility on all who ought to be the guardians of the safety and
purity of the other sex, to avoid setting before them the temptation to
which so often and so fatally manhood has yielded? What is a paltry
consideration of fashion, compared to the safety of sons, brothers, and
husbands? The greatest fault of womanhood is slavery to custom; and yet
who but woman makes custom? Are not all the usages and fashions of
polite society more her work than that of man? And let every mother and
sister think of the mothers and sisters of those who come within the
range of their influence, and say to themselves, when in thoughtlessness
they discuss questions affecting their interests, "Behold thy
brother!"--"Behold thy son!"
THE CORAL RING.
"There is no time of life in which young girls are so thoroughly selfish
as from fifteen to twenty," said Edward Ashton, deliberately, as he laid
down a book he had been reading, and leaned over the centre table.
"You insulting fellow!" replied a tall, brilliant-looking creature, who
was lounging on an ottoman hard by, over one of Dickens's last works.
"Truth, coz, for all that," said the gentleman, with the air of one who
means to provoke a discussion.
"Now, Edward, this is just one of your wholesale declarations, for
nothing only to get me into a dispute with you, you know," replied the
lady. "On your conscience, now, (if you have one,) is it not so?"
"My conscience feels quite easy, cousin, in subscribing to that
sentiment as my confession of faith," replied the gentleman, with
provoking _sang froid_.
"Pshaw! it's one of your fusty old bachelor notions. See what comes,
now, of your living to your time of life without a wife--disrespect for
the sex, and all that. Really, cousin, your symptoms are getting
alarming."
"Nay, now, Cousin Florence," said Edward, "you are a girl of moderately
good sense, with all your nonsense. Now don't you (I know you _do_)
think just so too?"
"Think just so too!--do you hear the creature?" replied Florence. "No,
sir; you can speak for yourself in this matter, but I beg leave to enter
my protest when you speak for me too."
"Well, now, where is there, coz, among all our circle, a young girl that
has any sort of purpose or object in life, to speak of, except to make
herself as interesting and agreeable as possible? to be admired, and to
pass her time in as amusing a way as she can? Where will you find one
between fifteen and twenty that has any serious regard for the
improvement and best welfare of those with whom she is connected at all,
or that modifies her conduct, in the least, with reference to it? Now,
cousin, in very serious earnest, you have about as much real character,
as much earnestness and depth of feeling, and as much good sense, when
one can get at it, as any young lady of them all; and yet, on your
conscience, can you say that you live with any sort of reference to any
body's good, or to any thing but your own amusement and gratification?"
"What a shocking adjuration!" replied the lady; "prefaced, too, by a
three-story compliment. Well, being so adjured, I must think to the best
of my ability. And now, seriously and soberly, I don't see as I am
selfish. I do all that I have any occasion to do for any body. You know
that we have servants to do every thing that is necessary about the
house, so that there is no occasion for my making any display of
housewifery excellence. And I wait on mamma if she has a headache, and
hand papa his slippers and newspaper, and find Uncle John's spectacles
for him twenty times a day, (no small matter, that,) and then----"
"But, after all, what is the object and purpose of your life?"
"Why, I haven't any. I don't see how I can have any--that is, as I am
made. Now, you know, I've none of the fussing, baby-tending,
herb-tea-making recommendations of Aunt Sally, and divers others of the
class commonly called _useful_. Indeed, to tell the truth, I think
useful persons are commonly rather fussy and stupid. They are just like
the boneset, and hoarhound, and catnip--very necessary to be raised in a
garden, but not in the least ornamental."
"And you charming young ladies, who philosophize in kid slippers and
French dresses, are the tulips and roses--very charming, and delightful,
and sweet, but fit for nothing on earth but parlor ornaments."
"Well, parlor ornaments are good in their way," said the young lady,
coloring, and looking a little vexed.
"So you give up the point, then," said the gentleman, "that you girls
are good for--just to amuse yourselves, amuse others, look pretty, and
be agreeable."
"Well, and if we behave well to our parents, and are amiable in the
family--I don't know--and yet," said Florence, sighing, "I have often
had a sort of vague idea of something higher that we might become; yet,
really, what more than this is expected of us? what else can we do?"
"I used to read in old-fashioned novels about ladies visiting the sick
and the poor," replied Edward. "You remember Coelebs in Search of a
Wife?"
"Yes, truly; that is to say, I remember the story part of it, and the
love scenes; but as for all those everlasting conversations of Dr.
Barlow, Mr. Stanley, and nobody knows who else, I skipped those, of
course. But really, this visiting and tending the poor, and all that,
seems very well in a story, where the lady goes into a picturesque
cottage, half overgrown with honeysuckle, and finds an emaciated, but
still beautiful woman propped up by pillows. But come to the downright
matter of fact of poking about in all these vile, dirty alleys, and
entering little dark rooms, amid troops of grinning children, and
smelling codfish and onions, and nobody knows what--dear me, my
benevolence always evaporates before I get through. I'd rather pay any
body five dollars a day to do it for me than do it myself. The fact is,
that I have neither fancy nor nerves for this kind of thing."
"Well, granting, then, that you can do nothing for your fellow-creatures
unless you are to do it in the most genteel, comfortable, and
picturesque manner possible, is there not a great field for a woman like
you, Florence, in your influence over your associates? With your talents
for conversation, your tact, and self-possession, and ladylike gift of
saying any thing you choose, are you not responsible, in some wise, for
the influence you exert over those by whom you are surrounded?"
"I never thought of that," replied Florence.
"Now, you remember the remarks that Mr. Fortesque made the other evening
on the religious services at church?"
"Yes, I do; and I thought then he was too bad."
"And I do not suppose there was one of you ladies in the room that did
not think so too; but yet the matter was all passed over with smiles,
and with not a single insinuation that he had said any thing unpleasing
or disagreeable."
"Well, what could we do? One does not want to be rude, you know."
"Do! Could you not, Florence, you who have always taken the lead in
society, and who have been noted for always being able to say and do
what you please--could you not have shown him that those remarks were
unpleasing to you, as decidedly as you certainly would have done if they
had related to the character of your father or brother? To my mind, a
woman of true moral feeling should consider herself as much insulted
when her religion is treated with contempt as if the contempt were shown
to herself. Do you not _know_ the power which is given to you women to
awe and restrain us in your presence, and to guard the sacredness of
things which you treat as holy? Believe me, Florence, that Fortesque,
infidel as he is, would reverence a woman with whom he dared not trifle
on sacred subjects."
Florence rose from her seat with a heightened color, her dark eyes
brightening through tears.
"I am sure what you say is just, cousin, and yet I have never thought of
it before. I will--I am determined to begin, after this, to live with
some better purpose than I have done."
"And let me tell you, Florence, in starting a new course, as in learning
to walk, taking the first step is every thing. Now, I have a first step
to propose to you."
"Well, cousin----"
"Well, you know, I suppose, that among your train of adorers you number
Colonel Elliot?"
Florence smiled.
"And perhaps you do not know, what is certainly true, that, among the
most discerning and cool part of his friends, Elliot is considered as a
lost man."
"Good Heavens! Edward, what do you mean?"
"Simply this: that with all his brilliant talents, his amiable and
generous feelings, and his success in society, Elliot has not
self-control enough to prevent his becoming confirmed in intemperate
habits."
"I never dreamed of this," replied Florence. "I knew that he was
spirited and free, fond of society, and excitable; but never suspected
any thing beyond."
"Elliot has tact enough never to appear in ladies' society when he is
not in a fit state for it," replied Edward; "but yet it is so."
"But is he really so bad?"
"He stands just on the verge, Florence; just where a word fitly spoken
might turn him. He is a noble creature, full of all sorts of fine
impulses and feelings; the only son of a mother who dotes on him, the
idolized brother of sisters who love him as you love your brother,
Florence; and he stands where a word, a look--so they be of the right
kind--might save him."
"And why, then, do you not speak to him?" said Florence.
"Because I am not the best person, Florence. There is another who can do
it better; one whom he admires, who stands in a position which would
forbid his feeling angry; a person, cousin, whom I have heard in gayer
moments say that she knew how to say any thing she pleased without
offending any body."
"O Edward!" said Florence, coloring; "do not bring up my foolish
speeches against me, and do not speak as if I ought to interfere in this
matter, for indeed I cannot do it. I never could in the world, I am
certain I could not."
"And so," said Edward, "you, whom I have heard say so many things which
no one else could say, or dared to say--you, who have gone on with your
laughing assurance in your own powers of pleasing, shrink from trying
that power when a noble and generous heart might be saved by it. You
have been willing to venture a great deal for the sake of amusing
yourself and winning admiration; but you dare not say a word for any
high or noble purpose. Do you not see how you confirm what I said of the
selfishness of you women?"
"But you must remember, Edward, this is a matter of great delicacy."
"That word _delicacy_ is a charming cover-all in all these cases,
Florence. Now, here is a fine, noble-spirited young man, away from his
mother and sisters, away from any family friend who might care for him,
tempted, betrayed, almost to ruin, and a few words from you, said as a
woman knows how to say them, might be his salvation. But you will coldly
look on and see him go to destruction, because you have too much
_delicacy_ to make the effort--like the man that would not help his
neighbor out of the water because he had never had the honor of an
_introduction_."
"But, Edward, consider how peculiarly fastidious Elliot is--how jealous
of any attempt to restrain and guide him."
"And just for that reason it is that _men_ of his acquaintance cannot do
any thing with him. But what are you women made with so much tact and
power of charming for, if it is not to do these very things that we
cannot do? It is a delicate matter--true; and has not Heaven given to
you a fine touch and a fine eye for just such delicate matters? Have you
not seen, a thousand times, that what might be resented as an
impertinent interference on the part of a man, comes to us as a
flattering expression of interest from the lips of a woman?"
"Well, but, cousin, what would you have me do? How would you have me do
it?" said Florence, earnestly.
"You know that Fashion, which makes so many wrong turns, and so many
absurd ones, has at last made one good one, and it is now a fashionable
thing to sign the temperance pledge. Elliot himself would be glad to do
it, but he foolishly committed himself against it in the outset, and now
feels bound to stand to his opinion. He has, too, been rather rudely
assailed by some of the apostles of the new state of things, who did not
understand the peculiar points of his character; in short, I am afraid
that he will feel bound to go to destruction for the sake of supporting
his own opinion. Now, if I should undertake with him, he might shoot me;
but I hardly think there is any thing of the sort to be apprehended in
your case. Just try your enchantments; you have bewitched wise men into
doing foolish things before now; try, now, if you can't bewitch a
foolish man into doing a wise thing."
Florence smiled archly, but instantly grew more thoughtful.
"Well, cousin," she said, "I will try. Though you are liberal in your
ascriptions of power, yet I can put the matter to the test of
experiment."
* * * * *
Florence Elmore was, at the time we speak of, in her twentieth year.
Born of one of the wealthiest families in ----, highly educated and
accomplished, idolized by her parents and brothers, she had entered the
world as one born to command. With much native nobleness and magnanimity
of character, with warm and impulsive feelings, and a capability of
every thing high or great, she had hitherto lived solely for her own
amusement, and looked on the whole brilliant circle by which she was
surrounded, with all its various actors, as something got up for her
special diversion. The idea of influencing any one, for better or worse,
by any thing she ever said or did, had never occurred to her. The crowd
of admirers of the other sex, who, as a matter of course, were always
about her, she regarded as so many sources of diversion; but the idea of
feeling any sympathy with them as human beings, or of making use of her
power over them for their improvement, was one that had never entered
her head.
Edward Ashton was an old bachelor cousin of Florence's, who, having
earned the title of oddity, in general society, availed himself of it to
exercise a turn for telling the truth to the various young ladies of his
acquaintance, especially to his fair cousin Florence. We remark, by the
by, that these privileged truth tellers are quite a necessary of life to
young ladies in the full tide of society, and we really think it would
be worth while for every dozen of them to unite to keep a person of this
kind on a salary, for the benefit of the whole. However, that is nothing
to our present purpose; we must return to our fair heroine, whom we
left, at the close of the last conversation, standing in deep revery, by
the window.
"It's more than half true," she said to herself--"more than half. Here
am I, twenty years old, and never have thought of any thing, never done
any thing, except to amuse and gratify myself; no purpose, no object;
nothing high, nothing dignified, nothing worth living for! Only a parlor
ornament--heigh ho! Well, I really do believe I could do something with
this Elliot; and yet how dare I try?"
Now, my good readers, if you are anticipating a love story, we must
hasten to put in our disclaimer; you are quite mistaken in the case. Our
fair, brilliant heroine was, at this time of speaking, as heart-whole as
the diamond on her bosom, which reflected the light in too many
sparkling rays ever to absorb it. She had, to be sure, half in earnest,
half in jest, maintained a bantering, platonic sort of friendship with
George Elliot. She had danced, ridden, sung, and sketched with him; but
so had she with twenty other young men; and as to coming to any thing
tender with such a quick, brilliant, restless creature, Elliot would as
soon have undertaken to sentimentalize over a glass of soda water. No;
there was decidedly no love in the case.
"What a curious ring that is!" said Elliot to her, a day or two after,
as they were reading together.
"It is a knight's ring," said she, playfully, as she drew it off and
pointed to a coral cross set in the gold, "a ring of the red-cross
knights. Come, now, I've a great mind to bind you to my service with
it."
"Do, lady fair," said Elliot, stretching out his hand for the ring.
"Know, then," said she, "if you take this pledge, that you must obey
whatever commands I lay upon you in its name."
"I swear!" said Elliot, in the mock heroic, and placed the ring on his
finger.
An evening or two after, Elliot attended Florence to a party at Mrs.
B.'s. Every thing was gay and brilliant, and there was no lack either of
wit or wine. Elliot was standing in a little alcove, spread with
refreshments, with a glass of wine in his hand. "I forbid it; the cup is
poisoned!" said a voice in his ear. He turned quickly, and Florence was
at his side. Every one was busy, with laughing and talking, around, and
nobody saw the sudden start and flush that these words produced, as
Elliot looked earnestly in the lady's face. She smiled, and pointed
playfully to the ring; but after all, there was in her face an
expression of agitation and interest which she could not repress, and
Elliot felt, however playful the manner, that she was _in earnest_; and
as she glided away in the crowd, he stood with his arms folded, and his
eyes fixed on the spot where she disappeared.
"Is it possible that I am suspected--that there are things said of me as
if I were in danger?" were the first thoughts that flashed through his
mind. How strange that a man may appear doomed, given up, and lost, to
the eye of every looker on, before he begins to suspect himself! This
was the first time that any defined apprehension of loss of character
had occurred to Elliot, and he was startled as if from a dream.
"What the deuse is the matter with you, Elliot? You look as solemn as a
hearse!" said a young man near by.
"Has Miss Elmore cut you?" said another.
"Come, man, have a glass," said a third.
"Let him alone--he's bewitched," said a fourth. "I saw the spell laid on
him. None of us can say but our turn may come next."
An hour later, that evening, Florence was talking with her usual spirit
to a group who were collected around her, when, suddenly looking up, she
saw Elliot, standing in an abstracted manner, at one of the windows that
looked out into the balcony.
"He is offended, I dare say," she thought; "but what do I care? For once
in my life I have tried to do a right thing--a good thing. I have risked
giving offence for less than this, many a time." Still, Florence could
not but feel tremulous, when, a few moments after, Elliot approached her
and offered his arm for a promenade. They walked up and down the room,
she talking volubly, and he answering yes and no, till at length, as if
by accident, he drew her into the balcony which overhung the garden. The
moon was shining brightly, and every thing without, in its placid
quietness, contrasted strangely with the busy, hurrying scene within.
"Miss Elmore," said Elliot, abruptly, "may I ask you, sincerely, had you
any design in a remark you made to me in the early part of the evening?"
Florence paused, and though habitually the most practised and
self-possessed of women, the color actually receded from her cheek, as
she answered,--
"Yes, Mr. Elliot; I must confess that I had."
"And is it possible, then, that you have heard any thing?"
"I have heard, Mr. Elliot, that which makes me tremble for you, and for
those whose life, I know, is bound up in you; and, tell me, were it well
or friendly in me to know that such things were said, that such danger
existed, and not to warn you of it?"
Elliot stood for a few moments in silence.
"Have I offended? Have I taken too great a liberty?" said Florence,
gently.
Hitherto Elliot had only seen in Florence the self-possessed, assured,
light-hearted woman of fashion; but there was a reality and depth of
feeling in the few words she had spoken to him, in this interview, that
opened to him entirely a new view in her character.
"No, Miss Elmore," replied he, earnestly, after some pause; "I may be
_pained_, offended I cannot be. To tell the truth, I have been
thoughtless, excited, dazzled; my spirits, naturally buoyant, have
carried me, often, too far; and lately I have painfully suspected my own
powers of resistance. I have really felt that I needed help, but have
been too proud to confess, even to myself, that I needed it. You, Miss
Elmore, have done what, perhaps, no one else could have done. I am
overwhelmed with gratitude, and I shall bless you for it to the latest
day of my life. I am ready to pledge myself to any thing you may ask on
this subject."
"Then," said Florence, "do not shrink from doing what is safe, and
necessary, and right for you to do, because you have once said you would
not do it. You understand me."
"Precisely," replied Elliot: "and you shall be obeyed."
It was not more than a week before the news was circulated that even
George Elliot had signed the pledge of temperance. There was much
wondering at this sudden turn among those who had known his utter
repugnance to any measure of the kind, and the extent to which he had
yielded to temptation; but few knew how fine and delicate had been the
touch to which his pride had yielded.
ART AND NATURE.
"Now, girls," said Mrs. Ellis Grey to her daughters, "here is a letter
from George Somers, and he is to be down here next week; so I give you
fair warning."
"Warning?" said Fanny Grey, looking up from her embroidery; "what do you
mean by that, mamma?"
"Now that's just you, Fanny," said the elder sister, laughing. "You dear
little simplicity, you can never understand any thing unless it is
stated as definitely as the multiplication table."
"But we need no warning in the case of Cousin George, I'm sure," said
Fanny.
"Cousin George, to be sure! Do you hear the little innocent?" said
Isabella, the second sister. "I suppose, Fanny, you never heard that he
had been visiting all the courts of Europe, seeing all the fine women,
stone, picture, and real, that are to be found. Such an _amateur_ and
_connoisseur_!"
"Besides having received a fortune of a million or so," said Emma. "I
dare say now, Fanny, you thought he was coming home to make dandelion
chains, and play with button balls, as he used to do when he was a
little boy."
"Fanny will never take the world as it is," said Mrs. Grey. "I do
believe she will be a child as long as she lives." Mrs. Grey said this
as if she were sighing over some radical defect in the mind of her
daughter, and the delicate cheek of Fanny showed a tint somewhat deeper
as she spoke, and she went on with her embroidery in silence.
Mrs. Grey had been left, by the death of her husband, sole guardian of
the three girls whose names have appeared on the page. She was an
active, busy, ambitious woman, one of the sort for whom nothing is ever
finished enough, or perfect enough, without a few touches, and dashes,
and emendations; and, as such people always make a mighty affair of
education, Mrs. Grey had made it a life's enterprise to order, adjust,
and settle the character of her daughters; and when we use the word
_character_, as Mrs. Grey understood it, we mean it to include both
face, figure, dress, accomplishments, as well as those more unessential
items, mind and heart.
Mrs. Grey had determined that her daughters should be something
altogether out of the common way; and accordingly she had conducted the
training of the two eldest with such zeal and effect, that every trace
of an original character was thoroughly educated out of them. All their
opinions, feelings, words, and actions, instead of gushing naturally
from their hearts, were, according to the most approved authority,
diligently compared and revised. Emma, the eldest, was an imposing,
showy girl, of some considerable talent, and she had been assiduously
trained to make a sensation as a woman of ability and intellect. Her
mind had been filled with information on all sorts of subjects, much
faster than she had power to digest or employ it; and the standard which
her ambitious mother had set for her being rather above the range of her
abilities, there was a constant sensation of effort in her keeping up to
it. In hearing her talk you were constantly reminded, "I am a woman of
intellect--I am entirely above the ordinary level of woman;" and on all
subjects she was so anxiously and laboriously, well and
circumstantially, informed, that it was enough to make one's head ache
to hear her talk.