tender of each other’s peculiarities as any wedded couple I ever
knew. Without being learned, they had a love of general reading,
which, with active charities, made their days pass profitably and
pleasantly. They had the orderly, systematic habits common to
single ladies, but their sympathies and their views were larger and
more liberal than those of their married sisters. Their fingers
were busy for the poor, whom they were always ready to aid and
comfort, irrespective of nation or color. Their family affections
were remarkably strong, yet they had the moral courage to espouse
the unpopular cause of the slave, in quiet opposition to the
prejudices of beloved relatives. Death sundered this tie when both
were advanced in years. The departed one, though not distinguished
for beauty during her mortal life, had, after her decease, a
wonderful loveliness, like that of an angelic child. It was the
outward impress of her interior life.
Few marriages are more beautiful or more happy than these sisterly
unions; and the same may be said of a brother and sister, whose
lives are bound together. All lovers of English literature know
how charmingly united in mind and heart were Charles Lamb and his
gifted sister; and our own poet, Whittier, so dear to the people’s
heart, has a home made lovely by the same fraternal relation of
mutual love and dependence.
A dear friend of mine, whom it was some good man’s loss not to
have for a life-mate, adopted the orphan sons of her brother, and
reared them with more than parental wisdom and tenderness, caring
for all their physical wants, guiding them in precept and example
by the most elevated moral standard, bestowing on them the highest
intellectual culture, and studying all branches with them, that she
might in all things be their companion.
Nor is it merely in such connections, which somewhat resemble
wedded life, that single women make themselves useful and
respected. Many remember the store kept for so long a time in
Boston by Miss Ann Bent.
Her parents being poor, she early began to support herself by
teaching. A relative subsequently furnished her with goods to sell
on commission; and in this new employment she manifested such good
judgment, integrity, and general business capacity, that merchants
were willing to trust her to any extent. She acquired a handsome
property, which she used liberally to assist a large family of
sisters and nieces, some of whom she established in business
similar to her own. No mother or grandmother was ever more useful
or beloved. One of her nieces said: “I know the beauty and purity
of my aunt’s character, for I lived with her forty years, and I
never knew her to say or do anything which might not have been said
or done before the whole world.”
I am ignorant of the particulars of Miss Bent’s private history;
but doubtless a woman of her comely looks, agreeable manners, and
excellent character, might have found opportunities to marry, if
that had been a paramount object with her. She lived to be more
than eighty-eight years old, universally respected and beloved; and
the numerous relatives, toward whom she had performed a mother’s
part, cheered her old age with grateful affection.
There have also been many instances of single women who have
enlivened and illustrated their lives by devotion to the beautiful
arts. Of these none are perhaps more celebrated than the Italian
Sofonisba Angusciola and her two accomplished sisters. These
three “virtuous gentlewomen,” as Vasari calls them, spent their
lives together in most charming union. All of them had uncommon
talent for painting, but Sofonisba was the most gifted. One of
her most beautiful pictures represents her two sisters playing at
chess, attended by the faithful old duenna, who accompanied them
everywhere. This admirable artist lived to be old and blind; and
the celebrated Vandyke said of her, in her later years: “I have
learned more from one blind old woman in Italy, than from all the
masters of the art.”
Many single women have also employed their lives usefully and
agreeably as authors. There is the charming Miss Mitford,
whose writings cheer the soul like a meadow of cowslips in the
springtime. There is Frederica Bremer, whose writings have blessed
so many souls. There is Joanna Baillie, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth
Hamilton, and our own honored Catherine M. Sedgwick, whose books
have made the world wiser and better than they found it.
I am glad to be sustained in my opinions on this subject by a
friend whose own character invests single life with peculiar
dignity. In a letter to me, she says: “I object to having single
women called a _class_. They are _individuals_, differing in the
qualities of their characters, like other human beings. Their
isolation, as a general thing, is the result of unavoidable
circumstances. The Author of Nature doubtless intended that men
and women should live together. But, in the present state of the
world’s progress, society has, in many respects, become artificial
in proportion to its civilization; and consequently the number of
single women must constantly increase. If humanity were in a state
of natural, healthy development, this would not be so; for young
people would then be willing to begin married life with simplicity
and frugality, and real happiness would increase in proportion to
the diminution of artificial wants. This prospect, however, lies in
the future, and many generations of single women must come and go
before it will be realized.
“But the achievement of _character_ is the highest end that can be
proposed to any human being, and there is nothing in single life to
prevent a woman from attaining this great object; on the contrary,
it is in many respects peculiarly favorable to it. The measure
of strength in character is the power to conquer circumstances
when they refuse to cooperate with us. The temptations peculiarly
incident to single life are petty selfishness, despondency under
the suspicion of neglect, and _ennui_ from the want of interesting
occupation. If an ordinary, feeble-minded woman is exposed to
these temptations, she will be very likely to yield to them. But
she would not be greatly different in character, if protected by a
husband and flanked with children; her feebleness would remain the
same, and would only manifest itself under new forms.
“Marriage, under favorable circumstances, is unquestionably a
promoter of human happiness. But mistakes are so frequently made by
entering thoughtlessly into this indissoluble connection, and so
much wretchedness ensues from want of sufficient mental discipline
to make the best of what cannot be remedied, that most people can
discover among their acquaintance as large a proportion of happy
single women as they can of happy wives. Moreover, the happiness of
unmarried women is as independent of mere gifts of fortune, as that
of other individuals. Indeed, all solid happiness must spring from
inward sources. Some of the most truly contented and respectable
women I have ever known have been domestics, who grew old in one
family, and were carefully looked after, in their declining days,
by the children of those whom they faithfully served in youth.
“Most single women might have married, had they seized upon the
first opportunity that offered; but some unrevealed attachment,
too high an ideal, or an innate fastidiousness, have left them
solitary; therefore, it is fair to assume that many of them have
more sensibility and true tenderness than some of their married
sisters. Those who remain single in consequence of too much worldly
ambition, or from the gratification of coquettish vanity, naturally
swell the ranks of those peevish, discontented ones, who bring
discredit on single life in the abstract. But when a delicate
gentlewoman deliberately prefers passing through life alone, to
linking her fate with that of a man toward whom she feels no
attraction, why should she ever repent of so high an exercise of
her reason? This class of women are often the brightest ornaments
of society. Men find in them calm, thoughtful friends, and safe
confidants, on whose sympathy they can rely without danger. In the
nursery, their labors, being voluntary, are less exhausting than a
parent’s. When the weary, fretted mother turns a deaf ear to the
twenty-times-repeated question, the baffled urchins retreat to the
indulgent aunt, or dear old familiar friend, sure of obtaining a
patient hearing and a kind response. Almost everybody can remember
some samples of such _Penates_, whose hearts seem to be too large
to be confined to any one set of children.
“Some of my fairest patterns of feminine excellence have been of
the single sisterhood. Of those unfortunate ones who are beacons,
rather than models, I cannot recall an individual whose character I
think would have been materially improved by marriage. The faults
which make a single woman disagreeable would probably exist to the
same degree if she were a wife; and the virtues which adorn her in
a state of celibacy would make her equally beloved and honored if
she were married. The human soul is placed here for development and
progress; and it is capable of converting all circumstances into
means of growth and advancement.
“Among my early recollections is that of a lady of stately
presence, who died while I was still young, but not till she
had done much to remove from my mind the idea that the name of
‘old maid’ was a term of reproach. She was the daughter of Judge
Russell, and aunt to the late Reverend and beloved Dr. Lowell. She
had been one of a numerous family of brothers and sisters, but in
my childhood was sole possessor of the old family mansion, where
she received her friends and practised those virtues which gained
for her the respect of the whole community. Sixty years ago, it
was customary to speak of single women with far less deference
than it now is; and I remember being puzzled by the extremely
respectful manner in which she was always mentioned. If there
were difficulties in the parish, or if any doubtful matters were
under discussion, the usual question was ‘What is Miss Russell’s
opinion?’ I used to think to myself, ‘She is an old maid, after
all, yet people always speak of her as if she were some great
person.’
“Miss Burleigh was another person of whom I used to hear much
through the medium of mutual friends. She resided with a married
sister in Salem, and was the ‘dear Aunt Susan,’ not only of the
large circle of her own nephews and nieces, but of all their
friends and favorites. Having ample means, she surrounded herself
with choice books and pictures, and such objects of Art or
Nature as would entertain and instruct young minds. Her stores
of knowledge were prodigious, and she had such a happy way of
imparting it, that lively boys were glad to leave their play, to
spend an hour with Aunt Susan. She read to her young friends at
stated times, and made herself perfectly familiar with them; and
as they grew older she became their chosen confidant. She was, in
fact, such a centre of light and warmth, that no one could approach
her sphere without being conscious of its vivifying influence.
“‘Aunt Sarah Stetson,’ another single lady, was a dear and honored
friend of my own. She was of masculine size and stature, gaunt
and ungainly in the extreme. But before she had uttered three
sentences, her hearers said to themselves, ‘Here is a wise woman!’
She was the oldest of thirteen children, early deprived of their
father, and she bore the brunt of life from youth upward. She
received only such education as was afforded by the public school
of an obscure town seventy years ago. To add to their scanty means
of subsistence, she learned the tailor’s trade. In process of time,
the other children swarmed off from the parental hive, the little
farm was sold, and she lived alone with her mother. She built a
small cottage out of her own earnings, and had the sacred pleasure
of taking her aged parent to her own home, and ministering with her
own hands to all her wants. For sixteen years, she never spent a
night from home, but assiduously devoted herself to the discharge
of this filial duty, and to the pursuance of her trade. Yet in the
midst of this busy life, she managed to become respectably familiar
with English literature, especially with history. Whatever she
read, she derived from it healthful aliment for the growth of her
mental powers. She was full of wise maxims and rules of life; not
doled out with see-saw prosiness, but with strong common sense,
rich and racy, and frequently flavored with the keenest satire.
She had a flashing wit, and wonderful power of detecting shams
of all sorts. Her religious opinions were orthodox, and she was
an embodiment of the Puritan character. She was kindly in her
feelings, and alive to every demonstration of affection, but she
had a granite firmness of principle, which rendered her awful
toward deceivers and transgressors. All the intellectual people of
the town sought her company with avidity. The Unitarian minister
and his family, a wealthy man, who happened to be also the chief
scholar in the place, and the young people generally, took pleasure
in resorting to Aunt Sarah’s humble home, to minister to her simple
wants, and gather up her words of wisdom. Her spirit was bright and
cheerful to the last. One of her sisters, who had been laboring
sixteen years as a missionary among the southwestern Indians, came
to New England to visit the scattered members of her family. After
seeing them in their respective homes, she declared: ‘Sarah is the
most light-hearted of them all; and it is only by _her_ fireside
that I have been able to forget past hardships in merry peals of
laughter.’
“During my last interview with Aunt Sarah, when she was past
seventy years of age, she said, ‘I have lived very agreeably
single; but if I become infirm, I suppose I shall feel the want
of life’s nearest ties.’ In her case, however, the need was of
short duration, and an affectionate niece supplied the place of a
daughter.
“Undoubtedly, the arms of children and grandchildren form the most
natural and beautiful cradle for old age. But loneliness is often
the widow’s portion, as well as that of the single woman; and
parents are often left solitary by the death or emigration of their
children.
“I am tempted to speak also of a living friend, now past her
sixtieth year. She is different from the others, but this
difference only confirms my theory that the mind can subdue all
things to itself. This lady is strictly feminine in all her habits
and pursuits, and regards the needle as the chief implement of
woman’s usefulness. If the Dorcas labors performed by her one pair
of hands could be collected into a mass, out of the wear and waste
of half a century, they would form an amazing pile. In former
years, when her health allowed her to circulate among numerous
family connections, her visits were always welcomed as a jubilee;
for every dilapidated wardrobe was sure to be renovated by Aunt
Mary’s nimble fingers. She had also a magic power of drawing the
little ones to herself. Next to their fathers and mothers, she was
the best beloved. The influence which her loving heart gained over
them in childhood increased with advancing years. She is now the
best and dearest friend of twenty or thirty nephews and nieces,
some of whom have families of their own.
“A large amount of what is termed mother-wit, a readiness at
repartee, and quickness in seizing unexpected associations of words
or ideas, rendered her generally popular in company; but the deep
cravings of her heart could never be satisfied with what is termed
success in society. The intimate love of a few valued friends was
what she always coveted, and never failed to win. For several
years she has been compelled by ill health to live entirely at
home. There she now is, fulfilling the most important mission
of her whole beneficent life, training to virtue and usefulness
five motherless children of her brother. Feeble and emaciated,
she lives in her chamber surrounded by these orphans, who now
constitute her chief hold on life. She shares all their pleasures,
is the depositary of their little griefs, and unites in herself
the relations of aunt, mother, and grandmother. She has faith to
believe that her frail thread of existence will be prolonged for
the sake of these little ones. The world still comes to her, in her
seclusion, through a swarm of humble friends and dependants, who
find themselves comforted and ennobled by the benignant patience
with which she listens to their various experiences, and gives
them kindly, sympathizing counsel, more valuable to them than mere
pecuniary aid. Her spirit of self-abnegation is carried almost
to asceticism; but she reserves her severity wholly for herself;
toward others she is prodigal of indulgence. This goodly temple of
a human soul was reared in these fair proportions upon a foundation
of struggles, disappointments, and bereavements. A friend described
her serene exterior as a ‘placid, ocean-deep manner’; under it lies
a silent history of trouble and trial, converted into spiritual
blessings.
“The conclusion of the matter in my mind is, that a woman may make
a respectable appearance as a wife, with a character far less
noble than is necessary to enable her to lead a single life with
usefulness and dignity. She is sheltered and concealed behind her
husband; but the unmarried woman must rely upon herself; and she
lives in a glass house, open to the gaze of every passer-by. To
the feeble-minded, marriage is almost a necessity, and if wisely
formed it doubtless renders the life of any woman more happy. But
happiness is not the sole end and aim of this life. We are sent
here to build up a
character; and sensible women may easily
reconcile themselves to a single life,
since even its disadvantages may
be converted into means of
development of all the
faculties with which
God has endowed
them.”
[Illustration]
You are “getting into years.” Yes, but the years are getting
into you; the ripe, mellow years. One by one, the crudities of
your youth are falling off from you; the vanity, the egotism,
the bewilderment, the uncertainty. Every wrong road into
which you have wandered has brought you, by the knowledge of
that mistake, nearer to the truth. Nearer and nearer you are
approaching yourself.--GAIL HAMILTON.
[Illustration]
THE OLD MAID’S PRAYER TO DIANA.
By Mrs. Tighe, an Irish author, who wrote more than fifty
years ago, when single women had not attained to the honorable
position which they now occupy.
Since thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree
That, old maid as I am, an old maid I must be,
O, hear the petition I offer to thee!
For to bear it must be my endeavor:
From the grief of my friendships all drooping around,
Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found;
From the legacy-hunters, that near us abound,
Diana, thy servant deliver!
From the scorn of the young, and the flaunts of the gay,
From all the trite ridicule rattled away
By the pert ones, who know nothing wiser to say,--
Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her!
From repining at fancied neglected desert;
Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert;
From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt;
Diana, thy servant deliver!
From over solicitous guarding of pelf;
From humor unchecked, that most obstinate elf;
From every unsocial attention to self,
Or ridiculous whim whatsoever;
From the vaporish freaks, or methodical airs,
Apt to sprout in a brain that’s exempted from cares;
From impertinent meddling in others’ affairs;
Diana, thy servant deliver!
From the erring attachments of desolate souls;
From the love of spadille, and of matadore voles;[F]
Or of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls,
Be they ne’er so uncommon and clever;
But chief from the love, with all loveliness flown,
Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down
On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown;
Diana, thy servant deliver!
From spleen at beholding the young more caressed;
From pettish asperity, tartly expressed;
From scandal, detraction, and every such pest;
From all, thy true servant deliver!
Nor let satisfaction depart from her cot;
Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not;
Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot,
Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever.
[F] Terms used in Ombre, a game at cards.
[Illustration]
GRANDFATHER’S REVERIE.
BY THEODORE PARKER.
Grandfather is old. His back is bent. In the street he sees crowds
of men looking dreadfully young, and walking fearfully swift. He
wonders where all the _old_ folks are. Once, when a boy, he could
not find people young enough for him, and sidled up to any young
stranger he met on Sundays, wondering why God made the world so
old. Now he goes to Commencement to see his grandson take his
degree, and is astonished at the youth of the audience. “This
is new,” he says; “it did not use to be so fifty years ago.” At
meeting, the minister seems surprisingly young, and the audience
young. He looks round, and is astonished that there are so few
venerable heads. The audience seem not decorous. They come in
late, and hurry off early, clapping the doors after them with
irreverent bang. But grandfather is decorous, well mannered,
early in his seat; if jostled, he jostles not again, elbowed, he
returns it not; crowded, he thinks no evil. He is gentlemanly to
the rude, obliging to the insolent and vulgar; for grandfather
is a gentleman; not puffed up with mere money, but edified with
well-grown manliness. Time has dignified his good manners.
It is night. The family are all abed. Grandfather sits by his
old-fashioned fire. He draws his old-fashioned chair nearer
to the hearth. On the stand which his mother gave him are the
candlesticks, also of old time. The candles are three quarters
burnt down; the fire on the hearth also is low. He has been
thoughtful all day, talking half to himself, chanting a bit
of verse, humming a snatch of an old tune. He kissed his pet
granddaughter more tenderly than common, before she went to bed.
He takes out of his bosom a little locket; nobody ever sees it.
Therein are two little twists of hair. As Grandfather looks at
them, the outer twist of hair becomes a whole head of ambrosial
curls. He remembers stolen interviews, meetings by moonlight. He
remembers how sweet the evening star looked, and how he laid his
hand on another’s shoulder, and said, “_You_ are my evening star.”
The church-clock strikes the midnight hour. He looks in his locket
again. The other twist is the hair of his first-born son. At this
same hour of midnight, once, many years ago, he knelt and prayed,
when the long agony was over,--“My God, I thank thee that, though
I am a father, I am still a husband, too! What am I, that unto me
a life should be given and another spared!” Now he has children,
and children’s children, the joy of his old age. But for many a
year his wife has looked to him from beyond the evening star. She
is still the evening star herself, yet more beautiful; a star that
never sets; not mortal wife now, but angel.
The last stick on his andirons snaps asunder, and
falls outward. Two faintly smoking brands
stand there. Grandfather lays them
together, and they flame up; the
two smokes are united in one
flame. “Even so let it
be in heaven,” says
Grandfather.
[Illustration]
Useless, do you say you are? You are of _great_ use. You really
are. How are you useful? By being a man that is old. Your old
age is a public good. It is indeed. No child ever listens to
your talk without having a good done it that no schooling could
do. When you are walking, no one ever opens a gate for you
to pass through, and no one ever honors you with any kind of
help, without being himself the better for what he does; for
fellow-feeling with you ripens his soul for him.--MOUNTFORD.
[Illustration]
THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW.
BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
It stands in a sunny meadow,
The house so mossy and brown,
With its cumbrous old stone chimneys,
And the gray roof sloping down.
The trees fold their green arms round it,--
The trees a century old;
And the winds go chanting through them,
And the sunbeams drop their gold.
The cowslips spring in the marshes,
The roses bloom on the hill,
And beside the brook in the pasture
The herds go feeding at will.
Within, in the wide old kitchen,
The old folk sit in the sun,
That creeps through the sheltering woodbine,
Till the day is almost done.
Their children have gone and left them;
They sit in the sun alone!
And the old wife’s ears are failing
As she harks to the well-known tone
That won her heart in her girlhood,
That has soothed her in many a care,
And praises her now for the brightness
Her old face used to wear.
She thinks again of her bridal,--
How, dressed in her robe of white,
She stood by her gay young lover
In the morning’s rosy light.
O, the morning is rosy as ever,
But the rose from her cheek is fled;
And the sunshine still is golden,
But it falls on a silvered head.