MR. PUNCHINELLO, do you know when a woman is perfection itself? "No." I
do. It is when she is from sixteen to nineteen. Of course you take her
judgment. At sixteen she is the coming flower that has come--the first
Rose of Summer, and about the best that may be looked for. Her ideas may
not be solid, but they are expansive. Her mind may not make a very great
show, but her hair (real and otherwise) is sure to. She is very deep in
love--with herself. The supremest divinity is seen when she looks in the
mirror. Call her ARABELLA if you like. ARABELLA is mistress of that
portion of the dictionary which includes the common-place compliments of
society. In her mouth they have a common place, indeed. Some people call
such utterances "stuff," "nonsense," "puerilities," but nobody is so
prejudiced and unreliable as the above-named some people. They
complacently think they know a thing or two, but that is all it amounts
to. ARABELLA hasn't any doubt about her being perfection. Unfortunately
there is a question about some matters in this world in politics,
religion, morality and other kindred things, but on the doctrine of
perfection, as applied to her individual self, ARABELLA is clear and
settled. Did any body, she says _sotto voce_, to herself, ever put
vision on such an ensemble countenance? Were eyes ever more sparkling?
Were ever dimples dimpler? Had ever peach such artistic hue, and teeth
such pearly pearliness, and lips such positive sweetness, and brow such
loveliness? We suppose not. ARABELLA is eighteen, is of elastic notions,
sees life as a romance, believes the ground on which she walks ought to
be grateful for the honor, and wonders if every body who goes out don't
go straightway to talking rapturously about her. ARABELLA is a type--the
type of a class of perfectionists. ARABELLA is neither a worm nor a
butterfly, but the bridge between. For all this ARABELLA believes
herself to be the best of butterflies, with the capacity to fly in the
highest manner. At twenty-five her wings will be clipped, her colors
will modify, her notions renovate, and her eyes open. She will perceive
that the doctrine of perfection is mythical, and angels upon earth only
so in name.
Going to church is a good thing. All good people go, and from good
motives, of course. Mrs. BROWN, says a wicked gossip, goes to show a
bonnet; Mrs. JONES her shawl; Mrs. SMITH her silk; Mrs. JENKINS her
gloves and fan. No sane person believes that these ladies go for any
such purpose. The case isn't presumable. They are nice, high-toned
people, sit in $800 pews, adore Rev. Dr. CANTWELL, and give very freely
(of their husband's money) to the heathen in the uttermost corners of
the earth. They prefer, good souls, to give to the heathen under the
equator to those under their noses. It is _not_ true that ladies go to
church for the display of dress. It _is_ true Mrs. JONES does not wish
to be outdone by Mrs. JENKINS, and isn't if STEWART can help it, but she
is a good pious woman of simple tastes, though Mr. J. thinks she tastes
rather often. Going to church is a good thing for example's sake. It is
so nice and strengthening to reflect that, as the minister preaches
piety, and you practice poetry, (with a pencil in the prayer-book,) you
set an example to the rising generation. One can never do too much for
the rising generation, though it often rises too frequently and too
high. Besides, it encourages the minister. Only think of talking to
emptiness instead of fulness--to people instead of plush. How can the
dear Rev. SPLURGE SPLUTTER have the heart or tongue to drop his pearls
of eloquence to the swine of empty pews? And how dreadful for the gifted
soprano, Miss SCREECH, to tune her melodious voice to earless aisles!
And then it is so easy to "set" examples by sitting in soft pews, doing
to church should be a matter of conscience. Every body not a dolt admits
conscience to be a good thing, though a thing every body cannot boast of
possessing. I like people of conscience--that is, I should like them if
I knew any. It is such a nice thing to talk about--and how much nicer
to have. Mrs. TODD often wishes "to conscience" she could reach mine. I
am sorry to say that at times Mrs. T. is an irreverent woman. She
doesn't perceive that some where under that hairless, proud dome of mine
there must be a conscience--I may proudly say, an imposing conscience. I
said to Mrs. T. one day, "I _have_ an imposing conscience," and she
really thought so--adding the cruel expression that she didn't know of
any thing about me but _was_ imposing, and that she first became aware
of the sad fact when she married me.