well-trained soldier, with two nickels jingling in his pocket, even the
victim might be on his guard. When the family are unceremoniously put
out of the house, and father, mother, and sisters are seen in the summer
twilight, wandering in disconsolate pairs, let the neighbours keep away
from the house under penalty of the girl's lasting hate.
Sometimes, when the family have been put out, and the common human
interest leads intimate spinster friends to pass the house, there is
nothing to be seen but the girl playing accompaniments for the man while
he sings.
Yet the initiated know, for if a girl only praises a man's singing
enough, he will most surely propose to her before many moons have
passed. The scheme has a two-fold purpose, because all may see that he
finds the house attractive, and if no engagement is announced, the
entire affair may easily be explained upon musical and platonic grounds.
[Sidenote: A Formal Proposal]
Owing to the distorted methods of courtship which prevail at the present
day, a girl may never be sure that a man really cares for her until he
makes a formal proposal. If a man were accepted the minute he proposed,
he would think the girl had been his for some time, and would
unconsciously class her as among those easily won.
The insinuation that she has been easily won is the thing which is not
to be borne. It may have been simple enough, in fact, but let a man
beware how he trifles with this delicate subject, even after fifty years
of marriage.
[Sidenote: On Probation]
Consequently, it is the proper thing to take the matter under advisement
and never to accept definitely without a period of probation. This is
the happiest time of a girl's life. She is absolutely sure of her lover
and may administer hope, fear, doubt, and discouragement to her heart's
content.
The delicate attentions which are showered upon her are the envy of
every spinster on the street who does not know the true state of the
affair. Sometimes, with indifferent generosity, she divides her roses
and invites the less fortunate to share her chocolates. This always
pleases the man, if he knows about it.
Also, because she is not in the least bound, she makes the best of this
last freedom and accepts the same courtesies from other men. Nothing is
so well calculated to sound the depths of original sin in man's nature,
as to find his rival's roses side by side with his, when a girl has him
on probation. And he never feels so entirely similar to an utter idiot,
as when he sees a girl to whom he has definitely committed himself,
flirting cheerfully with two or three other men.
Woe be to him if he remonstrates! For Mademoiselle is testing him with
this end in view. If he complains bitterly of her outrageous behaviour,
she dismisses him with sorrowful dignity, jealousy being the one thing
she cannot tolerate in men.
[Sidenote: Opportunity for Fine Work]
There is opportunity for fine work in the situation which the young
woman immediately develops. A man may take his choice of the evils which
lie before him, for almost anything may happen.
He may complain, and if he shows anger, there is war. If he betrays
jealousy, there is trouble which marriage will accentuate, rather than
lessen. If he shows concern because his beloved is so fickle, and
insinuates that so unstable a person will not make a good wife, he
touches pride in a vital spot and his cause is no more. Let him be
manfully unconcerned; as far above jealousy and angry reproach as a St.
Bernard is above a kitten--and Mademoiselle is his.
Philosophers laugh at woman's fickleness, but her constancy, when once
awakened, endures beyond life and death, and sometimes beyond betrayal.
But this is not to be won by a jealous man, for jealousy is the
mother-in-law of selfishness, and a woman never permits a man to rival
her in her own particular field.
[Sidenote: Another Danger]
If a man safely passes the test of probation, there is yet another
danger which lies between him and the realisation of his ambition. This
is the tendency of women to conduct excavations into a man's previous
affairs.
He needs the wisdom of the serpent at this juncture, for under the
smiling sweetness a dagger is often concealed. If the point is allowed
to show during an engagement, the whole blade will frequently flash
during marriage.
"Yes, dearest," a man will say, tenderly, "I have loved before, but that
was long ago--long before I met you. She was beautiful, tall, dark,
majestic, with a regal nature like herself--Good Heavens, how I loved
her!"
This is apt to continue for some little time, if a man gets thoroughly
interested in his subject and thinks he is talking rather well, before
he discovers that his petite blonde divinity is either a frozen statue,
or a veritable Niobe as to tears. And not one man in three hundred and
nineteen ever suspects what he has done!
[Sidenote: The Thought of Defection]
A woman is more jealous of the girls a man has loved, whom she has never
seen, than of any number of attractive rivals. In the blind adoration
which he yields her, she takes no thought of immediate defection, for
her smile always makes him happy--her voice never loses its mystic power
over his senses.
On the contrary, a man never stoops to be jealous of the men who have
pleaded in vain for what he has won, nor even of possible fiancés whom
later discretion has discarded. He is sure of her at the present moment
and his doubt centres itself comfortably upon the future, which is
always shadowy and unreal to a man, because he is less imaginative than
woman.
And yet--there is no more dangerous companion for a woman than the man
who has loved her. It is easier to waken a woman's old love than to
teach her a new affection. Strangely enough, the woman a man has once
loved and then forgotten is powerless in the after years. A man's dead
friendship may dream of resurrection, but never his dead love.
Jealousy and distrust have never yet won a doubting heart. Bitterness
never accomplishes miracles which sweetness fails to do. Too often men
and women spend their time in wondering why they are not loved, trying
various schemes and pitiful experiments, and passing by the simple
method of trying to be lovable and unconscious of self.
[Sidenote: "The Milk of Human Kindness"]
"The milk of human kindness" seldom produces cream, but there is only
one way by which love may be won or kept. Perfection means a continual
shifting of standards and must ever be unattainable, but the man or
woman who is simply lovable will be wholly taken into other
hearts--faults and all.
Now and then a man's love is hopeless, from causes which are innate and
beyond control. Sometimes regret strikes deep and lasts for more than a
day, as in the pages of the story books which women love to read.
Sometimes, too, a tender-hearted woman, seeing far into the future, will
do her best to spare a fellow-creature pain.
[Sidenote: The Wine of Conquest]
But this is the exception, rather than the rule. The average woman
regards a certain number of proposals as but a just tribute to her own
charm. Sometimes she sees what she has unconsciously done when it is too
late to retreat, but even then, though pity, regret, and honest pain
may result from it, there is one effect more certain still--the
intoxication of the wine of conquest, against which no woman is proof.
Love Letters: Old and New
[Illustration]
Love Letters: Old and New
[Sidenote: The Average Love Letter]
The average love letter is sufficient to make a sensitive spinster weep,
unless she herself is in love and the letter be addressed to her. The
first stage of the tender passion renders a man careless as to his
punctuation, the second seriously affects his spelling, and in the last
period of the malady, his grammar develops locomotor ataxia. The single
blessedness of school-teachers is largely to be attributed to this
cause.
A real love letter is absolutely ridiculous to everyone except the
writer and the recipient. A composition, which repeats the same term of
endearment thirteen times on a page, has certainly no particular claim
to literary art.
When a man writes a love letter, dated, and fully identified by name and
address, there is no question but that he is in earnest. A large number
of people consider nothing so innocently entertaining as love letters,
read in a court-room, with due attention to effect, by the counsel for
the other side.
Affairs of that kind are given scarlet headlines in the saffron
journals, and if the letters are really well done, it means the sale of
an "extra." No man can hope to write anything which will possess such
general interest as his love letters. If Shakespeare had written
voluminously to his sweetheart--to any of his sweethearts--and the
letters should be found by this generation, what a hue and cry would be
raised over his peaceful ashes!
[Sidenote: Sins of Commission]
Doing the things which ought not to be done never loses fascination and
charm. The rare pleasure thus obtained far exceeds the enjoyment of
leaving undone things which ought to be done. Sins of commission are far
more productive of happiness than the sins of omission.
[Sidenote: For Posterity]
Thus people whose sense of honour would not permit them to read an open
letter which belonged to someone else will go by thousands to purchase
the published letters of some famous man. Dr. Arbuthnot, in speaking of
the publication of letters, said that it added a new terror to death, so
true it is that while a man may think for the present, he unavoidably
writes for posterity.
No passion is too sacred to be hidden from the eagle eye of the public.
The death of anyone of more than passing fame is followed by a volume of
"letters." It is pathetic to read these posthumous pages, which should
have been buried with the hands that wrote them, or consigned to the
never-failing mercy of the flames.
Burial has not always sufficed. The manuscript of one well-known book of
poems was buried with the lady to whom they were written, but in later
years her resting-place was disturbed, with the consent of her lover,
for this very manuscript.
Her golden hair had grown after her death, and was found closely
entwined with the written pages--so closely that it had to be cut. The
loving embrace which Death would not break was rudely forced to yield.
Even in her "narrow house" she might not keep her love letters in peace,
since the public wanted to read what had been written for her alone and
the publisher was waiting for "copy."
[Sidenote: Letters in a Grave]
In a paper of the _Tatler_, written by Addison or Steele, or possibly
by both, is described a party in a country village which is suddenly
broken into confusion by the entrance of the sexton of their parish
church, fresh from the digging of a grave. The sexton tells the
merrymakers how a chance blow of his pickaxe has opened a decayed
coffin, in which are discovered several papers.
These are found to be the love letters received by the wife of Sir
Thomas Chichley, one of the admirals of King William. Most of the
letters were ruined by damp and mould, but "here and there," says the
_Tatler_, "a few words such as 'my soul,' 'dearest,' 'roses,' and 'my
angel,' still remained legible, resisting the corrupting influence of
Time."
One of these letters in a grave, which Lady Chichley had requested might
be buried with her in her coffin, was found entire, though discoloured
by the lapse of twenty years. Its words were these:
"Madam:
"If you would know the greatness of my love, consider that of your own
beauty. That blooming countenance, that snowy bosom, that graceful
person, return every moment to my imagination; the brightness of your
eyes hindered me from closing mine since I last saw you. You may still
add to your beauties by a smile. A frown will make me the most wretched
of men, as I am the most passionate of lovers."
[Sidenote: The Advertisement]
Death is the advertisement, at the end of an autobiography, wherein
people discover its virtues. The public which refused a bare subsistence
to the living genius will make his children comfortable by generously
purchasing his letters, which were never meant for them.
The pathetic story of the inner struggle, which would have crucified the
sensitive soul were it known to any save his dearest friends, is proudly
blazoned forth--in print! Hopes and fears and trials are no longer
concealed. Illness, poverty, and despair are given rubricated pages. The
sorrowful letter to a friend, asking for five or ten dollars, is
reproduced in facsimile.
[Sidenote: The Soldier of the World]
That it shows the human side of the genius is no excuse for the
desecration. What of the sunny soul who always sang courage, while he
himself was suffering from hope deferred! What of him who wrote in an
attic, often hungry for his daily bread, and took care to give the
impression of warmth and comfort! Why should his stern necessity be
disclosed to the public that would not give him bread in return for his
songs? It is enough to make the gallant soldier of the world turn
uneasily in his grave.
In this way a bit of the greatness so bravely won is often lost, and
sometimes illusions are dispelled which all must regret. For years, we
have read with delight Mrs. Browning's exquisite poem beginning:
"I have a name, a little name
Uncadenced for the ear."
Throughout the poem there is no disclosure, but, so sure is her art,
that there is no sense of loss or wonder. But the pitiless searchlight
of the century is turned upon the Browning love letters, and thus we
learn that Mrs. Browning's pet name was _Ba_!
Pretty enough, perhaps, when spoken by a lover and a poet, or in shaded
nooks, to the music of Italian streams, but quite unsuited to the
present, even though it were to be read only by lovers equally fond.
"Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the page of none--"
Poor Mrs. Browning! Little did she know!
[Sidenote: With the Future in View]
There have been some, no doubt, who have written with the future in
view, though Abelard, who broke a woman's heart, could not have foreseen
that his only claims to distinction would rest upon his letters to
loving, faithful Héloise. The life which was to be too great for her to
share is remembered now only because of her. Mocking Fate has brought
the wronged woman an exquisite revenge.
That delightful spendthrift and scapegrace, Richard Steele, has left a
large number of whimsical letters, addressed to the lady he married. She
might possibly object to their publication, but not Steele! Indeed, she
was a foolish woman to keep this letter:
"Dear Prue:
"The afternoon coach will bring you ten pounds. Your letter shows that
you are passionately in love with me. But we must take our portion of
life without repining and I consider that good nature, added to the
beautiful form God has given you, would make our happiness too great for
human life. Your most obliged husband and most humble servant,
Rich. Steele."
Alexander Pope was another who wrote for posterity. In spite of his
deformity, he appears to have been touched to the heart by women, but
vanity and selfishness tinged all of his letters.
[Sidenote: Systematic Lovers]
Robert Burns was a systematic lover of anything in petticoats, and has
left such a mass of amatory correspondence that his biographer was
sorely perplexed. There could not have been a pretty maid in the British
Isles, to whom chance had been kind, who had not somewhere the usual
packet of love letters from "Bobby" Burns.
Laurence Sterne was no less generous with his affection, if the stories
are true. At twenty, he fell in love with Elizabeth Lumley, and from his
letters to her, one might easily fancy that love was a devastating and
hopeless disease. There was a pretty little "Kitty" who claimed his
devotion, and countless other affairs, before "Eliza" appeared. "Eliza"
was a married woman and apparently the last love of the heart-scarred
Sterne.
[Sidenote: Left by the Dead]
No earthly thing is so nearly immortal as a love letter, and nothing is
so sorrowful as those left by the dead. The beautiful body may be dust
and all but forgotten, while the work of the loving hands lives on. Even
those written by the ancient Egyptians are seemingly imperishable. The
clay tablet on which one of the Pharaohs wrote a love letter, asking the
hand of a foreign princess, is to-day in the British Museum.
The first time a woman cries after she is married, she reads over all
the love letters the other men have written her, for a love letter is
something a tender-hearted woman cannot bring herself to destroy.
[Sidenote: The New Child]
The love letters of the man she did not marry still possess lingering
interest. The letters of many a successful man of affairs are still
hidden in the treasure-box of the woman he loved, but did not marry.
Both have formed other ties and children have risen up to call them
blessed, or whatever the children may please, for even more dreadful
than the new woman is the new child. Between them, they are likely to
produce a new man.
The new child is apt to find the letters and read them aloud to the
wrong people, being most successfully unexpected and inopportune. A box
of old letters, distributed sparingly at the doors of mutual friends, is
the distinguishing feature of a lovely game called "playing postman."
Social upheavals have occurred from so small a cause as this.
It sometimes happens, too, that when a girl has promised to marry a man
and the wedding day is set, she receives from a mutual friend a package
of faded letters and a note which runs something like this:
"My Dear:
"Now that my old friend's wedding day is approaching, I feel that I have
no longer the right to keep his letters. They are too beautiful and
tender to be burned and I have not the heart to make that disposition of
them. Were I to return them to him, he would doubtless toss them into
the fire, and I cannot bear to have them lost.
"So, after thinking about it for some time, I have concluded to send
them to you, who are the rightful keeper of his happiness, as well as of
his letters. I trust that you may find a place for these among those
which he has addressed to you. Wishing you all happiness in the future,
believe me to be
"Very sincerely and affectionately yours."
[Sidenote: On the Firing Line]
The dainty and appropriate wedding gift is not often shown to the happy
man, but every page and every line is carefully read. Now and then the
bride-elect advances boldly to the firing line and writes a letter of
thanks after this fashion:
"It is very sweet and thoughtful of you, my dear friend, to send me the
letters. Of course I shall keep them in with mine, though I have but
few, for the dear boy has never been able to leave me for more than a
day, since first we met.
"Long before we became engaged, he made me a present of your letters to
him, which he said were well worth the reading, and indeed, I have
found them so. I shall arrange them according to date and sequence,
though I observe that you have written much more often than he--I
suppose because we foolish women can never say all we want to in one
letter and are compelled to add postscripts, sometimes days apart.
"Believe me, I fully appreciate your wishes for our happiness. I trust
you may come to us often and see how your hopes are fulfilled. With many
thanks for your loving thought of me, as ever,
Affectionately yours."
[Sidenote: If a Girl is in Love]
If a girl is in love, she carries the last letter inside her shirt-waist
in the day time, and puts it under her pillow at night, thereby
expecting dreams of the beloved.
But the dispenser of nocturnal visions delights in joking, and though
impalpable arms may seem to surround the sleeping spinster and a tender
kiss may be imprinted upon her lips, it is not once in seventeen days
that the caresses are bestowed by the writer of the letter. It is a
politician whose distorted picture has appeared in the evening paper,
some man the girl despises, the postman, or worse yet, the tramp who has
begged bread at the door.
[Sidenote: When a Man is in Love]
When a man is in love, he carries the girl's last letter in his pocket
until he has answered it and has another to take its place. He stoops to
no such superstition as placing it under his pillow. Neither is it read
as often as his letters to her.
A woman never really writes to the man she loves. She simply records her
fleeting moods--her caprice, her tenderness, and her dreams. Because of
this, she is often misunderstood. If the letter of to-day is different
from that of yesterday, her lover, in his heart at least, accuses her of
fickleness.
A man's letters to a girl are very frequently shown to her most intimate
friend, if they are sufficiently ardent, but a man never shows the
letters of a woman he truly cares for, unless he feels the need of some
other masculine intellect to assist him in comprehending the lady of his
heart.
"Nothing feeds the flame like a letter. It has intent, personality,
secrecy." But that is love indeed which stands the test of long
separation--and letters.
[Sidenote: A Single Drop of Ink]
With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the old Egyptian sorcerer
promised to reveal the past and foretell the future. The single drop of
ink with which a lover writes may sadly change the blissful future of
which he dreams.
The written word is so sadly different from that which is spoken! The
malicious demon concealed in the ink bottle delights in wrecking love.
Misunderstandings and long silences follow in rapid succession,
tenderness changes to coldness, and love to bitter regret.
Someone has said that the true test of congeniality is not a matter of
tastes, but of humour. If two people find the same things amusing, their
comradeship is a foregone conclusion, but even so, it requires unusual
insight to distinguish the playful parts of a letter from the serious
passages. If the separated lovers would escape the pit of destruction,
let all jokes be plainly marked with a cross or a star.
A letter is an unfair thing. It follows its own mood blindly without
reference to others. If penned in sadness it often makes a sunny day a
cloudy one, and if written in jest it may be as inopportune as mirth at
a funeral.
[Sidenote: Misunderstood]
A letter betraying anger and hurt pride may often crystallise a yielding
mood into determination and summon evil spirits which love cannot
banish. The letter asking forgiveness may cross the path of the one
which puts an end to everything. It would seriously test the power of
the Egyptian to foretell what might result from a single letter, written
in all love and tenderness, perhaps, but destined to be completely
misunderstood.
Old love letters often mean tears, because they have been so wrongly
read. Later years, with fine irony, sometimes bring new understanding of
the loving heart behind the faulty lines. After all, it is the
inexpressible atmosphere of a letter which is felt, rather than the
meaning which the phrases ostensibly convey.
[Sidenote: The Postman]
Tender secrets are concealed in the weather-worn bag of the postman. The
lovers may hide their hearts from all but him. Parents, guardians, and
even mature maiden aunts may be successfully diverted, but not the
postman!
He knows that the girl who eagerly watches for him in the morning has
more than a passing interest in the mail. He knows where her lover is,
how often he writes, when she should have a letter, and whether all is
well.
Sometimes, too, he knows that it is better to take a single letter to
the house three or four times in succession, rather than to leave it in
the hands of one to whom it is not addressed.
Blessed be the countless Cupids in the uniform of the postal service!
The little blind god is wont to assume strange forms, apparently at
will. But no stern parent could suspect that his sightless eyes were
concealed behind the spectacles of a sedate postman, nor that his wicked
arrows were hidden under piles of letters.
The uninitiated wonder "what there is to write about." A man may have
seen a girl the evening before, and yet a bulky letter comes in the
afternoon. And what mysterious interest can make one write three or four
times a week?