Part 17

“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.”

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.

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; 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.

Terms used in Ombre, a game at cards.

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.

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.

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.