Papers from Overlook House Part 9

She was resting her hand upon a piano, and in deep conversation with Judge Plian.

I crossed the room and spoke to her. She received me politely--but not as one who had the slightest recollection, that there was any tie of the most profound interest between us. Surely a man writing her deceased husband's biography, should have immediately become her chief object of attention. On the contrary, after a few common-place words, she turned to the Judge, and became absorbed in his conversation.

And this was the more remarkable, because the man was by no means good-looking. Nay, I think him rather insignificant. I had a few words with him on the occasion of the trial of that miserable creature, who would get himself hung, and I concluded, not only that he was not well versed in legal learning, but that he was a remarkably stubborn man, riveted to his opinions, even when, by means of lucid argument, you proved him to be in error.

A short time afterwards I entered into conversation with my fair cousin. She directed me to look at the two, near the piano.

"They will make a good-looking couple, will they not?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, have you not heard of their engagement?"

"Engagement!"

"Yes, it has been a short acquaintance. Indeed, Bob, now that it recurs to my mind, I heard that she sent you out of the way, into the country on business, that the Judge might not be alarmed by the appearance of a rival. But you know that villagers are famous for gossip. Of course there was nothing in it. And I said, you never had a serious thought about her."

Was ever anything like this? Before the shoes were old with which she followed my poor father's body. While the Biography of her deceased husband was in progress, she forms an engagement with a man of no sort of personal attractions, and who, being on the bench, can have his legal decisions confuted by a young lawyer.

Surely the most strict moralist would confess, that I was released from my engagements! Surely Sir Charles Grandison would have said, that I need not put myself forward for an explanation with the widow. If she spoke to me on the subject, could I not say, "Let the Judge write the book?"

These notes have not been written in vain, if I can contribute, in the least degree, to the awakening of the public mind to a demand for greater moral principles, in the composition of histories, and of the memoirs of distinguished men.

I thought that the widow might send me a note, before many days had pa.s.sed. I waited, and concluded in a Christian spirit, that if she applied to me, she should have the notes which I had acc.u.mulated. But I never heard again of my first attempt at writing a memoir. I never heard again of Dr. Bolton's Biography.

IV.

_KATYDIDS:--A NEW CHAPTER IN NATURAL HISTORY._

John Jones, a man who said he hated strife, Had from the altar led an able wife.

No lines told scandal on a wrinkled brow; Temper and Time are rivals with their plow.

Some said that she was gentle as the May; That Jones, the dog, was now to have his day.

Your pardon, men, I pray you now dispense, If I proclaim you void of common sense, When you would have your wives to know no will, To have no thought but such as you instill; To be your shadows, never to suggest, Each judgment crossing yours at once represt; And to suppose, that every chiding word Shall from your bearded lips alone be heard.

If no resistance met us in our home, What petty tyrants would all men become?

The little wits that most of men possess, For want of sharp'ning would become far less; The selfish streams that flow from out our will, So far corrupted be more stagnant still: And restless, we should wage an inward war, But for the soothing rays of home's true star.

Oh, let this wrong abuse of women end, In me, at least, they'll find a st.u.r.dy friend.

I give my witness, I who have been thrown, Widely with all in Country and in Town, Women are best of all our fallen race, Richer in heart, than e'en in outward grace, And if our homes are not the abodes of peace, The fault is ours; and the complaint should cease.

In that small dwelling there--from morn to night, A woman toils, withdrawn from human sight; A plain poor woman, in a common dress, Of kindly tones, and of uncouth address.

Just wend thy way unto the little brook, Day after day upon its waters look, See every day the self-same ripples there, On those same stones, for ages smooth and bare.

So she from day to day the course of life, Finds one recurring call of labor's strife, Save when G.o.d's blessed day of rest hath come, And its sun shines, as in the church, at home.

Unlike the stream she has no murmuring tone, She has G.o.d's will to do, and it is done.

With tender care she trains her youthful band, And never wearies in her heart or hand; Is ready, when the music in her ear, From one loved step, proclaims her husband near, To spread the frugal board, the welcome give, In each act say, for self I do not live.

Oh man, o'erlook thy wife's unceasing care How her dear love doth follow everywhere, Forget her, as she stood beside thy bed, When the long sickness bowed thy weary head, Watching,--to her all sacrifice as light, As 'tis to stars to watch o'er earth at night.

Ah 'tis most n.o.ble, manly, not to know How light o'er all doth from her presence flow, And when a quicker word in haste doth fall, To speak of her, as if strife was her all.

What could she say, if she replied to thee, Told to the world her secret misery, Showed the sad wounds that thy neglect had wrought, Where but a look the healing balm had brought.

One, at this hour, lies on the bed of death, A neighbor lovely as the morning's breath.

Slowly she dies,--and with prophetic eye Tracing the course of human destiny, I see a home she brightened, hence so lone, Its calm day darkened, and its music gone;

The young, the old with anxious cares opprest, Their hearts, like shadows feeling for their rest On the green sward, where flickering sunbeams glide, My tears can fall, and standing by thy side, I know a woman's place, a woman's worth,-- I know the gift of G.o.d in her to earth.

Thou will not let thy wife become to thee, That which her nature claims that she should be.

Thou hast a cold dead life from her apart, Thou art not moulded by her gentler heart, Else by her sweet, pure thoughts thou wert more true More wise, more bold each n.o.ble deed to do.

Of woman's weakness dost thou speak? Thou'lt find Her strength indeed, by this just bond of mind.

You are the weak one, cannot grasp her might, Forever boasting that thy wrong is right.

Without her soul to thine, the page is dull Of all life's work,--and with this it is full Of all illumined splendors, as of old, The precious writings were adorned with Gold.

Ah view that cell so dark!--the felon there, With glaring eye that speaks his vast despair.

He once in princely splendor lived his day, Lord of the street, a monarch in his way.

His costly revels gained an envied fame, Where shallow fops, and women like them came.

Oh man! how couldst thou thus thy G.o.d defy?

Could riches pay thee for thy long-told lie?

If thou hadst said thy secret to thy wife, Made known to her the secret guilty strife, Told of the awful chance, the business dice, The gambling sales, the shameful, well-named vice, Asked what to risk, asked what a man should do, Would that shame-darkened cell have been for you?

She would have said, in woman's faith so strong, "We may be poor,--we never will do wrong.

Take all this splendor; let it fade away, But stand thou honest as the open day."

Would she have been to thee a feeble stay?

We make the woman weak where she is weak; We school her feeble; feebleness we seek.

We make believe that life is pompous pride, That she is blest, by gold when gratified, This my conclusion, as the world we scan, What's wrong in woman tells of wrong in man.

But where is Jones? While I have thus digressed, Why Jones, poor fellow, is by care oppressed.

He draws his trail of briars round life's ring, And wonders he is caught by everything.

Jones snaps at every woman, man, and child, Just as a turtle by hot coals made wild.

Jones had a daughter, and her name was Kate, As like her sire as pewter plate to plate.

And they together almost vexed to death, The wife, the target of their arrowed breath.

Sometimes the patient creature's anger rose Their petty wrongs, and malice to oppose.

And tempers such as hers, men do not try By single deeds that cause some misery; Stirred at the last by injuries borne so long, Their anger speaks acc.u.mulated wrong.

Kate had her beauty, and her household skill, And in due time her Jack had found his Gill, He was a man as meek as man could be, And could not dream of woman's tyranny.

He was a pleasant man to smile "good day,"

And had the art to say what others say; Thought his old saws came from a welling-spring In his own mind--not knowing he did bring All that so softly from his lips e'er fell, As vapid water from his neighbor's well-- The poor dog never stole a good-sized bone, And so the world of curs let him alone.