“The fact that there is such a wide variance in the taste of individuals,” argued Bernard, “should, however, make us cautious of condemning that which may be sustained by the judgment of so many. Did you know, by the way, Miss Virginia, that 'habit' and 'custom' are essentially the same words as 'habit' and 'costume.' This fact—for the history of a nation may almost be read in the history of its language—should convince you that the manners and customs of a people are as changeable as the fashions of their dress.”
“I grant you,” said Virginia, “that the mere manners of a people may change in many respects; but true taste, when founded on a true appreciation of right, can never change.”
“Why, yes it can,” replied her companion, who delighted in bringing the young girl out, as he said, and plying her with specious sophisms. “Beauty, certainly, is an absolute and not a relative emotion, and yet what is more changeable than a taste in beauty. The Chinese bard will write a sonnet on the oblique eyes, flat nose and club feet of his saffron Amaryllis, while he would revolt with horror from the fair features of a British lassie. Old Uncle Giles will tell you that the negro of his Congo coast paints his Obi devil white, in order to inspire terror in the hearts of the wayward little Eboes. The wild Indians of Virginia dye their cheeks—”
“Nay, there you will not find so great a difference between us,” said Virginia, interrupting him, as she pointed to the plastered rouge on Bernard's cheek. “But really, Mr. Bernard, you can scarcely be serious in an opinion so learnedly argued. You must acknowledge that right and wrong are absolute terms, and that a sense of them is inherent in our nature.”
“Well then, seriously, my dear Miss Temple,” replied Bernard, “I do not see so much objection to the gay society of England, which is but a reflection from the mirror of the court of Charles the Second.”
“When the mirror is stained or imperfect, Mr. Bernard, the image that it reflects must be distorted too. That society which breaks down the barriers that a refined sentiment has erected between the sexes, can never develope in its highest perfection the purity of the human heart.”
“Well, I give up the argument,” said Bernard, “for where sentiment is alone concerned, there is no more powerful advocate than woman. But, my dear Miss Temple, you who have such a pure and correct taste on this subject, can surely illustrate your own idea by an example. Will you not sing? I know you can—your mother told me so.”
“You must excuse me, Mr. Bernard; I would willingly oblige you, but I fear I could not trust my voice among so many strangers.”
“You mistake your own powers,” urged Bernard. “There is nothing easier, believe me, after the first few notes of the voice, which sound strangely enough I confess, than for any one to recover self-possession entirely. I well remember the first time I attempted to speak before a large audience. When I arose to my feet, my knees trembled, and my lips actually felt heavy as lead. It seemed as though every drop of blood in my system rushed back to my heart. The vast crowd before me was nothing but an immense assemblage of eyes, all bent with the most burning power upon me; and when at length I opened my mouth, and first heard the tones of my own voice, it sounded strange and foreign to my ear. It seemed as though it was somebody else, myself and yet not myself, who was speaking; and my utterance was so choked and discordant, that I would have given worlds if I could draw back the words that escaped me. But after a half dozen sentences, I became perfectly composed and self-possessed, and cared no more for the gaping crowd than for the idle wind which I heed not. So it will be with your singing, but rest assured that the discord of your voice will only exist in your own fancy. Now will you oblige me?”
“Indeed, Mr. Bernard, I cannot say that you have offered much inducement,” said Virginia, laughing at the young man's description of his forensic debut. “Nothing but the strongest sense of duty would impel me to pass through such an ordeal as that which you have described. Seriously you must excuse me. I cannot sing.”