Oh! that all women could thus proudly wear the veil! It is a protection we need so much—that mantle of snow! But there are those (and they most want it) in whose hearts the waves of feeling never rest long enough for the winter crust to form—who never stop to think, to look back, lo reflect, to prepare; but dash on to the ocean “over bank, brake and scaur,” giving back only half-formed or broken images of the beautiful visions that beam above their way—the bird—the cloud—the flower—the star—now humming a careless carol to the breeze, now murmuring a plaintive chant, now thundering in torrent tones, as they madly leap adown the rocks that would oppose them, and now dancing out of sight into the dim, untrodden forest-depths, where none will dare to follow.
We have seen the statuesque—there were not wanting the “grotesque and arabesque,” as well to our literary soirée.
There was one unique, whom I hardly dare attempt to describe. In speaking he deals principally in antithesis, and he himself is an antithesis personified. The wildest conceits—the sharpest satire—the bitterest, maddest vituperation—the most exquisite taste—the most subtil appreciation of the delicate and beautiful in his subject—the most radiant wit—the most dainty and Ariel-like fancy—with a manner and a mien the most quaint, abrupt and uncouth imaginable—it is like nothing in nature, or rather it is so exceedingly natural that it seems almost supernatural. His discourse is all thunder and lightning—every play of his impish eye-brows is an epigram, every smile a jeu d’esprit. At one time affectionate, confiding, careless, buoyant, almost boyish in his mood; at another, irritable, ferocious, seemingly ready for a tiger-spring upon any foe, and again calm, cold, haughty, and uncomeatable as an Indian of the olden time. Here is a stranger original than any his favorite author ever drew. He is the ideal Yankee of the nineteenth century.
There, too, nestled demurely in a corner of the sofa was that little “will-o’-the-wisp,” V—, whom nobody knows what to make of—wild, wayward, capricious as an April day—changeable as the light spring-cloud, and restless as the wave—the spoiled child of Fancy,
“Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love!”
To those who care for her, all trust and truth, and poetry and sportive fondness, and deep impassioned feeling—to all the rest of the world proud, still, reserved, dull, apathetic, reckless of opinion and of consequences: a tame Canary-bird to kindness, a lioness to injustice and oppression. Nature, with her sympathetic ink, has drawn pictures in her soul, which seem to the cold and careless only pale, frost-work, wintry views; but which, in the warmth of affection, change to glowing summer scenes, with flowers and foliage, and gleaming springs, shifting clouds, and singing birds and butterflies, all of which were always there, and needed only the summer of sympathy and love to draw them out.
By her side sat the man of exhaustless and most whimsical wit, whom she calls the “laughing philosopher,” and whom I strongly suspect of having found, and selfishly concealed the “philosopher’s stone.” He is the most refreshing, contented, and sunshiny-looking mortal that ever smiled in this cold world of ours. Ever ready and brilliant, he whispers his irresistable bon-mots and his charming jeux d’esprit, as if he were ashamed of them, and calls it a breach of confidence if they are repeated aloud.
Next to him sat the stately, intellectual, and warm-hearted Mrs. ——, who, according to her witty neighbour, always looks “up to an epic.” I suppose he will call this a betrayal of confidence; but when these pages meet his eyes, I shall fortunately be far beyond the reach of his cutlass-irony; so spare yourself, till I come back, “most potent, grave, and reverend seignor,” and don’t “waste your satire on the desert air.”
In earnest conversation with the lovely and loveable Mrs. S——, was young ——. His rare and pure intellect; his “Doric delicacy” of taste; his gentle and winning manners; his sensitive, generous, and trustful nature, are best appreciated by those who know him best.