To me
It must suffice only to say, ’tis she.
Beaumont & Fletcher.
“Here I am again, dear Miss Enna,” said my darling, pretty friend, Kate Wilson, to me the other morning.
I have already introduced Kate to you, dear reader; and if you had looked into the deep wells of her beaming, bright eye as often as I have, and heard the rich, gushing music of her laugh, you would hail her approach, even though she did plunge unceremoniously into your sanctum, and interrupt you in your studies, or your deep divings into your imagination for something particularly clever, out of which to form a “readable story” for “Mr. Graham’s next Monthly.”
I felt a little annoyed, I must admit, on the morning in question, for I was very earnestly engaged—not in writing, dear reader; oh, no! I spared you that one morning—but in looking over an old writing-desk, that I had not opened for years. It was one that belonged to my mother; and one part I had devoted to her treasured gifts, in the other, for it is a large, capacious, old-fashioned affair, not at all like the little rosewood, mother-of-pearl inlaid thing which has usurped its place on my writing-table; in the other part I have stored gifts, letters, and remembrances of my school-girl days; and this part I was exploring as Kate entered. I had just been sighing over a package, containing letters, a bracelet of hair, and a faded bunch of flowers—mementoes of a dear friend, long since laid in the cold grave, and was almost weeping over remembrances of the past. To me that is the only sad thing in growing old. If those we love could only live to cheer and comfort us, old age would have no terrors. A single woman feels this particularly; for if a woman marries, she forms new connections, and looks forward to a new life, and new interests, in the future of her children; but “we poor old maids” are oftentimes very lonely.
Brothers and sisters, and dear friends, will marry; and however pretty, fascinating, and agreeable a woman may have been, there comes a time when the little decided opinions and caprices that were deemed so pretty and cunning at eighteen, are pronounced by the saucy new-comers on life’s stage, “prim, old-maidish whimsicalities;” and even the fathers and mothers, who had formerly considered this same dear, single friend, the realization of womanly perfection when she was the belle of their young days, they also are often found, coinciding with their children in these saucy opinions. Now, members of my dear sisterhood, let me give you a little advice. True, I am but a new comer amongst you. I know I have not yet seen fifty summers—I only own to thirty-five, and scarcely to that, excepting when in company with those well “booked-up” on the subject of my age—I have no gray hairs or wrinkles, and yet I have experience; and my single-blessedness bids fair to be a happy state. Seek companions amongst the young. I do not mean for you to affect juvenile manners. Oh, heaven forbid! a youthful old-maid is, in truth, ridiculous. But mingle with the young; sympathize with them; cultivate their friendship and love; make your presence a sunshine to them; be to them a friend, a confidant, and an adviser. Keep your feelings, your heart, your spirit young—your mind, by pleasant, but regular study, in a healthful state; in this way you will secure happiness. Then, to escape ridicule—ah! that is the hardest task of all—admit your age; it is the only safe way, believe me. Walk up to the cannon’s mouth boldly. Show them you do not care any thing about it, and the saucy opinions and laughs of these young ones will be averted; and depend upon it they will flutter around you, love you, and almost imagine you still retain the youthful charms and agreeability with which your cotemporaries so kindly invested you. I have found this plan successful, and have surrounded myself with a troop of young things. With one who is a fanatic, a pretty devotee to the divine study of sweet sounds, I practice music; and instead of falling back upon the “music of my day,” I find beauties in the music of her day. Mozart, Hayden, and Beethoven, Steibell, Clementi, and Dessek, are now banished from my music-stand, and only cheer my solitary hours, to make way for Bellini, Donizetti, and Auber, Thalberg, Herz, and Litz. With another, a gentle, little, imaginative creature, whose transparent cheek, and brilliant eye, warns us she is not long to dwell with us, I read old poets. But of all my youthful friends, there is not one among them who loves me better, or who is more companionable to me, than dear Kate Wilson. I have known her from her babyhood. I knew her mother before Kate was born; true, I was a tiny girl when Kate’s mother was married. She is a beautiful, rich belle, “petted, fêted, courted, and caressed;” and yet she daily comes to her “dear Miss Enna,” as she calls me, as she did in her little girl days, and cheers many an hour that would otherwise be lonely. I find myself forgetting, when with her, as she so flatteringly does, that I am no longer young; and I very much fear Kate makes me a little too youthful in dress; but the darling, bewitching creature, has such a saucy, decided way with her, that I always yield to her wishes.
“What are you at?” she asked, as she closed the door; “looking over an old writing-desk, as I live. What piles of letters and old things—that is, indeed, delightful. Stores of love-letters, I’ll wager a bright, golden guinea. Come, let me help you toss it over, and tell me the love-history of each discarded one.”
Saucy girl! her mind seems only filled with lovers. But she would have her way, and the whole day passed in this occupation. She boldly untied each package, and resolutely determined I should tell her the little history appended to each in my memory. The one I held in my hand when she entered, was first taken up; and we both shed tears over the sad story it recalled of friendship, love, and a broken-heart. It is too sad a tale for me to relate to you now, dear reader, for I am not in the tearful mood. Some gloomy, “gray” day, as Kate says, I will again recall it, and see if you will sympathize with the past as did dear Kate Wilson. I have digressed so much already, that I will take up one of the smallest packages now, and relate to you the history of my school-girl friend, Lolah Lalande, as she was called then. Her name is now more famous; but I will keep that a secret until I arrive at the end of my story. It was a small packet, containing only a few French letters, a tress of long, glossy black hair, and a crayon sketch of a childish figure in Spanish costume, and in one of the attitudes of a Spanish national dance. It had a beautiful, girlish face, clear, dark eyes—long, sweeping hair—arched, delicately formed brows—and rich, full lips. That face has turned the head of a monarch, it is said—but I will not anticipate.
“Tell me this, dear Miss Enna,” said Kate, as she looked at the contents of the package. “It could not have been a friendship of long standing—so little remains of it; therefore you will only have a tiny, little story for me, and I will not teaze you again until—to-morrow, or the next gray, rainy day.”