XIII. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO EMILY GRAHAM.
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y dearest Niece, I'm charm'd to hearThe scenery's fine at Windermere,And glad a six-weeks' wife defersIn the least to wisdom not yet hers.But, Child, I've no advice to give!Rules only make it hard to live.And where's the good of having beenWell taught from seven to seventeen,If, married, you may not leave off,And say, at last, 'I'm good enough!'Weeding out folly, still leave some.It gives both lightness and _aplomb_.We know, however wise by rule,Woman is still by nature fool;And men have sense to like her allThe more when she is natural.'Tis true, that if we choose, we canMock to a miracle the man;But iron in the fire red hot,Though 'tis the heat, the fire 'tis not:And who, for such a feint, would pledgeThe babe's and woman's privilege,No duties and a thousand rights?Besides, defect love's flow incites,As water in a well will runOnly the while 'tis drawn upon.'Point de culte sans mystere,' you say,'And what if that should die away?'Child, never fear that either couldPull from Saint Cupid's face the hood.The follies natural to eachSurpass the other's moral reach.Just think how men, with sword and gun,Will really fight, and never run;And all in sport: they would have died,For sixpence more, on the other side!A woman's heart must ever warmAt such odd ways: and so we charmBy strangeness which, the more they mark,The more men get into the dark.The marvel, by familiar life,Grows, and attaches to the wifeBy whom it grows. Thus, silly Girl,To John you'll always be the pearlIn the oyster of the universe;And, though in time he'll treat you worse,He'll love you more, you need not doubt,And never, never find you out!My Dear, I know that dreadful thoughtThat you've been kinder than you ought.It almost makes you hate him! Yet'Tis wonderful how men forget,And how a merciful ProvidenceDeprives our husbands of all senseOf kindness past, and makes them deemWe always were what now we seem.For their own good we must, you knowHowever plain the way we go,Still make it strange with stratagem;And instinct tells us that, to them,'Tis always right to bate their price.Yet I must say they're rather nice,And, oh, so easily taken inTo cheat them almost seems a sin!And, Dearest, 'twould be most unfairTo John your feelings to compareWith his, or any man's; for sheWho loves at all loves always; he,Who loves far more, loves yet by fits,And, when the wayward wind remitsTo blow, his feelings faint and dropLike forge-flames when the bellows stop.Such things don't trouble you at allWhen once you know they're natural.My love to John; and, pray, my Dear,Don't let me see you for a year;Unless, indeed, ere then you've learn'dThat Beauties wed are blossoms turn'dTo unripe codlings, meant to dwellIn modest shadow hidden well,Till this green stage again permuteTo glow of flowers with good of fruit.I will not have my patience triedBy your absurd new-married pride,That scorns the world's slow-gather'd senseTies up the hands of Providence,Rules babes, before there's hope of one,Better than mothers e'er have done,And, for your poor particular,Neglects delights and graces farBeyond your crude and thin conceit.Age has romance almost as sweetAnd much more generous than thisOf yours and John's. With all the blissOf the evenings when you coo'd with himAnd upset home for your sole whim,You might have envied, were you wise,The tears within your Mother's eyes,Which, I dare say, you did not see.But let that pass! Yours yet will be,I hope, as happy, kind, and trueAs lives which now seem void to you.Have you not seen shop-painters pasteTheir gold in sheets, then rub to wasteFull half, and, lo, you read the name?Well, Time, my Dear, does much the sameWith this unmeaning glare of love.But, though you yet may much improve,In marriage, be it still confess'd,There's little merit at the best.Some half-a-dozen lives, indeed,Which else would not have had the need,Get food and nurture as the priceOf antedated Paradise;But what's that to the varied wantSuccour'd by Mary, your dear Aunt,Who put the bridal crown thrice by,For that of which virginity,So used, has hope? She sends her love,As usual with a proof thereof--Papa's discourse, which you, no doubt,Heard none of, neatly copied outWhilst we were dancing. All are well,Adieu, for there's the Luncheon Bell.
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