XIII. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO EMILY GRAHAM.

My dearest Niece, I'm charm'd to hear

The scenery's fine at Windermere,

And glad a six-weeks’ wife defers

In 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 been

Well 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 all

The more when she is natural.

‘ Tis true, that if we choose, we can

Mock 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 pledge

The babe's and woman's privilege,

No duties and a thousand rights?

Besides, defect love's flow incites,

As water in a well will run

Only the while‘ tis drawn upon.

‘ Point de culte sans mystere,’ you say,

‘ And what if that should die away?’

Child, never fear that either could

Pull from Saint Cupid's face the hood.

The follies natural to each

Surpass 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 warm

At such odd ways: and so we charm

By strangeness which, the more they mark,

The more men get into the dark.

The marvel, by familiar life,

Grows, and attaches to the wife

By whom it grows. Thus, silly Girl,

To John you'll always be the pearl

In 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 thought

That you've been kinder than you ought.

It almost makes you hate him! Yet

‘ Tis wonderful how men forget,

And how a merciful Providence

Deprives our husbands of all sense

Of kindness past, and makes them deem

We always were what now we seem.

For their own good we must, you know

However 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 in

To cheat them almost seems a sin!

And, Dearest,‘ twould be most unfair

To John your feelings to compare

With his, or any man's; for she

Who loves at all loves always; he,

Who loves far more, loves yet by fits,

And, when the wayward wind remits

To blow, his feelings faint and drop

Like forge-flames when the bellows stop.

Such things do n't trouble you at all

When once you know they're natural.

My love to John; and, pray, my Dear,

Do n't let me see you for a year;

Unless, indeed, ere then you've learn'd

That Beauties wed are blossoms turn'd

To unripe codlings, meant to dwell

In modest shadow hidden well,

Till this green stage again permute

To glow of flowers with good of fruit.

I will not have my patience tried

By your absurd new-married pride,

That scorns the world's slow-gather'd sense

Ties 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 far

Beyond your crude and thin conceit.

Age has romance almost as sweet

And much more generous than this

Of yours and John's. With all the bliss

Of the evenings when you coo'd with him

And 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 true

As lives which now seem void to you.

Have you not seen shop-painters paste

Their gold in sheets, then rub to waste

Full half, and, lo, you read the name?

Well, Time, my Dear, does much the same

With 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 price

Of antedated Paradise;

But what's that to the varied want

Succour'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 out

Whilst we were dancing. All are well,

Adieu, for there's the Luncheon Bell.