and holy. Can I be sufficiently grateful for that protecting Providence which saved me from uniting myself with one who might have destroyed my happiness in this life, and perilled that of my soul hereafter? Isa. Did he ever marry, aunt? Aunt S. He did, and broke the heart of a lovely woman, who lies in an untimely grave. Unrestrained by principle, and disappointed in schemes for political distinction, he resorted to gambling for excitement, and intemperance for forgetfulness; he died, and it is not forbidden to weep even over an infidel's grave. These melancholy reminiscences have brought others to my mind, which may serve as warnings to my sanguine Isabella. One of my early friends, much resembling yourself, married a weak-minded, vain man, whose self-love was so much stronger than his love for her, that she has been subjected to continual mortification. Notwithstanding her vivacity and gaiety in youth, she is a highly respectable and talented woman; but her husband everywhere makes himself ridiculous, so that she cannot be very happy, at home or abroad. Isa. Never fear for me, aunt; I detest a fool. Aunt S. But the glare of dress and fashion might blind you as it has done Geraldine. Isa. I confess I was blinded for a short time; but W is not an absolute fool. To be on the safe side, I resolve that I never will marry a fashionable dandy. Aunt S. Poor Amelia Saybury! She was the heiress of our circle. Her embroidered satins, her splendid muff and tippet, and, more than all, her beautiful set of pearls; what envy they excited! She married a man whose fortune, added to her own, seemed inexhaustible. They were excessively extravagant, and squandered it all; and now, as he has no profession, nor any kind of business, it is difficult to conceive how they are supported. It is said they are reduced to the most distressing poverty. Isa. But you would not infer from this, that every man should have a profession or employment. Aunt S. Even a man of wealth will never be the worse of having mastered some useful occupation; not that he may increase his wealth, but to render him more independent, useful to the world, and more prepared for the vicissitudes which all have reason to apprehend. Isa. I never will marry an old curmudgeon, who would grudge me every shilling. Indeed, I would not marry an old man, whatever might be his rank, talents, or wealth. Aunt S. Even at the risk of being that despised creature, an old maid! Isa. That does not alarm me at all. Who is more beloved than aunt Susan? And you surely are infinitely more happy than any of your companions who married. Aunt S. You speak extravagantly, Isabella. I am more contented and cheerful than many of my married friends; but I know some, who are united to men of sense and worth, who enjoy that assistance in life's rough journey, and that protection and guidance, which are very important to our feeble, timid sex. I would not have you suppose, my dear, that I undervalue what I do not possess. Isa. There is one frightful fault that you have not mentioned a violent temper. I was once visiting at a house where every one stood in dread of the tyrannical master. His poor wife trembled when she heard his step upon the threshold; the children ran and hid themselves; and the servant who opened the door durst not look within a yard of his countenance. When he entered the room where we were sitting, the poor woman cast a furtive glance to know what mood he was in, and when she saw the flush and frown upon his face, she grew pale, but endeavoured to smile. Such a lugubrious smile! I have heard of the smile of a milestone; hers looked more like the smile of a gravestone. I resolved then, that I would keep out of the way of such torments. Aunt S. But even worse than the temper you have described, is the sullen, dogged, morose disposition that never breaks out into sunshine. You may sometimes expect generosity from the passionate man, and occasionally good humour; but in this case, you have only dull, sluggish indifference, however much you may need sympathy and kindness. Isa. Well, aunt, there are as many obstacles in the way of matrimony as the damsel found who went for the talking bird, singing tree, and golden water. Aunt S. And I cannot tell you of any enchantress's spell against them. Prudence and principle, two very serviceable handmaidens, may guard you on the right and left, and yet you may not escape all evils. Isa. I fear I should make but a fickle diplomatist. The moment I discovered any odious trait in a man's character, I should say, "Excuse me, sir," and be off. Aunt S. Be careful, then, how you enter into such an engagement. To break fealty without the most urgent reasons, proves either contemptible weakness of mind, heartlessness, want of delicate sensibility, or obtuseness of moral feeling. I hope, Isabella, you will not be so dishonourable nor so unprincipled. Isa. Do not speak so seriously. I believe the best way is not to trouble myself about the matter. Aunt S. You are right; and think as little about it, too, as possible. Make yourself worthy of love, and you will be contented in any situation. You have now to set yourself earnestly about improving your own character, lest you bring some of the evils upon another which you wish to avoid yourself. Isa. Well, with the terror of bad husbands before my eyes, I shall, at least, not marry without the consent of my father, and the approbation of my prudent aunt. Let me see (holding up her fingers and counting upon them), I have predetermined not to marry-First, the infidel. Secondly, the immoral man. Thirdly, the silly Narcissus, who would make me blush for him every moment. Fourthly, the old man, rich or poor. Fifthly, the old-no, the young curmudgeon, for there are misers young and old; and the young will grow worse and worse every year, till he will out-Elwes Elwes, so I'll none of him. Sixthly, the extravagant idle man, who will soon be at his money's end and his wit's end. Seventhly, the passionate tyrant. Eighthly, the morose, sour creature, who would turn the cream in my coffee by looking at it. Ninthly-have I counted all? Do give me a ninth and a tenth to make up the decalogue. I know there are a dozen more that would come upon the proscribed list, if I could only remember them. Aunt S. Do not puzzle yourself, child, to muster any more. You will think me prejudiced, perhaps, in favour of my own condition, because I seem to you so happy. It is not so. As I look toward the downhill of life, it is a melancholy thought that I am alone, that I do not hold the first place in any human heart. Isa. (fondly embracing her). But you have the love of everybody, dear aunt Susan, and a home wherever you are; next to my father, I love you better than anybody in the wide world. CHAPTER XXVI. THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. "I'm weary of the crowded ball; I'm weary of the mirth WHITTIER. IF a claim be made upon the purse or the real estate of any one, immediately the questions are asked, What right has the person to make this claim? What is the extent of it? It must be defined precisely, and established legally, before it will be allowed. "The claims of society" is a phrase that is iterated and reiterated, and everybody, excepting only the misanthrope and the anchorite, acknowledges that it has a great deal of meaning; while it is extremely difficult to decide the extent of those claims, differing, as they do, in almost every individual case. Then what do we mean by society? Not our own family circle, the very heart's core; nor the next circle, consisting of kindred and intimate friends; nor still the next, which may be termed the circle of benevolence; but the outer circle, widening and still widening, till lost in the vanishing distance. And this, at first sight, seems terra incognita; yet its geography and topography are tolerably well understood, although the boundary-lines are not quite settled, and remain the subject of contention and animosity. Every town and village is thus divided into sets, determined chiefly by the station, intelligence, wealth, and fashion of their members; and my lady-reader will doubtless think it quite superfluous to have taken all this pains to come at the simple fact, that "the claims of society" are the rightful demands of the class to which she belongs, and the strangers who may be introduced to that set. Besides general benevolence and good-will, she does not acknowledge any claims from other classes, sets, or coteries. In town, what are the claims of the set or circle denominated society? Bowing in the street and at public places, making ceremonious calls, giving and attending dinner and evening parties. In the country they are much the same; for each little country town and village seems learning to ape, to the full extent of its ability, the manners and customs of the capital. It has often been said that the character of a nation can be determined by its amusements; by this criterion individual character can be ascertained with satisfactory precision. Custom reconciles to the greatest absurdities, and even the most revolting cruelties. By way of amusement, the Roman women could watch with intense interest the sanguine gladiatorial exhibition, and behold the infuriated wild beast let loose upon the miserable captive, and tear in pieces the holy martyr. The ladies of Christian Europe, in the boasted days of chivalry, could look with joyous delight upon the tournament, where the gallant knight |