The Spinster Book Part 10

In a paper of the _Tatler_, written by Addison or Steele, or possibly by both, is described a party in a country village which is suddenly broken into confusion by the entrance of the s.e.xton of their parish church, fresh from the digging of a grave. The s.e.xton tells the merrymakers how a chance blow of his pickaxe has opened a decayed coffin, in which are discovered several papers.

These are found to be the love letters received by the wife of Sir Thomas Chichley, one of the admirals of King William. Most of the letters were ruined by damp and mould, but "here and there," says the _Tatler_, "a few words such as 'my soul,' 'dearest,' 'roses,' and 'my angel,' still remained legible, resisting the corrupting influence of Time."

One of these letters in a grave, which Lady Chichley had requested might be buried with her in her coffin, was found entire, though discoloured by the lapse of twenty years. Its words were these:

"Madam:

"If you would know the greatness of my love, consider that of your own beauty. That blooming countenance, that snowy bosom, that graceful person, return every moment to my imagination; the brightness of your eyes hindered me from closing mine since I last saw you. You may still add to your beauties by a smile. A frown will make me the most wretched of men, as I am the most pa.s.sionate of lovers."

[Sidenote: The Advertis.e.m.e.nt]

Death is the advertis.e.m.e.nt, at the end of an autobiography, wherein people discover its virtues. The public which refused a bare subsistence to the living genius will make his children comfortable by generously purchasing his letters, which were never meant for them.

The pathetic story of the inner struggle, which would have crucified the sensitive soul were it known to any save his dearest friends, is proudly blazoned forth--in print! Hopes and fears and trials are no longer concealed. Illness, poverty, and despair are given rubricated pages. The sorrowful letter to a friend, asking for five or ten dollars, is reproduced in facsimile.

[Sidenote: The Soldier of the World]

That it shows the human side of the genius is no excuse for the desecration. What of the sunny soul who always sang courage, while he himself was suffering from hope deferred! What of him who wrote in an attic, often hungry for his daily bread, and took care to give the impression of warmth and comfort! Why should his stern necessity be disclosed to the public that would not give him bread in return for his songs? It is enough to make the gallant soldier of the world turn uneasily in his grave.

In this way a bit of the greatness so bravely won is often lost, and sometimes illusions are dispelled which all must regret. For years, we have read with delight Mrs. Browning's exquisite poem beginning:

"I have a name, a little name Uncadenced for the ear."

Throughout the poem there is no disclosure, but, so sure is her art, that there is no sense of loss or wonder. But the pitiless searchlight of the century is turned upon the Browning love letters, and thus we learn that Mrs. Browning's pet name was _Ba_!

Pretty enough, perhaps, when spoken by a lover and a poet, or in shaded nooks, to the music of Italian streams, but quite unsuited to the present, even though it were to be read only by lovers equally fond.

"Though I write books, it will be read Upon the page of none--"

Poor Mrs. Browning! Little did she know!

[Sidenote: With the Future in View]

There have been some, no doubt, who have written with the future in view, though Abelard, who broke a woman's heart, could not have foreseen that his only claims to distinction would rest upon his letters to loving, faithful Heloise. The life which was to be too great for her to share is remembered now only because of her. Mocking Fate has brought the wronged woman an exquisite revenge.

That delightful spendthrift and scapegrace, Richard Steele, has left a large number of whimsical letters, addressed to the lady he married. She might possibly object to their publication, but not Steele! Indeed, she was a foolish woman to keep this letter:

"Dear Prue:

"The afternoon coach will bring you ten pounds. Your letter shows that you are pa.s.sionately in love with me. But we must take our portion of life without repining and I consider that good nature, added to the beautiful form G.o.d has given you, would make our happiness too great for human life. Your most obliged husband and most humble servant,

Rich. Steele."

Alexander Pope was another who wrote for posterity. In spite of his deformity, he appears to have been touched to the heart by women, but vanity and selfishness tinged all of his letters.

[Sidenote: Systematic Lovers]

Robert Burns was a systematic lover of anything in petticoats, and has left such a ma.s.s of amatory correspondence that his biographer was sorely perplexed. There could not have been a pretty maid in the British Isles, to whom chance had been kind, who had not somewhere the usual packet of love letters from "Bobby" Burns.

Laurence Sterne was no less generous with his affection, if the stories are true. At twenty, he fell in love with Elizabeth Lumley, and from his letters to her, one might easily fancy that love was a devastating and hopeless disease. There was a pretty little "Kitty" who claimed his devotion, and countless other affairs, before "Eliza" appeared. "Eliza"

was a married woman and apparently the last love of the heart-scarred Sterne.

[Sidenote: Left by the Dead]

No earthly thing is so nearly immortal as a love letter, and nothing is so sorrowful as those left by the dead. The beautiful body may be dust and all but forgotten, while the work of the loving hands lives on. Even those written by the ancient Egyptians are seemingly imperishable. The clay tablet on which one of the Pharaohs wrote a love letter, asking the hand of a foreign princess, is to-day in the British Museum.

The first time a woman cries after she is married, she reads over all the love letters the other men have written her, for a love letter is something a tender-hearted woman cannot bring herself to destroy.

[Sidenote: The New Child]

The love letters of the man she did not marry still possess lingering interest. The letters of many a successful man of affairs are still hidden in the treasure-box of the woman he loved, but did not marry.

Both have formed other ties and children have risen up to call them blessed, or whatever the children may please, for even more dreadful than the new woman is the new child. Between them, they are likely to produce a new man.

The new child is apt to find the letters and read them aloud to the wrong people, being most successfully unexpected and inopportune. A box of old letters, distributed sparingly at the doors of mutual friends, is the distinguis.h.i.+ng feature of a lovely game called "playing postman."

Social upheavals have occurred from so small a cause as this.

It sometimes happens, too, that when a girl has promised to marry a man and the wedding day is set, she receives from a mutual friend a package of faded letters and a note which runs something like this:

"My Dear:

"Now that my old friend's wedding day is approaching, I feel that I have no longer the right to keep his letters. They are too beautiful and tender to be burned and I have not the heart to make that disposition of them. Were I to return them to him, he would doubtless toss them into the fire, and I cannot bear to have them lost.

"So, after thinking about it for some time, I have concluded to send them to you, who are the rightful keeper of his happiness, as well as of his letters. I trust that you may find a place for these among those which he has addressed to you. Wis.h.i.+ng you all happiness in the future, believe me to be

"Very sincerely and affectionately yours."

[Sidenote: On the Firing Line]

The dainty and appropriate wedding gift is not often shown to the happy man, but every page and every line is carefully read. Now and then the bride-elect advances boldly to the firing line and writes a letter of thanks after this fas.h.i.+on:

"It is very sweet and thoughtful of you, my dear friend, to send me the letters. Of course I shall keep them in with mine, though I have but few, for the dear boy has never been able to leave me for more than a day, since first we met.

"Long before we became engaged, he made me a present of your letters to him, which he said were well worth the reading, and indeed, I have found them so. I shall arrange them according to date and sequence, though I observe that you have written much more often than he--I suppose because we foolish women can never say all we want to in one letter and are compelled to add postscripts, sometimes days apart.

"Believe me, I fully appreciate your wishes for our happiness. I trust you may come to us often and see how your hopes are fulfilled. With many thanks for your loving thought of me, as ever,

Affectionately yours."

[Sidenote: If a Girl is in Love]

If a girl is in love, she carries the last letter inside her s.h.i.+rt-waist in the day time, and puts it under her pillow at night, thereby expecting dreams of the beloved.

But the dispenser of nocturnal visions delights in joking, and though impalpable arms may seem to surround the sleeping spinster and a tender kiss may be imprinted upon her lips, it is not once in seventeen days that the caresses are bestowed by the writer of the letter. It is a politician whose distorted picture has appeared in the evening paper, some man the girl despises, the postman, or worse yet, the tramp who has begged bread at the door.

[Sidenote: When a Man is in Love]

When a man is in love, he carries the girl's last letter in his pocket until he has answered it and has another to take its place. He stoops to no such superst.i.tion as placing it under his pillow. Neither is it read as often as his letters to her.