LETTER XC.
GIVING A DEEP INSIGHT OF WOMAN'S NATURE; PRESENTING A POWERFUL POEM OF THE HEART BY ONE OF THE INTELLECTUAL FEMALES OF AMERICA; AND REPORTING THE SIGNAL DISCOMFITURE OF MR. P. GREENE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., April 5th, 1863.
Woman's heart, my boy, in its days of youthful immaturity and vegetabledevelopment, may be felicitously likened unto a delicate cabbage, withan invisible worm feeding upon its sensitive petals. To the eye of theordinary and unfeeling observer, the cabbage is in perfect health, andits intense greenness is thoughtlessly accepted as a sure indication ofan unravaged system. Man, proud man, with all his boasted human wisdom,would smile incredulously, if told that the tender vegetable--themagnified and nervous white rose, as it were--had beneath all itsseeming verdancy, an insatiable and remorseless worm gnawing at itshidden core. Man, I say, would thus wallow in his miserable ignorance,and persist in his disgusting blindness. But mark that dainty littlefigure coming up the garden-walk, my boy. It does not walk erect, likeboastful Man, does not spit tobacco-juice like haughty Man; and as itapproaches nearer, we perceive that it is a hot-house Pig. Ay, my lord:I say to you, in all your glory of human understanding and triflingdegree of snobbishness, it is a Pig. Yes, madam: I remark to you, inyour jewels, and laces, and absurd new bonnet,--it is only a Pig._very_ a Pig! O-O-ONLY a Pig! And why should we say "only" a Pig; asthough a Pig were so _very_ inferior to proud Man? We all accord to theawful and unfathomable German Mind a preternatural gift of philosophy,so far above the contemptibly-limited thing we call human understandingthat no man can ever understand a word of it; and how does that GermanMind express itself when it desires to describe the Vast, theExtensive, and the Somewhat Large? Why, it simply observes "Das is von'PIG' thing." And is not this unaffected remark sufficient, my boy, toraise the wrongfully despised Pig to the dignity of an adjective, atleast? But look once more at the hot-house Pig in question, as hestoops thoughtfully to the cabbage which derisive Man has esteemedperfectly sound. He pushes it once with his nose; he raises his eyes,blinking in the glorious sunshine; his tail vibrates a moment; a solemnwink,--a grunt of deep reflection,--and he _turns to another cabbage_!
Yes! this despised little roasting-pig, this unconsidered Flower, as itwere, has surpassed all the vaunted wisdom of stuck-up Man, anddiscovered the worm at the core of the sensitive cabbage!
Woman's heart, my boy, in its days of youthful immaturity and vegetabledevelopment, is a metaphorical Cabbage with a figurative worm at itspalpitating core. That worm is a passionate yearning for TRUE SYMPATHY.Heartless but wealthy Man comes along, and says: "This Cabbage is inperfect health, and I will Husband it." He _does_ Husband it my boy,and what is the consequence? Not knowing anything about the existenceof the worm, he cannot, of course, furnish that TRUE SYMPATHY which isnecessary to end its horrible gnawings; and so the worm keeps feedinguntil the Cabbage Heart becomes a mere shell, when the least zephyrwill break it. How different the result had that Heart been--or, thatis to say, how changed would the case have been had she--or, in otherwords, what an opposite spectacle might we--or, rather she--if he--ifshe--
Really, my boy, I am all in a cold perspiration; for I find that I musthave made some dreadful mistake in my argument. Hem! There really_must_ be some strange mistake in it, my boy; for I cannot follow itout without making it scandalously appear, that a man, to reallyunderstand a Woman's Heart, must be something of a Pig. This conclusionwould be very insulting to the women of America, and there certainlymust be some mistake about it.
What led me into this philosophical vein of analytical thought was atouching poem of the home affections, which was sent to me for perusalon Monday by one of the intellectual Young Women of America. It is oneof those revelations of Woman's inner-self which move us to tearfulcompassion for a sex doomed to be the victim of man's selfishness andits own too-great sensibilities. The terrible picture of woe is called
"WOMAN'S HEART.[5]
"BY SAIRA NEVERMAIR.
"We went to the world-loved Ball last night,-- Claude and I, in our robes of gold; He in a coat as black as jet, And I in the jewels I wore of old.
"Diamonds covered my head in pounds, Seventy large ones lit my neck,-- Over my skirts they burned in quarts, Counting in all a goodly peck.
"Hopped the canary 'neath the wires,-- Spoke the canary not a word; When to my heart the chill has struck, How can I sing?--can ary bird?
"We were together, Claude and I, Bonded together as man and wife; Little I thought, as I uttered my vows, What was the real Ideal of life.
"He is my Husband to love and obey,-- Those were the words of the priest, I think,-- He is to purchase the clothes I wear, Order my victuals and order my drink!
"Well, it is well if it must be so: Woman the slave and man the lord; She the scissors to cut the threads After the darning, and he the sword.
"Was it for this I played my cards, Tuned the piano's tender din, Cherished a delicate health, and ate Pickles and pencils to make me thin?
"Better it were to be born a serf, Holding a soul by a master's lease; Better than learning Society's law, Gaining a Husband and forfeiting peace.
"Mortimer sighs as he sees me dance, Percy is sad as he passes by, Herbert turns pallid beneath my glance; All of them married--and so am I.
"Well, if the world must have it so, Woman can only stand and endure; Ever the grossness of all that is gross Rises the tyrant of all that is pure.
"Marriage, they say, is a sacred thing; So is the fetter that yields a smart. Give _one_ crumb to the starving wretch, And give _one_ Object to Woman's Heart.
"Claude, they tell me, should own my love; Well, I have loved him nearly a week; Looking at one man longer than that Grows to be tiresome--so to speak.
"What if he calls me Angel wife; Angels are not for the One to win; Yet is my passionate love like theirs,-- Theirs is a love taking all men in.
"Hops the canary 'neath the wires, Speaks the canary not a word; When to my heart the chill has struck, How can I sing?--can ary bird?"
[5] The measure of this striking poem is Owenmeredithyrambic.
Let us mingle our tears, my boy, in a gruel of compassion, as weconjointly reflect upon this affecting revelation of Woman's Heart.
On Thursday last, my architectural steed, the gothic Pegasus, conveyedme once more, by easy stages, to the outskirts of Paris, where I foundthe aged and respectable Mackerel Brigade cleaning their spectacles andwriting their epitaphs preparatory to that celebrated advance upon thewell-known Southern Confederacy which is frequently mentioned inancient history. The Grim Old Fighting Cox, my boy, has rashlydetermined, that the unfavorable weather shall not detain our nationaltroops another single year, and there is at last a prospect that ourgrandchildren may read a full and authentic report of the capture ofRichmond in the reliable morning journals of their time. And here letme say to the grandchild Orpheus: "Be sure, my boy, that you do notpermit your pardonable exultation at the triumph of your country'sarms, to make you too severe upon the conquered foes of the Republic."I put in this little piece of advice to posterity, my boy, because Idesire to have posterity magnanimous.
I was conversing affably with a few official Mackerels about severalmutual friends of ours, who had been born, were married, and hadexpired of decrepitude during the celebrated national sieges ofVicksburg and Charleston, when a civilian chap named Mr. P. Greene cameinto camp from New York, with the intention of proceeding immediatelyto the ruins of Richmond. He was a chap of much spreading dignity, myboy, with a carpet-bag, an umbrella, and a walking-cane.
"Having read," says he, "in all the excellent morning journals, thatRichmond is being hastily evacuated by the starving Confederacy, I havedetermined to precede the military in that direction. Possibly," sayshe, impressively,
"I may be able to find a suitable place in thedeserted city for the residence of my family during the summer."
Captain Villiam Brown listened attentively, and says he:
"Is your intelligence official, or founded on fact?"
The civilian chap drew himself up with much dignity, and says he:
"I find it in all the morning journals."
Certainly this was conclusive, my boy; and yet our supine military menwere willing to let this unadorned civilian chap be the first to enterthe evacuated capital of the stricken Confederacy. Facing toward thatill-fated place, he moved off, his carpet-bag in his left hand, hisumbrella In his right, and his cane under one arm, a perfectimpersonation of the spirit of American Progress. By slow and dignifieddegrees he grew smaller in the distance, until finally he was out ofsight.
It was some six hours after this, my boy, that we were conversing asbefore, when there suddenly appeared, coming toward us from thedirection of the capital of the Confederacy, the figure of a manrunning. Rapidly it drew nearer, when I discovered it to be Mr. P.Greene, in a horrible condition of dishevelment, his umbrella, cane,and carpet-bag gone, his hair standing on end, his coat-tailsprojective in the breeze, and his lower limbs making the best time onrecord. Onward he came, like the wind, and before we could stop him, hehad gone by us, dashed frantically through the camp, and was tearingalong like mad toward Washington.
"Ah!" says Villiam, philosophically, "he derived his information fromthe daily prints of the United States of America, and has seen theelephant. The moral," says Villiam, placidly, "is very obvious,--putnot your trust in print, sirs."
If it be indeed true, that there is "more pleasure in anticipation thanin reality," the war-news we find in our excellent morning journalsshould give us more pleasure than one poor pen can express.
Yours, credulously,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.