Democratic Sentinel, Volume 4, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 June 1880 — FOUR OLD MAIDS. [ARTICLE]

FOUR OLD MAIDS.

I love an old maid—l do not .speak of an individual, but of the species—l use the singular number, as speaking of a singularity in humanity. An old maid is not merely an antiquary, she is tin antiquity; not merely a record of the past, but the very past itself ; she has eseaped a great change, and sympathizes not in the ordinary mutations of mortality. She inhabits a little eternity of her own. She is miss from the beginning of the chapter to tile end. Ido not like to hear her called mistress, as is sometimes the practice, for that looks and sounds like the resignation of despair, a voluntary extinction of hope. 1 do not know whether marriages are made in heaven ; some people say they are. but I am almost sure that old maids are. There is something about them that is not of the earth earthy. They arc spectators of the world, not adventurers, not ramblers; perhaps guardians; we say nothing of tattlers. They are, evidently, predestined to be what they are. They owe not the singularity of tlieir condition to any lack of beauty, wisdom, wit or good temper; there is no accounting for it but on the principle of fatality. I have known many old maids, and of them all not one that has not possessed as many good and amiable qualities, as ninety ami nine out of 100 of my ma ried acquaintance. Why, then, are they single? It is tlieir fate ! Ou the left hand .of the road between London and Liverpool there is a village which, for particular reasons, I shall call Littleton, and will not so far gratify the curiosity of idle inquirers as to say whether it is nearer to London or to Liverpool; but it is a very pretty village, ami let the reader keep a sharp lookout for it the next time he travels that road. It is situated in a valley, through which runs a tiny rivulet as bright as silver, but hardly'wide enough for a trout to turn round in. Over the little stream there is a bridge, which seems to have been built merely out of compliment to the liquid thread, to save it the mortification of being hopped over by every urchin and clodpole in the parish. The church is covered with ivy, even halfway up the steeple, but the sexton has removed the green intrusion from the, face of the clock, which, with its white surface and black figures, looks at a distance like an owl in an ivy bush. A little to the left “of the church is the parsonage house, almost smothered with honeysuckles ; in front of the house is a grass plot, and up to the door there is what is called a carriage drive ; but I never saw a carriage drive up there, for it is so steep that it would require six horses to pull the carriage up, and there is not room enough for more than one. Somewhat farther up the hill, which bounds the little valley where the village stands, there is a cottage; the inhabitants of Littleton call it the white cottage. It is merely a small, whitewashed house, but as it is occupied by a genteelish sort of people, who cannot afford a large house, it is generally called a cottage. All these beautiful and picturesque objects, and a great many more which I have not described, h ive lost with me their interest. It would make me melancholy to go into that church. The interest which I had in the parsonage house was transferred to the white cottige, and the interest which I had in the white cottage is now removed to the church-yard, and the interest is in four graves that lie parallel to each other, with headstones of nearly one date. In these four graves lie the remains of four old maids. Poor things! their remains ! Alack, alack, there was not much that remained of them! There w>s hut little left of them to bury. The bearers had but little work. I wondered why they should have four separate graves, and four distinct tombstones. The sexton told me that it was their particular desire, in order to make the church-yard look respectable.; and they left behind them just sufficient money to pay the undertakers bills and to erect four gravestones I saw these ladies twice, and that at an interval of thirty years.. I made one more attempt to see them, and I was more grieved than I could have anticipated when the neighbors showed me their newly-closed graves. But no one long pities the dead, and I was, after a while, glad that they had not been long separated. I saw these ladies twice, I said ; and the first time that I saw them the only doubt was which of the four would be first married. I should have fallen in love with one of them myself—l do not know which—but I understood that they were all four more or less engaged. They were all pretty, they were all sensible, they were all good-humored, and they knew the world, for they had all read Rollin’s “Ancient History.” They iiot only had admirers, but two of them even then had serious suitors. The

whole village of Littleton and many villages in the neighborhood rang with the praise of the accomplished and agreeable daughters of the rector ; nor were the young ladies dependent for their hopes of husbands merely on their good qualities-; they had the reputation of wealth, which reputation, I am constrained to say, was rather a bubble. The rectory of Littleton was said to tie worth £I,OOO a year—but it never produced more than £OOO. And the worthy rector was said to lie worth £IO,OOO or £12,000. Bless him !he ought to be worth that and a great deal more, but he never possessed so much ; the utmost of his private fortune was £1,500 in the 3 per cents. It is enough to designate the ladies by their Christian mimes. Their good father used to boast that his daughters had really Christian names. The eldest was Mary, the second Martha, the third Anna and the youngest Elizabeth. The eldest was, when I first knew them, actually < ngaged to a young gentleman who had just taken a wrangler’s degree at Cambridge, and had gained a prize for a Greek epigram. Such an effort of genius seemed next to miraculous sit Littleton, for the people of the village never gain prizes for Greek epigrams. The farmers who had heard of his success used to stare at him for a prodigy, and almost wondered that he should walk on two legs, and eat mutton, and say “How do you do?” like the rest of the world. And everybody said he was such a nice man. He never skipped irreverently over the river, as some young men of his age would do, but always went over the bridge. It was edifying to see how gracefully he handed the young ladies over the said bridge, Mary always the last, though she was the eldest. The young Squire of the parish was generally considered as the suitor of the second. The third had many admirers; she was what is called a showy young woman, having a little of the theatrical in her style. She was eloquent, lively and attitudinizing. SJie had a most beautiful voice, and her good papa used to say: “My dear Anna, the sound of your voice is very delightful, and it doe ; me good to hear you sing to your own harpsichord, but I wish I could hear you sing at church.” Poor man ; he did not consider that there was no possibility of hearing any other voice while that of the parish clerk w;is dinging in his ears. Elizabeth, the youngest, was decidedly the prettiest of the four ; sentimentality was her forte, or, more properly speaking, her foible. She sighed much herself, and was the cause of sighing to others. I little thought when I first saw them that I beheld a nest of predestined old maids ; but it was so, and the next time that I saw them they were all living together, spinsters. How I was occupied the next thirty years would be tedious to relate, therefore I pass over that period and come again to Littleton.

Time is like a mischievous urchin that plays sad tricks in our absence, and so disarranges things and persons, too, that when we come back again we hardly know where to find them. When I made my second visit to Littleton, the good old rector had been several y«ars in his grave; and, when I asked after his daughters, I was told that they were living, and were together, and that they occupied the white cottage. I was rather pleased to hear that they were single, though I was surprised at the information. I knew that I should be well received ; that I should not find all their old affections alienated by new ties. I knew that ] should not have to encounter the haughty and interrogatory eyes of husbands; that 1 should not be under the necessity of accommodating myself to new manners. I had, indeed, some difficulty in making myself known, and still more difficulty in distinguishing the ladies, the one from the other, and connecting their present with their past appearance ; for Anna’s attitudinizing days were over, and Elizabeth had ceased to sigh. But, when the recognition had taken place, we were exceedingly glad to see each other, and we all talked together about everybody and everything at once.

My call at the white cottage was at the latter end of August. The weather was line, but there had recently been much rain, and there were some very heavy clouds, and some little growling of the wind, like the aspect andtoneof an angry schoolmaster, who had just given a boy a sound thrashing, and looks as if he were half inclined to give him some more. The cottage was very small, very neat, very light. There was one parlor, and that was a very pretty one. A small carpet covered the middle of the room; a worked fire screen stood in one corner ; a piece of needlework, representing Abraham going to sacrifice Isaac, hung opposite the door; shells, sea weed and old china stood on the man-tel-piece ; an old harpsichord in a black mahogany ease stretched its leviathan length along one side of the room ; six exceedingly heavy and clumsily-carved mahogany (-hairs, with high backs, short legs and broad, square, flat seats, any one of which might have accommodated all four sisters at once, according to their mode of sitting, stood around the room; these chairs, I recollect, had been m the dining-room at the rectory, but then there was a great lubberly cub of a footman to lug them about. The fire-place was particularly m at. It had an old brass fender, polished up to the semblance of gold, delineating in its pattern divers birds and beasts, the like of which never entered Noah’s ark, but they had a right to go in by sevens, for they were as clean as a penny. The poker looked like a toothpick, the shovel like an old-fash-ioned salt spoon, and the tongs like a pair of tweezers. The little black stove shone with an icy coldness, as if the maid had been scrubbing it all the morning to' keep herself warm; and the cut paper was arranged over the vacant bars with a cruel exactitude that gave no hopes of fire. The ladies themselves looked as old as the fire-place; and I could hardly help thinking that a stove without a fire, at the cold end of August, looked something like an old maid. The ladies, however, were very chatty; they all spoke together—or nearly so ; for when one began the others went on, one after another, in the way and after the manner of a catch, or, more accurately’ speaking, perhaps somewhat in the similitude of a fugue. They talked very loud and sat very upright, -which last circumstance I should have thought very conducive to health, but they were not healthy; the fact is, they lived too sparingly, for their father hail left much less than had been expected, and they were obliged to keep up appearances, as they still visited the first families in the neighborhood. By living together they bad very much assimilated in manners'; they all had the same sharp, shrill voice, and the same short, snappy, not snappish, manner of speaking.

When I called on them I had not dined, but I supposed they had, for they asked me to stay and drink tea with them ; though I should have preferred dinner to tea, yet for the sjike of such old acquaintance I was content to let that pass. They pressed me very much to take a glass of wine, and I yielded—but afterward repented it. Single elderly ladies are very much imposed on in the article of wine ; ill-luck to those who cheat them ! Then we had tea. I know the old cups and saucers again, and the little silver cream-jug, and the sugartongs, made like a pair of scissors ; I was glad to see the tea-urn, for it helped to warm the room. The tea made us quite communicative ; not that it was strong enough to intoxicate; quite the contrary, it was rather weak. I should also have beeij glad of some more bread and butter,' but they landed me the last piece, and T could hot think

of taking it, so it went into the kitchen for the maid, and I did not grudge it her, for she seemed, by die way, to be not much better fed than her mistresses. She was a neat, respectable young woman. After tea we talked again about old times, and I gaye several broad , hints and intimations that I should like to hear their respective histories ; in other words, I wished to know how it was that they had all remained single ; for the history of an old maid is the narrative of her escapes from matrimony. My intimation was well received, and my implied request was complied with. Mary, as the eldest, commenced: “ I believe you remember my friend, Mr. M ?” “ I do so, and is he living ? ” “ He is, and still single.” I smiled and said, “Indeed!” The lady smiled not. “ Yes,” continued the narrator, “ho is still living and still single. I have occasionally seen him, but very seldom of late years. You remember, I dare say, what a cheerful companion he was, and how very polite. He was quite of the old school, but that was only as regarded his external manners. In his opinion he partook too much of the new school. He was one of the Liberal party at Cambridge: and, though he was generally a very serious and good man, he perplexed his head with some strange notions, and, when the time came that he should take orders, he declined doing so, on account of some objections he had to some of the Thirtynine Articles. Some people have gone so far as to say that he was no better than a Soeiuian, though I do not believe he was ever so bad as that. Still, however, it would never do for the daughter of a clergyman to marry a man who had’ any doubt concerning any of the Thirty-nine Articles. We did all in our power to convince him that he was wrong, and he did all in his power to convince us that he was right; but it was all to no purpose. Indeed, he seemed to consider himself a kind of martyr, only because we talked to him. He argued most ingeniously that exact conformity of opinion was not essential to happiness. But I cculd not think it correct to marry a man who had any doubts concerning the ai'ticles ; for, as my father very justly observed, when a man once begins to doubt it is impossible to say where it will end. And so the matter went on from year to year, and so it remains still, and so it is likely to the end of the chapter. I will never give up the Thirty-nine Articles.” All the sisters said that she was perfectly right; and then Martha told her story, saying: “It was just about the time that you were visiting Littleton that Mr. B who had long paid me very particular attention, made me an offer. Mr. B—— was not a man of

first-rate talents, though he did not want for understanding ; he was also tolerably good-humored, though occasionally subject to fits of violence. His father,' however, most strenuously objected to the match, and from being on friendly terms with us he suddenly dropped our acquaintance, and almost persecuted us. My father was a man of high spirit, and coulcl not patiently brook the insult he received, and I have every reason to believe that thereby his days* were shortened. In proportion, however, as the elder Mr. B opposed our union, the affection of the younger seemed to increase, and he absolutely proposed a marriage m Scotland, but my father would never allow a daughter of his to bo married otherwise than by the rites of the Church of England. At length old Mr. B died, aild then it was thought that we should be married ; but it was necessary to wait a decent time after the old gentleman’s death, in which interval the young Squire, whose attentions had diminished of late, went to London, where ho married a widow with a fortune. They arc now living separately. ” “You were faithful to your first loves,” I observed. “But I,” said Anna, “have a different story to tell. Iliad four offers before I was 19 years of age; and I thought that I was exercising great judgment and discrimination in endeavoring to decide which was most worthy of my choice; so I walked and talked and sang and played and criticised with all in their turn; and, before I could make up my mind which to choose, I lostjhem all, and gained the charactenqfii flirt. It seems very unfortunate that we are placed under the necessity of making that decision which must influence our whole destiny for life at that very period when we least know what life is.”

“It is expedient,” said I, “to entertain several lovers at once.” “I found it expedient,” said Elizabeth, “to entertain several lovers in succession. My first lover won my heart by flute-playing. He was a Lieutenant in the navy, visiting in the neighborhood. My father disapproved the connection, but I said that I would not live without him, and so a consent was extorted ; but, alas ! my flute-player’s ship was ordered to the West Indies, and I heard of him no more. My next lover, who succeeded to the first rather too soon in the opinion of some people, was a radical man, and for a marriage -with him a reluctant consent was obtained from my father ; but before matters could be arranged it was found that his business did not answer, and he departed. Another succeeded to the business, and also to my affections, and a third reluctant consent was extorted, but, when the young gentleman found that the report of my father’s wealth had been much exaggerated, he departed also; and in time I grew accustomed to these disappointments, and bore them better than I expected. I might, perhaps, have had a husband, if I could have lived without a lover. ” So ended their sad stories ; and after tea we walked into garden. It was a small garden, with four sides and a circular center, so small that, as we walked round we were like the names in a round-robin, it was difficult to say which was first. I shook hands with them at parting gently, for fear of hurting them, for their fingers were long, cold and fleshless. The next time I traveled that way they were all in their graves, and not much colder than when I saw them at the cottage.