LETTERS FROM MISS LUCY LEE TO MRS. KATE KING.

Cincinnati, Ohio, June 4.

Dear Kate,—Here we are, all safe and sound. Mother has arranged her furniture, and set her new house in order. Father has entered on the duties of his office, and I am fast forming a circle of elegant acquaintances. I fancy we shall be very happy in this fine city. Father and mother seem delighted with every thing; and as I brought my whole heart with me, I shall have no cause for home-sickness. Some very wise people have said that I am destitute of a heart, but I do not put any faith in such sayings; and yet a heart is no very desirable possession, if one may be allowed to judge from what one sees of its demonstrations—it invariably makes a woman a fool, and a man ridiculous. For instance, there is Harry Brown, who was moping, and sighing, and rhyming, on my account, during the last six months of my stay in our dear native city—did he not make himself supremely ridiculous? I could laugh at his folly, but for a feeling of contempt, that turns mirth to bitterness. I received yesterday a dolorous letter from aunt Alice, accusing me of having broken his heart, and rendered him miserable for life, and all that. But, dear Kate, I don’t believe in broken-hearts. There was Fred Gay, who used to “worship” me, when I was a baby of fourteen. I do not know why it was, but I felt an insuperable aversion to him. I was miserable in his company, and my very hand shrunk instinctively from his touch; yet as he visited at our house, common politeness obliged me to treat him civilly, which was all the encouragement I ever gave him. At length he found opportunity to propose. I, of course, rejected him at once; but he was resolved not to take no for his answer, he pleaded, and promised, and lamented, and wept, and said he was undone forever, and took the most solemn oath that he would never, never marry any other woman living. Well, I did pity him very much, but I could not say him yes; yet I wept myself sick on his account, and was verily afraid that I had done wrong. So I made a confidant of my dear mother, and she said to me, you have done right, Lucy; never marry a man whom you do not love. Still I was troubled, and felt that if he was, indeed, undone, I should never know happiness. Well, what followed? Why, in less than a year, he married that old, ugly, ill-natured, Ann Bear; and I had the consolation of knowing that such a woman had consoled him for my loss. Next came Charles Grant. I did like Charley; but after a while I heard that he said he would win me if possible, but if he could not get me, there was one he could have. So, on inquiry, I found that he had been paying very particular attentions to Miss May for a long time, and that they were said to be engaged. I told him what I had heard. He denied any affection for her, said he had given no occasion for such reports, either to her or others, and protested all manner of fine things to me. However, I did not credit his avowals, and dismissed him; and, lo! in three weeks he became the husband of Miss May. This affair also gave me much pain. Then there was Robert Austin; I did think that he would win me. I had a real regard for him, but one evening as we sat together, he playfully bade me kiss him. I refused. He insisted earnestly that I should do it. I told him seriously that I would never kiss any man except my husband. Instead of respecting this resolve, he became the more importunate. I still refused, and at length he told me, in a pet, that such stubbornness was a lovely sample of my disposition. I was hurt and offended—and so we parted. He huffed a long time; and when he thought that he had punished me sufficiently, he came and asked me, in the most smiling and affectionate manner, if I would not give him a right to that exclusive kiss. But I had seen too much of his tyrannical nature to put my neck into his yoke; so I was forced to endure his lamentations and reproaches. By this time I was branded a coquette. Now, Kate, was not that unjust? Should I have married Fred, disliking him as I did? If I had been as weak as many such young girls are, and sacrificed myself out of pity to him, should we not both have been inevitably miserable? And what would have shielded my heart in after years from that sympathy with a congenial mind, which, under such circumstances, might have led to guilt and ruin? When I permitted the attentions of Charles Grant, I did not know that I was allowing him to wrong one to whom his faith was plighted, if not by word, by the stronger language of actions. Yet if I had become his wife, the voice of the world would have laid the blame on me, and Ellen May would have cursed me as a traitor. I did sincerely purpose to become Mrs. Robert Austin, but he gave me a specimen of his temper too soon for his own peace; for it does seem that he is still unhappy. As for Harry, though the censors say I coqueted with him, I declare I am innocent. I never gave him any encouragement, unless it be so to treat a visiter at your father’s house with decent civility. What can a young lady do? Must she say to every gentleman that calls on her, don’t presume to fall in love with me, for I do not know as I shall like you on further acquaintance? The world is a fool on the subject of coquetry. I am sick to death of all the ridiculous cant, and milk-and-water stories about coquettes. After all, what does it amount to? Simply that a young lady is attractive, and much admired; that she has sense enough to discriminate between good and evil, and firmness of character sufficient to enable her to reject those whom she cannot love, however worthy; and those she can love when they prove themselves unworthy. If a young lady is so destitute of all attractions, as to have no expectation of ever finding a lover, she may possibly fall into the arms of the first man who professes to love her, with a yes, and thank you, too; and she is a woman with a heart, and no coquette. Now don’t get angry, though you did accept the first offer, that first offer was every way worthy of acceptance—and your heart felt it to be so. If such had been my fortune, I should not have been a coquette either. Aunt Alice exhorts me not to resume my old business of breaking hearts here in my new location. We shall see. I certainly will not hunt, or trap, or angle for them, neither will I immure myself like a Turkish maiden, nor put on repulsive airs to frighten them; nor will I promise to accept the first or second offer that I may receive. I have grown too old a bird to be decoyed by chaff. I shall not marry lightly, for I do not think that a single life is so much to be dreaded. On the contrary, I must receive an equivalent for the careless freedom of girlhood, and the friends from whom I must be severed, as well as a balance for the inevitable sorrows, and fears, and pains, and humiliations of woman’s lot. Now I am free, my own mistress, and many are happy to do me homage. If I become a wife, I accept a master, whom it must be my study to please. I must not only defer to all his opinions and wishes, but I must make this deference my pleasure; and for the homage of the scores who now kneel at my feet, I must be content to receive the commendation of “well done, good and faithful servant.” Knowing all this, my husband, if I have one, must be one whom I can love and honor. Now if I am pleased with a gentleman’s exterior, I shall not attribute to him all mental excellence, and so take him on trust, but shall endeavor to become thoroughly acquainted with him. If this acquaintance shall develop qualities which I cannot approve of, I shall certainly dismiss him; and if this is coquetry why I am a determined coquette. I am not seeking perfection, but I will have truth, honor, a good temper, and real love. When these offer, I shall be found weak, and like another man (woman.) I know, dear Kate, that you will laugh at all this, and shake your wise head, with your old remark—a woman’s love makes any man perfect. But now I must say good-by, and write myself

Your loving,

Lucy Lee.

Cincinnati, Sept. 9.

Kate, Dear Kate!—I almost begin to think that I really have no heart. Here is a gentleman who, to all that I require in a husband, adds a very handsome and commanding person, a high and acknowledged genius, and a large fortune; and yet, Kate, I do not love him. He attached himself to me, on our very first acquaintance, and still continues his assiduities. My father is anxious to call him son, and all my friends urge me to accept him. I have received several magnificent presents from him. I could not reject them without rejecting him; and, indeed, I would like to be his wife, if I could but love him. Aunt Alice says I am a fool; that not one woman in a hundred loves her husband before marriage. Ah, Kate, if it is so, no wonder there is so much domestic misery and conjugal infidelity in the world. I do not understand how woman can endure her lot, unsupported by love; and, certainly, it is not wonderful that man should seek elsewhere the sunshine of affectionate sympathy, which is not his at home. Kate, I am half inclined to become Mrs. Melwin, but when I think seriously about it, my very heart shudders. Oh, Kate! there is a yearning for something which I have not found, a sympathy that could draw me into its very heart, with all my feelings and failings undisguised, and fearless of reproach. To stand at the altar, fearing that he to whom you pledge your vows will discover the perjury of your heart—for is it not perjury to promise to love one whom you feel you cannot love? And yet, perhaps, my notions of love are all romance, never to be realized. Perhaps I love Mr. Melwin as well as I can ever love any man. Perhaps I had best accept his hand. Ah, me! what shall I do? I wish I could know myself. With him I certainly should have no cause of sorrow which did not spring from my own bosom. I am almost resolved to accept him. Do advise me, my dear, wise Kate, and save me from all these distracting doubts, and the fears of self-reproach, that now torment almost to distraction.

Your poor, wavering,

Lucy Lee.

Cincinnati, Jan. —.

Kate! Kate!—I have a heart, a warm, confiding, loving heart! Strange that it has slept so long. But it is awake now. I have met one at whose feet I am willing to lay down the sceptre of my pride, for whose love I am ready to forego all my girlhood’s treasures. He loves me, and I shall be his wife. Ah! dear Kate, if you could know how I am tormented now, when my heart is so happy. Father calls me a fool, an unaccountable simpleton; mother sighs whenever her eyes rest on me, and she calls me a perverse child. My friends ridicule me; and Mr. Melwin—oh, Kate! I wish he had never seen me—I believe he takes a malicious pleasure in upbraiding me whenever he can find opportunity. I tell him honestly that I could not be his, because I could not love him. Then he asks why I coqueted with him? Coqueted! Now is not that provoking. I endured his attentions, because he was every way an excellent man, and I thought that if I could learn to love him, I should be most happy as his wife. How did I know that I could never love him until I tested my feeling by being much in his society? It does seem that the world is resolved to take from woman her only prerogative—that of choosing whom she will serve. Kate, love! am I not right? Since woman, on her wedding-day, loses her identity, and is thenceforth merged—name, honor, fame, fortune, every thing in him to whom she plights herself—does it not become her to be cautious to whom she thus resigns herself. Since our only freedom is this privilege of choosing a husband, should we not be suffered to exercise it? And yet if we reject one, two, or three suitors, we are heartless, and coquettes. If there were more such coquettes in the world, there would be infinitely less misery. I am of Aunt Alice’s opinion, that most girls marry before they know any thing of love. You will see a vain child, just from boarding-school, tricked out in all the pride of fashion, and introduced to the world at some splendid ball or party. Of course, she is flattered, and admired, and complimented—she has made a splendid début. Presently some gentleman pays her marked attentions. She is flattered by his preference. She has imbibed the prevalent opinion that the end of all woman’s duties and aspirations is an eligible marriage. Her admirer is an unexceptionable man. She will accept him; and then, oh, how she will queen it as a bride, at the head of a splendid establishment. Her friends encourage her, applaud her choice, and she is married. Afterward, her husband discovers with astonishment, that in place of a meek, loving woman, he has got a selfish, arrogant, proud, and petulant child to manage as he best may. But then she never was a coquette! But to return. When I asked Mr. Melwin if he could desire me to give him my hand without love, he invariably replies, if you could not love me, why did you not tell me so, before I had centered in you all my hopes, and braided you in every strand of my future life! Dear me! how could I tell him before I knew it myself? I did wish to love him, and try to love him; and if I had been a silly child of fifteen, should doubtless have laid the foundation of our future misery by becoming his—shall I say wife? But, you will ask, who and what is the man of my choice? He is Horace Glynn, a young lawyer, scarcely older than myself, and, of course, unknown to fame or worldly honor. I will not say that he is handsome, and he is not rich; but he has genius, a lofty sense of honor, and unblemished character, and a heart full of all the sweet and gentle sympathies. More than all, he loves me, just as I always longed to be beloved. I feel that my pulse can echo his; that all my feelings and opinions blend and flow in the current of his. In short, that I am ready to resign my own will, and yield him a cheerful deference, and forsaking all that my young heart has known, or loved, follow him, and minister to him until death. I am so thankful that I did not marry until I felt this sweet devotion. The world will say—“Well, Lucy Lee, like all other incorrigible coquettes, has, after rejecting half a dozen excellent offers, thrown herself away upon a poor young fellow, infinitely beneath her other suitors.” But I shall be blest with a whole heart happiness, and home will be my world. Oh, Kate! am I not happy!

Lucy Lee.