I
Can you have a backlog in July? That depends upon circumstances.
In northern New England it is considered a sign of summer when the housewives fill the fireplaces with branches of mountain laurel, and, later, with the feathery stalks of the asparagus.This is often, too, the timid expression of a tender feeling, under Puritanic repression, which has not sufficient vent in the sweet-william and hollyhock at the front door.This is a yearning after beauty and ornamentation which has no other means of gratifying itselfIn the most rigid circumstances, the graceful nature of woman thus discloses itself in these mute expressions of an undeveloped taste.
You may never doubt what the common flowers growing along the pathway to the front door mean to the maiden of many summers who tends them;--love and religion, and the weariness of an uneventful life.The sacredness of the Sabbath, the hidden memory of an unrevealed and unrequited affection, the slow years of gathering and wasting sweetness, are in the smell of the pink and the sweet-clover.These sentimental plants breathe something of the longing of the maiden who sits in the Sunday evenings of summer on the lonesome front doorstone, singing the hymns of the saints, and perennial as the myrtle that grows thereby.
Yet not always in summer, even with the aid of unrequited love and devotional feeling, is it safe to let the fire go out on the hearth, in our latitude.I remember when the last almost total eclipse of the sun happened in August, what a bone-piercing chill came over the world.Perhaps the imagination had something to do with causing the chill from that temporary hiding of the sun to feel so much more penetrating than that from the coming on of night, which shortly followed.It was impossible not to experience a shudder as of the approach of the Judgment Day, when the shadows were flung upon the green lawn, and we all stood in the wan light, looking unfamiliar to each other.The birds in the trees felt the spell.We could in fancy see those spectral camp-fires which men would build on the earth, if the sun should slow its fires down to about the brilliancy of the moon.It was a great relief to all of us to go into the house, and, before a blazing wood-fire, talk of the end of the world.
In New England it is scarcely ever safe to let the fire go out; it is best to bank it, for it needs but the turn of a weather-vane at any hour to sweep theAtlantic rains over us, or to bring down the chill of Hudson's Bay.
There are days when the steam ship on the Atlantic glides calmly along under a full canvas, but its central fires must always be ready to make steam against head-winds and antagonistic waves.Even in our most smiling summer days one needs to have the materials of a cheerful fire at hand.It is only by this readiness for a change that one can preserve an equal mind.We are made provident and sagacious by the fickleness of our climate.We should be another sort of people if we could have that serene, unclouded trust in nature which the Egyptian has.The gravity and repose of the Eastern peoples is due to the unchanging aspect of the sky, and the deliberation and reg-ularity of the great climatic processes.Our literature, politics, religion, show the effect of unsettled weather.
But they compare favorably with the Egyptian, for all that.
II
You cannot know, the Young Lady wrote, with what longing I look back to those winter days by the fire; though all the windows are open to this May morning, and the brown thrush is singing in the chestnut-tree, and I see everywhere that first delicate flush of spring, which seems too evanescent to be color even, and amounts to little more than a suffusion of the atmosphere.I doubt, indeed, if the spring is exactly what it used to be, or if, as we get on in years [no one ever speaks of "getting on in years" till she is virtually settled in life], its promises and suggestions do not seem empty in comparison with the sympathies and responses of human friendship, and the stimulation of society.Sometimes nothing is so tiresome as a perfect day in a perfect season.
I only imperfectly understand this.The Parson says that woman is always most restless under the most favorable conditions, and that there is no state in which she is really happy except that of change.
I suppose this is the truth taught in what has been called the "Myth of the Garden." Woman is perpetual revolution, and is that element in the world which continually destroys and re-creates.She is the experimenter and the suggester of new combinations.She has no belief in any law of eternal fitness of things.She is never even content with any arrangement of her own house.The only reason the Mistress could give, when she rearranged her apartment, for hanging a picture in what seemed the most inappropriate place, was that it had never been there before.Woman has no respect for tradition, and because a thing is as it is is sufficient reason for changing it.
When she gets into law, as she has come into literature, we shall gain something in the destruction of all our vast and musty libraries of precedents, which now fetter our administration of individual justice.It is Mandeville's opinion that women are not so sentimental as men, and are not so easily touched with the unspoken poetry of nature; being less poetical, and having less imagination, they are more fitted for practical affairs, and would make less failures in business.I have noticed the almost selfish passion for their flowers which old gardeners have, and their reluctance to part with a leaf or a blossom from their family.They love the flowers for themselves.A woman raises flowers for their use.She is destruct-ion in a conservatory.She wants the flowers for her lover, for the sick, for the poor, for the Lord on Easter day, for the ornamentation of her house.She delights in the costly pleasure of sacrificing them.She never sees a flower but she has an intense but probably sinless desire to pick it.