New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; United States -- History -- War of 1812 -- Fiction
On the fourth of September Sappha and Mrs. Bloommaert were in Greenwich
Street shopping, when they suddenly heard a wild shout of joy. “The
_Constitution!_ the _Constitution!_” From mouth to mouth the two words
flew like wild-fire. The whole city was roaring them. The bells clapped
them out. The cannon sent them thundering over land and sea. Men
meeting, though strangers, clasped hands; and women threw themselves
into each other’s arms, weeping. Was there feeling enough left for a
maid to be lovelorn or melancholy? Not in Sappha’s case. She gave her
whole heart to rejoice with her country first, and then proudly
remembered the dear youth who must at that moment be rejoicing with her.
Letters from him came more frequently than she had dared to hope. Some
one available as a messenger was frequently at the Narrows fort, and
Leonard never missed an opportunity. There was no restriction on this
correspondence by her father and mother, though at the beginning of it
the judge strongly advised restriction.
“Written words cannot be denied or rubbed out, Carlita,” he said. “I
know what young men are. Suppose Leonard should show Sappha’s letters to
some companion.”
“Suppose an impossibility, Gerardus.”
“Not so. A man in love is always a vain man, if his love is returned. He
has conquered, and he puts on all the airs of a victor. He usually wants
some one to admire and envy him, and a love letter is a visible proof of
his prowess among women. I would not allow Sappha to write.”
“Then you are in the wrong, my dear one. Nothing is better for a lover
than a course of love letters. It is the finest education for
marriage.”
“They say so many extravagant things.”
“Very well. That is good. They get used to saying fine things, then they
feel them, and ’tis no harm at all for a lover to write down his
mistress ‘an angel.’ He may treat her the better for it, all their lives
together.”
“So! so! Take thy own foolish way, wife. I do not forget thy dear little
love notes--and ever the few leaves of sweet brier in them. I can smell
it yet.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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