A Brown Woman
by
”
A critical age called for symmetry, and exquisite finish had to be studied as much as nobility of thought. . . . POPE aimed to take first place as a writer of polished verse. Any knowledge he gained of the world, or any suggestion that came to him from his intercourse with society, was utilized to accomplish his main purpose. To put his thoughts into choice language was not enough. Each idea had to be put in its neatest and most epigrammatic form.“
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parents’, or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife,
To help me through this long disease, my life.
* * * * * *
Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew;
Destroy his fib or sophistry in vain,
The creature’s at his foolish work again,
Throned in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
ALEXANDER POPE.–Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot.
A BROWN WOMAN
“But I must be hurrying home now,” the girl said, “for it is high time I were back in the hayfields.”
“Fair shepherdess,” he implored, “for heaven’s sake, let us not cut short the pastorelle thus abruptly.”
“And what manner of beast may that be, pray?”
“‘Tis a conventional form of verse, my dear, which we at present strikingly illustrate. The plan of a pastorelle is simplicity’s self: a gentleman, which I may fairly claim to be, in some fair rural scene–such as this–comes suddenly upon a rustic maiden of surpassing beauty. He naturally falls in love with her, and they say all manner of fine things to each other.”
She considered him for a while before speaking. It thrilled him to see the odd tenderness that was in her face. “You always think of saying and writing fine things, do you not, sir?”
“My dear,” he answered, gravely, “I believe that I was undoubtedly guilty of such folly until you came. I wish I could make you understand how your coming has changed everything.”
“You can tell me some other time,” the girl gaily declared, and was about to leave him.
His hand detained her very gently. “Faith, but I fear not, for already my old hallucinations seem to me incredible. Why, yesterday I thought it the most desirable of human lots to be a great poet”–the gentleman laughed in self-mockery. “I positively did. I labored every day toward becoming one. I lived among books, esteemed that I was doing something of genuine importance as I gravely tinkered with alliteration and metaphor and antithesis and judicious paraphrases of the ancients. I put up with life solely because it afforded material for versification; and, in reality, believed the destruction of Troy was providentially ordained lest Homer lack subject matter for an epic. And as for loving, I thought people fell in love in order to exchange witty rhymes.”
His hand detained her, very gently. . . . Indeed, it seemed to him he could never tire of noting her excellencies. Perhaps it was that splendid light poise of her head he chiefly loved; he thought so at least, just now. Or was it the wonder of her walk, which made all other women he had ever known appear to mince and hobble, like rusty toys? Something there was assuredly about this slim brown girl which recalled an untamed and harmless woodland creature; and it was that, he knew, which most poignantly moved him, even though he could not name it. Perhaps it was her bright kind eyes, which seemed to mirror the tranquillity of forests. . . .