Human nature, you
know, my dear Fourteen, is the same yesterday, to-day, and week after
next. I used to think it wasn't; now I know it is. These young
men--monsters that they are--will pour the nectar of compliments over
your face, and the acid and canker of abuse down your back; and all in
the same breath, if they get a chance. Pray have an eye and an ear out
for them. If you go to Long Branch, or Newport, or Saratoga, or the
White Mountains this summer, just look out for them. They are dreadful
creatures at home in the cities, but doubly dreadful at these resorts.
You are young, simple, unsophisticated. I was at your age. But I soon
got over such weaknesses. You must very soon, or be a ninny. "Simple,"
"artless," "unsophisticated," and such terms mean simply softness.
Whatever else you are, or are not, don't be soft. The mistake of my
fruitless life has been that I believed, in other years, all that was
told me by the other sex. They said to my face that I was a beauty; at
Mr. Jones's, they said I was a fright. They said I sang like a Patti; at
Brown's, I screeched like an owl. They said I danced like Terpsichore;
at Smith's, they declared I wabbled round like any other lame duck.
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