“And they, in the darkest of days, shall beGreenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.”A QUESTION, AND ITS ANSWER.To Mary M., who desires a frank expression of opinion from the undersigned, with regard to her marrying an old bachelor.Answer. Don’t do it. A man who for so long a period has had nobody but himself to think of, who knows where the finest oysters and venison steaks are to be found, and who has for years indulged in these and every other little selfish inclination unchecked, will, you may be sure (without punning), make a most miserablehelp-meat. When you have tea, he will wish it were coffee; when you have coffee, he will wish it were tea; when you have both, he will desire chocolate; and when you have all, he will tell you that they are made much better at his favorite restaurant. His shirts never will be ironed to suit him, his cravats will be laid in the drawer the wrong way, and his pocket-handkerchiefs markedin the wrong corner. He will always be happy to wait upon you, providedyourway is his way; but an extra walk round a block will put him out of humor for a week. He will be as unbending as a church-steeple—as exacting as a Grand Turk, and as impossible to please as a teething baby. Take my advice, Mary; give the old fossil the mitten, and choose a male specimen who is in the transition state, and capable of receiving impressions.WINTER.Hoary-headed old Winter, I have had enough of you! Not that I shrink from facing your rough breath, in a ten-mile walk, on the coldest day on which you ever made icicles; for I am no fair-weather sailor, not I; I have no thousand-dollar dress to spoil, and I am not afraid to increase the dimensions of my ankle by a never-to-be-sufficiently-adored India-rubber boot. I am dependent neither upon cars nor omnibusses, though I am, like other mortals, sometimes brought up short for want of a ferry-boat; but I am tired of frozen ground. I am tired of denuded trees, and leafless vines and branches, scraping against walls and fences, in the vain attempt to frictionize a little warmth into their stiffened limbs. I am tired of gray skies, and the mournful wailing of the winter wind; the starshave a steel-like glitter, and the moonbeams on the snow petrify me like the ghost of a smile on the face of a wire-drawn old maid. I long, like a prisoned bird, for a flight into green fields—I can not sing without the blossoming flowers. I would go to sleep with them, nor wake till the soft spring sheds warm, joyful tears, to call forth her hidden treasures.And yet, old Winter, I have liked thee less well than now; when the hungry fire devoured the last remaining faggot, and Nature’s frozen face was but typical of the faces that my adverse fortune had petrified; but who cares for thee or them? So surely as prosperity brought back their sycophantic smiles, so surely shall thy stiff neck be bowed before the bounty-laden Spring. “Hope on—hope ever;” and yet how meaningless fall these words upon the ear of the poor widow, who but a stone’s throw from my window, sits watching beside her dead husband, heeding neither the wailing cry of the babe at her breast, nor the wilder wail of the winter wind, as it drifts the snow against the door.“Hope on—hope ever.” She looks at you with a vacant stare, and then at the lifeless form before her, as if that were her mute answer. You tell her to trust in God, when it is her bitterest sorrow that the voice of her rebellious heart is, “Ye have taken away my idol, and what have I left?”“Left?” poor mourner. O, so much, that you can not see until those falling tears have cleared your vision and eased your pain. “Left?” thesweet memory of unclouded earthly love, of which not even death can rob you; tones and looks which you will count over, when no human eye sees you, as the miser tells his hoarded gold.“Left?” his child and yours, who, with the blessed baptism of holy tears, you will call God’s. “Left?” O, many a household, whose inmates pressing their anguished brows underlivingsorrows, would bless God for the sweet memories of earthly love that you cling to in your pain. “Left?” tearful mourner; a crown to win, sweeter for the wearing, when thorns have pressed the brow.“Left?” a cross to bear, but O, so light to carry, when heaven is the goal!“One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,Do not fear an armed band;One will fade as others greet thee,Shadows passing through the land.“Do not look at life’s long sorrow,See how small each moment’s pain;God will help thee for to-morrow,Every day begin again.”A GAUNTLET FOR THE MEN.I maintain it: all the heroism of the present day is to be found among women. I say it to your beards. I am sick of such remarks as these: “Poor fellow! he was unfortunate in business, and so hetook to drinking;” or—“poor fellow! he had a bad wife, and lost all heart.” What does awomando who is unfortunate in business, I would like to know? Why—she tries again, of course, and keeps on trying to the end of the chapter, notwithstanding the pitiful remuneration man bestows upon her labor, notwithstanding his oft-repeated attempts to cheat her out of it when she has earned it! What does a woman do, who has a bad, improvident husband? Works all the harder, to be sure, to make up his deficiencies to her household; works day and night; smiles when her heart and back are both breaking; speaks hopeful words when her very soul is dying within her; denies herself the needed morsel to increase her children’s portion, and crushed neither by the iron gripe of poverty, nor allured by the Judas-smile of temptation, hopefully puts her trust in Him who feedeth the sparrows.She “the weaker sex?” Out on your pusillanimous manhood! “Took to drinking because he was unhappy!” Bless—his—big—Spartan—soul! How I admire him! Couldn’t live a minute without he had every thing to his mind; never had the slightest idea of walking round an obstacle, or jumping over it; never practiced that sort of philosophical gymnastics—couldn’t grit his teeth at fate, and defy it to do its worst, because they chattered so;—poor fellow! Wanted buttered toast, and had to eat dry bread; liked “2.40,” and had to go a-foot; fond of wine, and had to drink Croton; couldn’t smoke,though his stove-pipe did; rushed out of the world, and left his wife and children to battle with the fate that his coward soul was afraid to meet. Brave, magnanimous fellow!Again—we are constantly hearing that the extravagance of women debars young men from the bliss of matrimony. Poor things! they can’t select a wifefrom outthe frivolous circle of fashion; there are no refined, well-educated, lady-like, practical girls and women, whom any man, with a man’s soul, might be proud to call wife, nobly struggling for an honest maintenance as writers, governesses, teachers, semptresses, and milliners. They never read such an advertisement as this in the papers:“Wanted, by a young girl, a situation as governess. She can teach the English branches, French and Italian; and is willing to accept a small remuneration, to secure a respectable home.”Fudge! None so blind as they whowon’tsee. The truth is, most of the young men of the present day are selfish to the backbone. “Poor,” too—very poor!—never go to Shelby’s or Delmonico’s for a nice little game supper, washed down with champagne at $2 a bottle; never smoke dozens of cigars a day, at six cents a piece; never invite—themselvesto go to concerts, the opera, or the theater! Wish they could afford to get married, but can’t, at least not till, as they elegantly express it, “they meet a pretty girl who has the tin.”SOLILOQUY OF A LITERARY HOUSEKEEPER.“Spring cleaning!” Oh misery! Ceilings to be whitewashed, walls to be cleaned, paint to be scoured, carpets to be taken up, shaken, and put down again; scrubbing women, painters, and whitewashers, all engaged for months a-head, or beginning on your house to secure the job, and then running off a day to somebody else’s to secure another. Yes, spring cleaning to be done; closets, bags, and baskets to be disemboweled; furs and woolens to be packed away; children’s last summer clothes to be inspected (not a garment that will fit—all grown up like Jack’s bean-stalk); spring cleaning, sure enough. I might spring my feet off and not get all that done. When is that book of mine to get written, I’d like to know? It’s Ma’am, will you have this? and Ma’am, will you have that? and Ma’am, will you have the other thing? May I be kissed if I hadn’t more time to write when I lived in an attic on salt and potatoes, and scrubbed the floor myself. Must I turn my house topsy-turvy, and inside out, once a year, because my grandmother did, and send my MSS. flying to the four winds, for this traditionary “spring cleaning.” Spring fiddlestick! Must I buy up all Broadway to be made into dresses, because all New York women go fashion-mad? What’s the use of having a house, if you can’t do as you like in it? What’s the use of being an authoress, if youcan’t indulge in the luxury of a shabby bonnet, or a comfortable old dress? What’s the use of dressing when your cook can outshine you? What is the use of dragging brocade and velvet through ferry-boats and omnibusses, to serve as mats for market-baskets and dirty boots? “There goes Lily Larkspur, the authoress, in that everlasting old black silk.” Well—what’s the use of being well off, if you can’t wear old clothes. If I was poor, as I was once, I couldn’t afford it. Do you suppose I’m going to wrinkle up my face, scowling at unhappy little boys for treading on a five-hundred-dollar silk? or fret myself into a fever because somegentlemanthrows a cigar-stump on its lustrous trailing folds? no, no; life is too short for that, and much too earnest. Give me good health—the morning for writing, and no interruptions, plenty of fresh air afterwards, and an old gown to enjoy it in, and you may mince along in your peacock dry-goods till your soul is as shriveled as your body.A BREAKFAST-TABLE REVERIE.I looked up—they were laughing at me—I am accustomed to be laughed at—so it neither moved nor astonished me. They had been laughing because I had been reading so long, and so intently, the advertising page of my daily paper. And whynot? when it is often to me the most interesting part of it. To be sure, I look at it with a pair of eyes that have not always been undimmed with tears; I think sometimes of the unwritten tragedy there may be in a four-line advertisement which scarce arrests the careless, laughing eye. I think of the days and nights of misery it took, the suffering and privation, to goad the sensitive heart up to its first appeal to the public ear—the trembling fingers which may have penned it—the tears which well-nigh obliterated it—the leaden feet which bore it, almost helplessly, to its destination.No, I was not vexed that they laughed at me, for how should they, whose life-path had been always flower-bestrown, think of these sad things?I had been reading what follows. Listen“A young lady, suddenly thrown upon her own resources for support, desires a situation as Governess. She can teach all the English branches, understands French, German, and Italian, and would be willing to accept even the smallest compensation.”I saw her! homeless—friendless—heart-broken; willing to accept the most humiliating, grinding conditions for a safe andimmediateshelter for her innocence. I saw the cold, calculating eye of some lady fashionist fasten upon the touching appeal. I saw her place the young girl’s pressing necessities in one scale, and her avarice in the other. I saw her include, in her acceptance of the post of governess, that of lace-laundress and nursery-maid; and I saw the poor young creature meekly, even thankfully,accept the conditions, while her wealthy patroness questioned her qualifications, depreciated her services, and secretly rejoiced at securing such a prize, at such an economical rate of compensation.I saw another young girl similarly situated, but even less fortunate than the one of whom I have spoken. I saw the libidinous eye of a wretch who reads the advertising sheet with an eye to “young governesses,” fasten upon her advertisement. I saw him engage her, as he has others, for some fictitious family, in some fictitious place, constituting himself the head of it, and her escort on the way—only to turn, alas! her sweet innocent trust into the bitter channel of a life-long and unavailing remorse.I took up the paper and read again:“Who wants a boy?—A widower, with six children, will dispose of an infant to some family inclined to receive it.”That a widower might possibly be so situated as to render such a measure necessary, I could conceive, but that afathercould pen such a brusque, hilarious, jocular—“halloa-there”—announcement of the fact, rather stunned me.“Who wants a boy?”As if it were a colt, or a calf, or a six-weeks young pup—or any thing under heaven but his own flesh and blood! as if the little innocent had never lain beneath the loving heart ofherwhose last throb was for its sweet helplessness—last prayer for its vailed future.Shade of the mother hover over that child!I read again:“Information wanted of a little girl, who, at the age of five years, was placed, ten years ago, in —— alms-house.”I thought ofhercheerless childhood (as I looked around my own bright hearthstone at my own happy children). I sawheryearning vainly for the sweet ties of kindred. I followed her from thence out into the world, where allbutherself, even the humblest, seem to have some human tie to make life sweet; I saw her wandering hither and thither, like Noah’s weary dove, without finding the heart’s resting-place; wondering, when she had time to wonder (for the heavy burden of daily toil which her slender shoulders bent beneath), if one heart yet beats on God’s green earth, through which her own life-tide flows.I think of this—I wonderwhoit is who “wants information” concerning her. I wonder is it some remorseful relative, some brother, some sister, some father whose heart is at length touched with pity for the unrecognized little exile—ay—such things have been!“Clerks out of employment.”Need it be? With acres of fertile earth lying fair in the broad sunshine, waiting only the touch of their sinewy muscles, to throw out uncounted embryo treasures, while ruddy Health stands smiling at the plow!Then I read of starving seamstresses, with no stock in trade but their needle; nothing but that too often, God help them! between their souls and perdition; and, then, in the very face of my womanly instincts, I say,letthem lecture—letthem preach—let them even be doctors, if they will (provided they keep their hands off me!)Then I read, alas! advertisements, which promise youth and purity to lead them through the scorching fires of sin unharmed, unscathed, which say that the penalty annexed by a just God to his violated laws (even in this world),theywill turn aside; that a mancantake fire into his bosom andnotbe burned. And then I think that the editor who for paltry gain, throws such firebrands into pure and happy homesshould look well that the blight fall not on his own.But there is comedy as well as tragedy in an advertising sheet. I am fond of poetry; my eye catches a favorite extract from Longfellow, or Bryant, or Percival, or Morris; I read it over with renewed pleasure, blessing the author in my heart the while. I am decoyed into the building to which it serves as a fairy vestibule. Where do I find myself?By Parnassus! in a carpet-warehouse—in a sausage-shop—in a druggist’s—shoemaker’s—tailor’s—or hatter’s establishment.Who shall circumscribe American ingenuity where dollars and cents are concerned?Answer me, great Barnum!A GLANCE AT A CHAMELEON SUBJECT.“Tell you what are the fashions?” I, who am sick of the very word fashion? who could shake hands with every rustic I meet, for very delight at his napless hat, and ark-like coat?You should be surfeited, as I am, with harlequin costumes; disgusted, as I am, with troops of women, strutting, like peacocks, to show their plumage; but who, less sensible than peacocks, nevershed their feathers. You should see brocades, and silk velvets, fit only for carriage or dinner dresses, daily mopping up the tobacco pools on these unmitigatedly nasty sidewalks. You should see the gay little bonnets, and oh! you should see the vapid, expression-less, soul-less faces beneath them. You should see the carriages, with their liveried servants, in our republican streets, and the faces, seamed withennuiand discontent, which peer through the windows, from beneath folds of lace and satin.You should see how this dress furore infects every class and circle. You should see the young apprentice girl who can afford but one bonnet, buying a flimsy dress-hat, to be worn in all weathers; securing for Sunday, a showy silk dress and gilt bracelet, when she has hardly a decent chemise, or petticoat, and owns, perhaps, but one handkerchief, and a couple of pairs of stockings. You should see the wife of the young mechanic, with her embroidered pocket-handkerchief, and flaunting pink parasol, while she can number but one pair of sheets, and one table-cloth. You should see her children, with their plumed hats, while parti-colored, dilapidated petticoats peep from beneath their dresses, and they are shivering for the want of warm flannels. You should see the servant-girl, with her greasy flounces, and soiled artificial flowers. You should see young men, with staring diamond pins stuck on their coarse shirt-bosoms, with shabby velvet vests, and mock chains looped over them.You should go into the “furnishing stores for ladies’ and children’s garments;” and see howimpossibleit is to findplain,substantialarticles of clothingfor either—two thirds, at least, of the cost of every article being for elaborate trimming, and ruffling, and useless embroidery. You should go into the “ladies’ cloak stores,” and see these garments loaded indeed with gay trimmings, but miserably thin, and ill-adapted for winter wear; hence thestoriesof garments you frequently notice on New York ladies (as winter intensifies), as if one good, sensible, thickly-wadded, old-fashioned, outside garment, could, by any possibility, be more awkward and ugly than such an “arrangement,” and as if it were not a million degrees more comfortable, and less troublesome; but, then—Fashion says, No!“Tell you the fashions?”Excuse my rambling. Well; here they are, as near as I can find out:Puff your hair and your skirts. Lace your lungs and your handkerchief. Put on the most stunning dress you can find; wear it of astumblinglength, because Queen Victoria’s royal ankles are thick.Take a handful of artificial roses, each of a different color, half a dozen yards of ribbon ditto, lace ditto. Secure them, for a bonnet, to your bump of amativeness, with two long pins. Then sprinkle the contents of a jeweler’s shop promiscuously over your person; and by no means, before you go out, omit drawing on a pair of brightyellowgloves; thatsine quâ nonof a New York woman’s toilette.“Tell you the fashions?” Take a walk down Broadway, and see for yourself. If you have a particle of sense, it will cure you of your absorbing interest in that question during your natural life, though your name be written “Methuselah.”FACTS FOR UNJUST CRITICS.A few scraps from the “Life of Charlotte Bronte,” that I would like to see pasted up in editorial offices throughout the length and breadth of the land:“She, Miss Bronte, especially disliked the lowering of the standard by which to judge a work of fiction if it proceeded from a feminine pen; and praise,mingled withpseudo-gallant allusions to her sex, mortified her far more than actual blame.“Come what will,” she says, “I can not, when I write, think always of myself, and of what is elegant and charming in femininity; it is not on these terms, or with such ideas, that I ever took pen in hand, and if it is only on these terms my writing will be tolerated, I shall pass away from the public and trouble it no more.“I wish all reviewers believed me to be a man; they would be more just to me. They will, I know, keep measuring me by some standard of what they deem becoming to my sex; where I am not what they consider graceful, they will condemn me.“No matter—whether known or unknown—misjudged or the contrary—I am resolved not to write otherwise.I shall bend as my powers tend.The two human beings who understood me are gone; I have some who love me yet, and whom I love, without expecting or having a right to expect they shall perfectly understand me. I am satisfied,but I must have my own way in the matter of writing.”Speaking of some attacks on Miss Bronte, her biographer says:“Flippancy takes a graver name, when directed against an author by an anonymous writer; we then call itcowardly insolence.”She also says:“It is well that the thoughtless critics, who spoke of the sad and gloomy views of life presented by the Brontes in their tales, should know how such words were wrung out of them by the living recollection of the long agony they suffered. It is well, too, that they who have objected to the representation ofcoarseness, and shrank from it with repugnance, as if such conception arose out of the writers, should learn, that not from the imagination, not from internal conception—but from the hard cruel facts, pressed down, by an external life upon their very senses, for long months and years together, did they write out what they saw, obeying the stern dictates of their consciences. They might be mistaken. They might err in writing at all, when their afflictions were so great that they could not write otherwise than as they did of life. It is possible that it would have been better to have described good and pleasant people, doing only good and pleasant things (in which case they could hardly have written at any time): all I say is, that never, I believe, did women possessed of such wonderful gifts exercise them with a fuller feeling of responsibility for their use.”A friend of Miss Bronte says:“The world heartily, greedily enjoyed the fruits of Miss Bronte’s labors,and then found out she was much to blame for possessing such faculties.”Mrs. Gaskell says:“So utterly unconscious was Miss Bronte of what was by some esteemed ‘coarse’ in her writings, that on one occasion, when the conversation turned upon women’s writing fiction—she said, in her grave, earnest way, ‘I hope God will take away from me whatever power of invention, or expression I may have, before he lets me become blind to the sense of what is fitting, or unfitting to be said.’”Fanny Fern says:I would that all who critically finger women’s books, would read and ponder these extracts. I would that reviewers had a more fitting sense of their responsibility, in giving their verdicts to the public; permitting themselves to be swayed neither by personal friendship, nor private pique; speakinghonestly, by all means, but remembering their own sisters, when they would point a flippant, smart articleby disrespectful mention of a lady writer; or by an unmanly, brutal persistence in tearing from her face the mask of incognito-ship, which she has, if she pleases, an undoubted right to wear. I would that they would speak respectfully of those whose pure, self-denying life, has been through trials and temptations under whichtheirstrong natures would have succumbed; and who tremblingly await the public issue of days and nights of single-handed, single-hearted weariness and toil. Not that a woman’s book should be praised because it is a woman’s, nor, on the contrary, condemned for that reason. But as you would shrink from seeing a ruffian’s hand laid upon your sister’s gentle shoulder, deal honestly, but, I pray you,courteously, with those whose necessities have forced them out from the blessed shelter of the home circle, into jostling contact with rougher natures.TRY AGAIN.“No woman ever produced a great painting or statue.”—Ex.On the contrary, she has produced a great many “statues,” who may be seen any sunshiny day, walking Broadway, in kid gloves and perfumed broadcloth, while “Lawrence” lies in ashes.“No woman ever wrote a great drama.”—Ex.Ay—but they have lived one; and when worn out with suffering at hands which should have shielded them, have died without a murmur on their martyr lips.“No woman ever composed a great piece of music.”—Ex.What do you call a baby?“No woman was ever a great cook!”—Ex.True—it takes a man to get up abroil.“Women have invented nothing outside of millinery since the world began.”—Ex.How can they? when they are sohoopedin?“Women have written clever letters, tolerable novels, and intolerable epics.”—Ex.Indeed! It strikes me, though, that we have furnished you the material for yours; just tell me whatyour“letters,”your“novels,”your“epics,” would have amounted to, without the inspiring theme—woman. When the world furnishes usheroes, perhapsweshall write splendid novels, andsplendid epics. Pharaoh once required bricks to be made “without straw.”“Letters?” No man, since the world began, could pen a letter equal to a woman. Look at the abortions dignified by that name in men-novels; stiltified—unnatural—stiff—pedantic, or else coarse. You can no more do it than an elephant can waltz. The veriest school girl can surpass you at it. I have often heard men confess it (when off their guard). One thing at least we know enough to do, viz.: when we wish to make one of your sex our eternal and unchangeable friend we always allow him to beat us in an argument.FAIR PLAY.OR, BOTH SIDES OF THE STORY.“It is too bad,” said a lady to me, not long since, “it is too bad; I am almost tired to death.” She had been to York on a shopping expedition; and, having finished her purchases, and returned, laden with them to the ferry, found two thirds of the seats in theladies’ cabinof the ferry-boat occupied bymen, while she and several other ladies were compelled to stand till the boat reached the pier. “It is too bad,” she repeated; “they have no right to occupy theladies’cabin, when ladies are standing. Give them a dig, Fanny, won’t you?”“Of course I will,” said I; “the case, to my mind, is clearly against the coat-tails; more especially, as, when the boat touches the pier, they rush past the ladies, and by right of their pantaloons leap over the chain (which femininity must wait to see unhooked), in order to monopolize all the seats in the street cars, to the exclusion of the aforesaid dismayed and weary ladies. Most certainly I will give them a dig, my dear; it is an exhibition of ‘grab’ which is quite disgusting.”But stay—have theladiesno sins to answer for? May it not be just possible that the men are at last getting weary of rendering civilities to women who receive them as a matter of right, without even an acknowledging smile, or “Thank you?” May they not have tired of creeping, with an abject air, into cars and omnibusses, and gradually and circumspectly lowering themselves amid such billows of hoops and flounces? May they not at last have become disgusted at the absurd selfishness which ladies manifest on these occasions? the “sit closer, ladies,” of the conductors and drivers being met with a pouting frown, or, at best, the emigration of the sixteenth part of an inch to the right or left. And is it not a shame, that a deprecating blush should crimson a gentleman’s forehead because he ventures to seat himself, in a public conveyance, in the proximity of these abominable, limb-disguising, uncomfortable, monopolizing hoops? Women who are blessed with hips, should most certainly discard thesenuisances, and women who are not, should know that narrow shoulders, and a bolster conformation, look more ramrod-y still, in contrast with this artificial voluminousness of the lower story.And then the little girls! The idea of hunting under these humbugs of hoops, for little fairy girls, whose antelope motions are thus circumscribed, their graceful limbs hidden, and their gleeful sports checked—the monstrosity of making hideoustheirperfect proportions, and rendering them a laughing-stock to every jeering boy whom they meet; and—worse than all—theirreparable moral wrongof teaching them that comfort and decency must be sacrificed to Fashion! Bah!—I have no patience to think of it. I turn my pained eyes for relief to the little ragged romps who run round the streets, with one thin garment, swaying artistically to the motion of their unfettered limbs. I rush into the sculptor’s studio, and feast my eyes on limbs which have no drapery at all.Yes, it is trying to feminine ankles and patience, to have gentlemen occupy ladies’ places in the “ladies’ cabin,” and gentlemen who do this will please consider themselves rebuked for it; but it is also disgusting, that women have not fortitude sufficient to discard the universal and absurd custom of wearing hoops. Nay, more, I affirm that any woman who has not faith enough in her Maker’s taste and wisdom, to prefer her own bones to a whale’s, deserves the fate of Jonah—minus the ejectment.TO GENTLEMEN.A CALL TO BE A HUSBAND.Yes, I did say that “it is not every man who has a call to be a husband;” and I am not going to back out of it.Has that man a call to be a husband, who, having wasted his youth in excesses, looks around him at the eleventh hour for a “virtuous young girl” (such men have the effrontery to beveryparticular on this point), to nurse up his damaged constitution, and perpetuate it in their offspring?Has that man a call to be a husband, who, believing that the more the immortal within us is developed in this world, the higher we shall rank with heavenly intelligences in the next, yet deprecates for a wife a woman of thought and intellect, lest a marriage with such should peril the seasoning of his favorite pudding, or lest she might presume in any of her opinions to be aught else than his echo?Has that man a call to be a husband, who, when the rosy maiden he married is transformed by too early an introduction to the cares and trials of maternity, into a feeble, confirmed invalid, turns impatiently from the restless wife’s sick-room, to sun himself in the perfidious smile of one whom he would blush to name in that wife’s pure ears?Hasheany call to be a husband, who adds to his wife’s manifold cares that of selecting and providingthe household stores, and inquires of her, at that, how she spent the surplus shilling of yesterday’s appropriation?Hasheany call to be a husband, who permits his own relatives, in his hearing, to speak disrespectfully or censoriously of his wife?Hasheany call to be a husband, who reads the newspaper from beginning to end, giving notice of his presence to the weary wife, who is patiently mending his old coat, only by an occasional “Jupiter!” which may mean, to the harrowed listener, that we have a President worth standing in a driving rain, at the tail of a three-mile procession, to vote for, or—the contrary? and who, after having extracted every particle of news the paper contains, coolly puts it in one of his many mysterious pockets, and goes to sleep in his chair?Hashea call to be a husband, who carries a letter, intended for his wife, in his pocket for six weeks, and expects any thing short of “gunpowder tea” for his supper that night?Has he a call to be a husband, who leaves his wife to blow out the lamp, and stub her precious little toes while she is navigating for the bed-post?Has he a call to be a husband, who tells his wife “to walk on a couple of blocks and he will overtake her,” and then joins in a hot political discussion with an opponent, after which, in a fit of absence of mind, he walks off home, leaving his wife transformed by his perfidy into “a pillar of salt?”Has he any call to be a husband, who sits down on his wife’s best bonnet, or puts her shawl over her shoulders upside down, or wrong side out at the Opera?Has he any call to be a husband, who goes “unbeknown” to his wife, to some wretch of a barber, and parts, for twenty-five cents, with a beard which she has coaxed from its first infantile sprout, to luxuriant, full-grown, magnificent, unsurpassable hirsuteness, and then comes home to her horrified vision a pocket edition of Moses?Has he any call to be a husband, who kisses his wife only on Saturday night, when he winds up the clock and pays the grocer, and who never notices, day by day, the neat dress, and shining bands of hair arranged to please his stupid milk-and-water-ship?TO THE LADIES.A CALL TO BE A WIFE.Has that woman a call to be a wife, who thinks more of her silk dress than of her children, and visits her nursery no oftener than once a day?Has that woman a call to be a wife, who cries for a cashmere shawl when her husband’s notes are being protested?Has that woman a call to be a wife, who sits reading the last new novel, while her husband standsbefore the glass, vainly trying to pin together a buttonless shirt-bosom?Has that woman a call to be a wife, who expects her husband to swallow diluted coffee, soggy bread, smoky tea, and watery potatoes, six days out of seven?Has she a call to be a wife, who keeps her husband standing on one leg a full hour in the street, while she is saying that interminable “last word” to some female acquaintance?Has she a call to be a wife, who flirts with every man she meets, and reserves her frowns for the home fireside?Has she a call to be a wife, who comes down to breakfast in abominable curl-papers, a soiled dressing-gown, and shoes down at the heel?Has she a call to be a wife, who bores her husband, when he comes into the house, with the history of a broken tea-cup, or the possible whereabouts of a missing broom-handle?Has she a call to be a wife, whose husband’s love weighs naught in the balance with her next door neighbor’s damask curtains, or velvet carpet?Has she a call to be a wife, who would take advantage of a moment of conjugal weakness, to extort money or exact a promise?Has she a call to be a wife, who “has the headache” whenever her husband wants her to walk with him, but willingly wears out her gaiter boots promenading with his gentlemen friends?Has she a call to be a wife, who takes a journeyfor pleasure, leaving her husband to toil in a close office, and “have an eye, when at home, to the servants and children?”Has she a call to be a wife, who values an unrumpled collar or crinoline more than a conjugal kiss?Has she a call to be a wife, to whom agoodhusband’s society is not the greatest of earthly blessings, and a house full of rosy children its best furnishing, and prettiest adornment?MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENTS.That prurient young men, and broken-down old ones, should seek amusement in matrimonial advertisements, is not so much a matter of surprise; but that respectable papers should lend such a voice in their columns, is, I confess, astonishing. I do not say that a virtuous woman has never answered such an advertisement; but I do say, that the virtue of a woman who would do so is not invincible. There is no necessity for an attractive, or, to use a hateful phrase, a “marketable” woman, to take such a degrading step to obtain what, alas! under legitimate circumstances, often proves, when secured, but a Dead Sea apple. It is undesirable, damaged, and unsaleable goods that are oftenest offered at auction. A woman must first have ignored the sweetest attributes of womanhood, have overstepped the last barrier of self-respect, who would parley with astranger on such a topic. You tell me that marriage has sometimes been the result. Granted: but has a woman who has effected it in this way, bettered her condition, how uncongenial soever it might have been? Few husbands (and the longer I observe, the more I am convinced of the truth of what I am about say, and I make no exception in favor of education or station) have the magnanimity to use justly, generously, the power which the law puts in their hands. But what if a wife’s helplessness be aggravated by the reflection that she hasabjectly solicitedher wretched fate? How many men, think you, are there, who, when out of humor, would hesitate tauntingly to use this drawn sword which you have foolishly placed in their hands?Our sex has need of all the barriers, all the defenses, which nature has given us. No—never let woman be the wooer, save as the flowers woo, with their sweetness—save as the stars woo, with their brightness—save as the summer wind woos—silently unfolding the rose’s heart.A SABLE SUBJECT.Every day, in my walks, I pass a large bow window on the corner of two streets, in which is displayed the agreeable spectacle of big and little coffins of all sorts and shapes, piled up and standing on end. This is in bad taste enough; but yesterday, through the ostentatious glass-windows of the shop, I saw a little rosy baby crawling over and around them, while the elder children were using them for play-houses for their dolls! Now such a sight may strike other people agreeably, or they may pass it every day with entire indifference; unfortunately for my peace of mind, I can do neither one nor the other, for by a sort of horrid fascination my eyes are attracted to that detestable window, and familiarity but increases my disgust.Now I know I shall need a coffin some day or other; but to-day the blue sky arches over my head, the fresh wind fans my temples, and every blade of grass, and new-blown violet, makes me childishly happy; now what right has that ghoul of an undertaker to nudge me in my healthy ribs as I pass, check my springing step, send the blood from my cheek back to my heart, change my singing to sighing, and turn this bright glorious earth into one vast charnel-house? In the name of cheerfulness, I indict him, and his co-fellows, for unmitigated nuisances.And while I am upon this subject I would like to ask why the New York sextons, for I believe it is peculiar to them, should have the exclusive privilege of advertising their business on the outer church-walls, any more than the silversmith who furnishes the communion-plate; or the upholsterer who makes the pulpit and pew-cushions; or the bookseller who furnishes the hymn-books; or the dry-goods merchant who sells the black silk to make the clergyman’s robe? It strikes me that it is a monopoly, and a very repulsive one. In my opinion, this whole funeral business needs reforming. Much of the shrinking horror with which death is invested even to good Christians, is traceable to these repulsive, early associations, of which they can not, by any exercise of faith, rid themselves in after years. These unnecessary, ostentatious, long-drawn-out paraphernalia of woe; these gloomy sable garments, which all should unite in abolishing; these horrible pompous funerals, with their pompous undertakers, where people who scarce ever glanced at the living face congregate to sniffle hypocritical tears over the dead one; these stereotyped round-about prayers that mean so little, and which the mourner never hears; this public counting of scalding tears by careless gazers at the grave-yard or the tomb; it is all horrible—it need not be—for the sake of childhood, often, through fear of death, all its life-time subject to bondage, itought notto be. Even the “heathen,” so called, have the advantage of us in the cheerfulness with which they wisely invest a transition, from which flesh and blood, with its imperfect spiritualization, instinctively shrinks.NEW YORK.“There is no night there,” though spoken of a place the opposite of New York, is nevertheless true of Gotham; for by the time the ennuied pleasure seekers have yawned out the evening at the theater or opera, and supped at Taylor’s, or danced themselves lame at some private ball, a more humble but much more useful portion of the community are rubbing open their eyelids, and creeping by the waning light of the street lamps, and the gray dawn, to another brave day of ill-requited toil; while in many an attic, by the glimmer of a handful of lighted shavings, tear-stained faces resume the coarse garment left unfinished the night before. At this early hour, too, stunted, prematurely-old little boys may be seen, staggering under the weight of heavy shop window shutters, and young girls, with faded eyes and shawls, crawl to their prisoning workshops; while lean, over-tasked omnibus horses, commence anew their never-ceasing, treadmill rounds. God help them all! my heart is with the oppressed, be it man or beast.The poet says there are “sermons in stones.” I endorse it. The most eloquent sermons I ever heard were from “A. Stone;” (but that is a theme I am not going to dwell upon now.) I maintain that there are sermons inhorses.Crash—crash—crash!I turned my head. Directly behind me, in Broadway, was a full-freighted omnibus. One of the horses attached had kicked out both his hind legs, snapped the whiffle-tree to the winds, and planting his hoofs into the end window, under the driver’s seat, had shivered the glass in countless fragments, into the faces of the astonished passengers, plunging and rearing with the most ’76-y spirit. Ladies screamed, and scrambled with what haste they might, out on to the pavement; gentlemen dropped their morning papers, and uttering angry imprecations as they brushed the glass splinters from their broadcloth, followed them; while the driver cursed and lashed in vain at the infuriated hoofs, which abated not a jot of their fury at all his cursing and lashing.“Vicious beast!” exclaimed one bystander. “Ought to be shotinstanter!” said a second. “I’d like to lash his hide raw!” exclaimed a third Nero.Ah! my good friends, thought I, as I went laughing on my way, not so fast with your anathemas. The cause of that apparently malicious and unprovoked attack,dates a long way back. Count, if you please, the undeserved lashings, the goadings, and spurings, that noble creature has borne, while doing a horse’s best to please! Think of the scanty feed, the miserable stable, the badly-fiting, irritating harness; the slippery pavements, where he has so often been whipped for stumbling; the melting dog-days with their stinging bottle-flies and burning sun-rays, when he has plodded wearily up and downthose interminable avenues, sweating and panting under the yoke of cruel task-masters.’Tis the last ounce which breaks the camel’s back; ’tis the last atom which balances the undulating scales. Why should that noble horse bear all this? He of the flashing eye, arching neck, and dilating nostril? He of the horny hoof and sinewy limb?He!—good for ascoreof his oppressors, if he would only think so!—Up go his hoofs!As a Bunker Hill descendant, I can not call that horse—a jackass.AIRY COSTUMES.Are the New York children to be frozen this winter, I want to know? Are their legs to be bared from the knee to the tip of their little white socks, just above the ankle, to please some foolish mother, who would rather her child were a martyr to neuralgia and rheumatism, its natural life, than to be out of fashion? Are sneezing babes to face the winter wind in embroidered muslin caps, lined with silk, the costly lace borders of which are supposed to atone for the premature loss of their eye-sight? Are little girls to shiver in cambric pantalettes, and skirts lifted high in the air by infantile hoops? Are their mothers to tiptoe through the all-abounding “slosh” of New York streets, in paper-soled gaiters, and rose-colored silk stockings? And yet one scarcely cares about the latter, because the sooner such “mothers of families” tiptoe themselves into their graves, the better for coming generations; but for the children, one can but sigh, and shiver too; and inquire, as did an old-fashioned physician of a little undressed victim, “If cloth was so dear that her mother could not afford to cover her knees?” It is a comfort to look at the men, who, whatever follies they may be guilty of (and no human arithmetic can compute them), have yet sense enough to wear thick-soled boots, and wadded wrappers in the proper season. One looks at their comfortable garments and heaves a sigh for breeze and mud-defying pantaloondom; for with the most sensible arrangements for skirts, they are an unabated and intolerable nuisance in walking; and yet those horrid Bloomers! those neutral, yet “strong-minded” Miss Nancys! with their baggy stuff-trowsers, flaping fly-aways, and cork-screw stringlets. Icouldget up a costume! but alas! the brass necessary to wear it! I see now, with my mind’s eye, the jaunty little cap, the well-fitting, graceful pants, the half-jacket, half-blouse—the snow-white collar, and pretty fancy neck-tie—the ravishing boot—the nicely fitting wrist-band, with its gold sleeve-buttons; but why awake the jealousy of the other “sect?” Why drive the tailors to commit suicide in the midst of their well-stocked warehouses? Why send little boys grinning round corners? Why make the parson forget his prayers, and the lawyer his clients?Why drive distracted the feminine owners of big feet and thick ankles? Why force women to mend the holes in the heels of their stockings? Why leave to scavengers the pleasant task of mopping up dirty streets and sidewalks? Why drive “M. Ds.” to take down their signs, and take up “de shovel and de hoe?” I’ll be magnanimous. I won’t do it.A PEEP AT THE OPERA.I was at the opera last night. It was all gas-glare, gilding and girls. Oh, the unspeakably tiresome fix-up-ativeness of New York women! The elaborate hair-twistings and braidings; the studied display of bracelets and rings; the rolling-up of eyes, and casting-down of eye-lashes; the simperings and smirkings; the gettings-up and sittings-down, ere the fortunate attitude is fixed upon; the line at which a shawl must be dropped to show a bust; the ermine sheets, worn without reference to lily or leopard complexions; the fat damsels who affect Madonna-ism; the lean women, whaleboned to “Peter Schemel”-ism; the tinsel-y head-dresses; the gaudy opera-cloaks; the pray-do-look-at-me air; the utter absence of simplicity, and of that beautiful self-forgetfulness which is the greatest charm of woman. It is a relief to see some honest country people stray in, simply cloaked and bonneted (and old-fashioned and homely at that,) who, ignorant of the mighty difference between “point” and cotton-lace, ermine and cat-skin, drop into a seat, ignore their artificial neighbors, and lose themselves in the illusions of the stage.MarkGrisi! What perfection of grace in attitude, what simplicity and appropriateness in costume, what a regal head, what massive white shoulders, what a queenly tread. How could such an imperial creature ever love that effeminate little pocket-edition—Mario? Aprettyman! with his silky locks parted in the middle, and a little dot of an imperial under his little red lip! Antidote me his effeminacy, oh memory, with the recollection of Daniel Webster’s unfathomable eyes and Lucifer-ish frown;—something grand—something noble—somethinghomelyif you like, but for Heaven’s sake, somethingmanly.HARD TIMES.“Ismevelvet j-a-c-k-e-t ready to try on?” drawled a lady, dropping her elegant cashmere from one shoulder, as she sauntered into Mme. ——’s dress-making saloon.“It is not,” replied the young girl in waiting.“Ve’yextraordinary—ve’ysurprising; madame promised it, without fail, this morning.”“Madame has been unexpectedly called out,” replied the girl, coolly rehearsing the stereotyped fib.“Ve’yperplexing,” muttered the lady; “ve’yridiculous—pray, whenwillshe see me?” she asked (unwilling to trust the draping of her aristocratic limbs to less practiced hands).“This afternoon at five,” answered the girl, fibbing a second time, knowing very well that it was part of madame’s tactics to keep her saloon daily filled with just such anxious expectants, up to the last endurable point of procrastination. And there they sat, poor imbeciles! grouped about the room, pulling over the last fashion prints, overhauling gayly-colored paper dress patterns, discussing modes, robes, basques, and trimmings, with the most ludicrously-grave earnestness, ordering ruinous quantities of point lace and velvet, with the most reckless abandon, and vying which should make themselves look most hideously-Babylonish and rainbow-like; while their husbands and fathers, in another part of the city, were hurrying from banks to counting-houses, sweating and fretting over “protested notes,” care, meanwhile, anticipating old Time in seaming their brows, and plowing their cheeks with wrinkles.In an unfashionable, obscure part of the city, in the basement of a small two-story house, sat a woman of twenty-seven years, the mother oftenchildren, who were swarming about her like a hive ofbees—fat, clean, rosy, noisy, merry, and happy. They had little space for their gymnastics, it is true, the little room dignified as “the parlor” being only twelve feet square; back of this was a dark bedroom, leading to a small kitchen, filled with the usual variety of culinary utensils. The pot of potatoes for their simple dinner, was boiling over the kitchen fire; the happy mother of this little family was putting the last touches to a silk dress for a lady in the neighborhood; and the baby was sleeping as sweetly, as though its brothers and sisters were not using their lungs and limbs, as Godintendedchildren’s lungs and limbs should be used. On a small table in the corner lay a pile of medical books—for the father of these ten children was absent at a medical lecture, preparatory to a physician’s practice.“Poor George!” said the prolific young mother, with a laugh—“all these big books yet to be crammed into his curly head;never mind—I had rather do all my own work, take in dress-making, and support the family two years longer, than that he should be disappointed in his favorite wish of becoming a doctor. There he comes!” said she, dropping her needle, as a dark-eyed, intelligent-looking, mercurial little fellow bounced into the room—snatched the baby from the cradle—jumped pell-mell into the laughing group of little boys and girls, and kissed his wife’s forehead, as he helped her to draw out the dinner-table.Ah, thought I, as I contrasted this with the sceneat Madame B——’s saloon, better is a dinner of potatoes whereloveis, than a stalled ox and a protested note therewith!COUNTER IRRITATION.“That is all clerks are fit for,” said a heartless woman, who had been diverting herself with turning a store full of goods topsy-turvy.Is it?Is the situation of a clerk always a congenial one? Have those who occupy it never a soul above ribbons and laces? Are they as frivolous, and mindless as many of the ladies upon whom they are often obliged to wait? Is their future bounded by the counter to which necessity has chained them?Not at all.Look into our library reading-rooms of an evening. See them joining the French, Spanish, German, and Italian classes. See them, unconscious of the flight of time, devouring with avidity works of history, biography, and books of travel. See the eye sparkle, and the brow flush, as they read how a Greeley shut his teeth on discouragement, and hewed out with his unaided arm a path to honor and usefulness. Ah! has the clerk no noble, hopes or aspirations for the future, which the grinding, treadmill round of his daily toil can neither smother nor crushout? Is there no far-off home from which he is an unwilling exile? No mother, no sister, whom he must make proud of son and brother? No bright-eyed, winsome young girl, whose image enshrined in his heart is at once a talisman against evil, and a spur to unremitting exertion? the hope of whose love sweetens and dignifies his unpretending labor, nerves him to bear uncomplainingly, unresentfully, the overbearing and undeserved rebuke of arrogant assumption?You shake your head, and cite sad instances to the contrary. You tell me of dishonest, dissolute, improvident clerks, lost to every just, generous, and noble feeling; who look not beyond the present hour either for soul or body.True.But what if, when they entered upon their clerkship they stood alone in the world, uncared for, irresponsible, held in check by no saving home influences, adrift upon the great human life tide? What if their employers looked upon them merely as tools and machines, not as human beings? What if they ground them down to the lowest possible rate of compensation. What if never by look, act, word, or tone, they manifested a kindly parental interest in their future, cared not what company they kept, or what influences surrounded them in their leisure hours? What if these young men returned at night, after their day’s meagerly rewarded toil, to a small, dreary, desolate, comfortless, lodging room,where there was nothing to cheer the eye or rest the heart? What if the syren voice of sin softly whispered those youthful, restless, craving hearts away?What then?Oh! if employers sometimes thought of this! Sometimes stopped the Juggernaut wheels of Mammon to look at the victims which lay crushed beneath, for want of a little human love, and care, and sympathy! Sometimes thought, while looking with fond pride upon their own young sons, that fortune’s wheel, in some of its thousand revolutions, might whirl them through the same fiery ordeal, and that their now unclouded sun might go down while it was yet day.You, who are employers, think of it!Youth hungers for appreciation—sympathy—must have it—ought to have it—willhave it. Oh, give it an occasional thought whether the source from whence it is obtained be good or evil, pure or impure! Speak kindly to them.Oh, the saving power there is in feeling that there is one human being who cares whether we stand or fall!
“And they, in the darkest of days, shall beGreenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.”
“And they, in the darkest of days, shall beGreenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.”
To Mary M., who desires a frank expression of opinion from the undersigned, with regard to her marrying an old bachelor.
Answer. Don’t do it. A man who for so long a period has had nobody but himself to think of, who knows where the finest oysters and venison steaks are to be found, and who has for years indulged in these and every other little selfish inclination unchecked, will, you may be sure (without punning), make a most miserablehelp-meat. When you have tea, he will wish it were coffee; when you have coffee, he will wish it were tea; when you have both, he will desire chocolate; and when you have all, he will tell you that they are made much better at his favorite restaurant. His shirts never will be ironed to suit him, his cravats will be laid in the drawer the wrong way, and his pocket-handkerchiefs markedin the wrong corner. He will always be happy to wait upon you, providedyourway is his way; but an extra walk round a block will put him out of humor for a week. He will be as unbending as a church-steeple—as exacting as a Grand Turk, and as impossible to please as a teething baby. Take my advice, Mary; give the old fossil the mitten, and choose a male specimen who is in the transition state, and capable of receiving impressions.
Hoary-headed old Winter, I have had enough of you! Not that I shrink from facing your rough breath, in a ten-mile walk, on the coldest day on which you ever made icicles; for I am no fair-weather sailor, not I; I have no thousand-dollar dress to spoil, and I am not afraid to increase the dimensions of my ankle by a never-to-be-sufficiently-adored India-rubber boot. I am dependent neither upon cars nor omnibusses, though I am, like other mortals, sometimes brought up short for want of a ferry-boat; but I am tired of frozen ground. I am tired of denuded trees, and leafless vines and branches, scraping against walls and fences, in the vain attempt to frictionize a little warmth into their stiffened limbs. I am tired of gray skies, and the mournful wailing of the winter wind; the starshave a steel-like glitter, and the moonbeams on the snow petrify me like the ghost of a smile on the face of a wire-drawn old maid. I long, like a prisoned bird, for a flight into green fields—I can not sing without the blossoming flowers. I would go to sleep with them, nor wake till the soft spring sheds warm, joyful tears, to call forth her hidden treasures.
And yet, old Winter, I have liked thee less well than now; when the hungry fire devoured the last remaining faggot, and Nature’s frozen face was but typical of the faces that my adverse fortune had petrified; but who cares for thee or them? So surely as prosperity brought back their sycophantic smiles, so surely shall thy stiff neck be bowed before the bounty-laden Spring. “Hope on—hope ever;” and yet how meaningless fall these words upon the ear of the poor widow, who but a stone’s throw from my window, sits watching beside her dead husband, heeding neither the wailing cry of the babe at her breast, nor the wilder wail of the winter wind, as it drifts the snow against the door.
“Hope on—hope ever.” She looks at you with a vacant stare, and then at the lifeless form before her, as if that were her mute answer. You tell her to trust in God, when it is her bitterest sorrow that the voice of her rebellious heart is, “Ye have taken away my idol, and what have I left?”
“Left?” poor mourner. O, so much, that you can not see until those falling tears have cleared your vision and eased your pain. “Left?” thesweet memory of unclouded earthly love, of which not even death can rob you; tones and looks which you will count over, when no human eye sees you, as the miser tells his hoarded gold.
“Left?” his child and yours, who, with the blessed baptism of holy tears, you will call God’s. “Left?” O, many a household, whose inmates pressing their anguished brows underlivingsorrows, would bless God for the sweet memories of earthly love that you cling to in your pain. “Left?” tearful mourner; a crown to win, sweeter for the wearing, when thorns have pressed the brow.
“Left?” a cross to bear, but O, so light to carry, when heaven is the goal!
“One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,Do not fear an armed band;One will fade as others greet thee,Shadows passing through the land.“Do not look at life’s long sorrow,See how small each moment’s pain;God will help thee for to-morrow,Every day begin again.”
“One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,Do not fear an armed band;One will fade as others greet thee,Shadows passing through the land.
“Do not look at life’s long sorrow,See how small each moment’s pain;God will help thee for to-morrow,Every day begin again.”
I maintain it: all the heroism of the present day is to be found among women. I say it to your beards. I am sick of such remarks as these: “Poor fellow! he was unfortunate in business, and so hetook to drinking;” or—“poor fellow! he had a bad wife, and lost all heart.” What does awomando who is unfortunate in business, I would like to know? Why—she tries again, of course, and keeps on trying to the end of the chapter, notwithstanding the pitiful remuneration man bestows upon her labor, notwithstanding his oft-repeated attempts to cheat her out of it when she has earned it! What does a woman do, who has a bad, improvident husband? Works all the harder, to be sure, to make up his deficiencies to her household; works day and night; smiles when her heart and back are both breaking; speaks hopeful words when her very soul is dying within her; denies herself the needed morsel to increase her children’s portion, and crushed neither by the iron gripe of poverty, nor allured by the Judas-smile of temptation, hopefully puts her trust in Him who feedeth the sparrows.
She “the weaker sex?” Out on your pusillanimous manhood! “Took to drinking because he was unhappy!” Bless—his—big—Spartan—soul! How I admire him! Couldn’t live a minute without he had every thing to his mind; never had the slightest idea of walking round an obstacle, or jumping over it; never practiced that sort of philosophical gymnastics—couldn’t grit his teeth at fate, and defy it to do its worst, because they chattered so;—poor fellow! Wanted buttered toast, and had to eat dry bread; liked “2.40,” and had to go a-foot; fond of wine, and had to drink Croton; couldn’t smoke,though his stove-pipe did; rushed out of the world, and left his wife and children to battle with the fate that his coward soul was afraid to meet. Brave, magnanimous fellow!
Again—we are constantly hearing that the extravagance of women debars young men from the bliss of matrimony. Poor things! they can’t select a wifefrom outthe frivolous circle of fashion; there are no refined, well-educated, lady-like, practical girls and women, whom any man, with a man’s soul, might be proud to call wife, nobly struggling for an honest maintenance as writers, governesses, teachers, semptresses, and milliners. They never read such an advertisement as this in the papers:
“Wanted, by a young girl, a situation as governess. She can teach the English branches, French and Italian; and is willing to accept a small remuneration, to secure a respectable home.”
“Wanted, by a young girl, a situation as governess. She can teach the English branches, French and Italian; and is willing to accept a small remuneration, to secure a respectable home.”
Fudge! None so blind as they whowon’tsee. The truth is, most of the young men of the present day are selfish to the backbone. “Poor,” too—very poor!—never go to Shelby’s or Delmonico’s for a nice little game supper, washed down with champagne at $2 a bottle; never smoke dozens of cigars a day, at six cents a piece; never invite—themselvesto go to concerts, the opera, or the theater! Wish they could afford to get married, but can’t, at least not till, as they elegantly express it, “they meet a pretty girl who has the tin.”
“Spring cleaning!” Oh misery! Ceilings to be whitewashed, walls to be cleaned, paint to be scoured, carpets to be taken up, shaken, and put down again; scrubbing women, painters, and whitewashers, all engaged for months a-head, or beginning on your house to secure the job, and then running off a day to somebody else’s to secure another. Yes, spring cleaning to be done; closets, bags, and baskets to be disemboweled; furs and woolens to be packed away; children’s last summer clothes to be inspected (not a garment that will fit—all grown up like Jack’s bean-stalk); spring cleaning, sure enough. I might spring my feet off and not get all that done. When is that book of mine to get written, I’d like to know? It’s Ma’am, will you have this? and Ma’am, will you have that? and Ma’am, will you have the other thing? May I be kissed if I hadn’t more time to write when I lived in an attic on salt and potatoes, and scrubbed the floor myself. Must I turn my house topsy-turvy, and inside out, once a year, because my grandmother did, and send my MSS. flying to the four winds, for this traditionary “spring cleaning.” Spring fiddlestick! Must I buy up all Broadway to be made into dresses, because all New York women go fashion-mad? What’s the use of having a house, if you can’t do as you like in it? What’s the use of being an authoress, if youcan’t indulge in the luxury of a shabby bonnet, or a comfortable old dress? What’s the use of dressing when your cook can outshine you? What is the use of dragging brocade and velvet through ferry-boats and omnibusses, to serve as mats for market-baskets and dirty boots? “There goes Lily Larkspur, the authoress, in that everlasting old black silk.” Well—what’s the use of being well off, if you can’t wear old clothes. If I was poor, as I was once, I couldn’t afford it. Do you suppose I’m going to wrinkle up my face, scowling at unhappy little boys for treading on a five-hundred-dollar silk? or fret myself into a fever because somegentlemanthrows a cigar-stump on its lustrous trailing folds? no, no; life is too short for that, and much too earnest. Give me good health—the morning for writing, and no interruptions, plenty of fresh air afterwards, and an old gown to enjoy it in, and you may mince along in your peacock dry-goods till your soul is as shriveled as your body.
I looked up—they were laughing at me—I am accustomed to be laughed at—so it neither moved nor astonished me. They had been laughing because I had been reading so long, and so intently, the advertising page of my daily paper. And whynot? when it is often to me the most interesting part of it. To be sure, I look at it with a pair of eyes that have not always been undimmed with tears; I think sometimes of the unwritten tragedy there may be in a four-line advertisement which scarce arrests the careless, laughing eye. I think of the days and nights of misery it took, the suffering and privation, to goad the sensitive heart up to its first appeal to the public ear—the trembling fingers which may have penned it—the tears which well-nigh obliterated it—the leaden feet which bore it, almost helplessly, to its destination.
No, I was not vexed that they laughed at me, for how should they, whose life-path had been always flower-bestrown, think of these sad things?
I had been reading what follows. Listen
“A young lady, suddenly thrown upon her own resources for support, desires a situation as Governess. She can teach all the English branches, understands French, German, and Italian, and would be willing to accept even the smallest compensation.”
“A young lady, suddenly thrown upon her own resources for support, desires a situation as Governess. She can teach all the English branches, understands French, German, and Italian, and would be willing to accept even the smallest compensation.”
I saw her! homeless—friendless—heart-broken; willing to accept the most humiliating, grinding conditions for a safe andimmediateshelter for her innocence. I saw the cold, calculating eye of some lady fashionist fasten upon the touching appeal. I saw her place the young girl’s pressing necessities in one scale, and her avarice in the other. I saw her include, in her acceptance of the post of governess, that of lace-laundress and nursery-maid; and I saw the poor young creature meekly, even thankfully,accept the conditions, while her wealthy patroness questioned her qualifications, depreciated her services, and secretly rejoiced at securing such a prize, at such an economical rate of compensation.
I saw another young girl similarly situated, but even less fortunate than the one of whom I have spoken. I saw the libidinous eye of a wretch who reads the advertising sheet with an eye to “young governesses,” fasten upon her advertisement. I saw him engage her, as he has others, for some fictitious family, in some fictitious place, constituting himself the head of it, and her escort on the way—only to turn, alas! her sweet innocent trust into the bitter channel of a life-long and unavailing remorse.
I took up the paper and read again:
“Who wants a boy?—A widower, with six children, will dispose of an infant to some family inclined to receive it.”
“Who wants a boy?—A widower, with six children, will dispose of an infant to some family inclined to receive it.”
That a widower might possibly be so situated as to render such a measure necessary, I could conceive, but that afathercould pen such a brusque, hilarious, jocular—“halloa-there”—announcement of the fact, rather stunned me.
“Who wants a boy?”
As if it were a colt, or a calf, or a six-weeks young pup—or any thing under heaven but his own flesh and blood! as if the little innocent had never lain beneath the loving heart ofherwhose last throb was for its sweet helplessness—last prayer for its vailed future.
Shade of the mother hover over that child!
I read again:
“Information wanted of a little girl, who, at the age of five years, was placed, ten years ago, in —— alms-house.”
“Information wanted of a little girl, who, at the age of five years, was placed, ten years ago, in —— alms-house.”
I thought ofhercheerless childhood (as I looked around my own bright hearthstone at my own happy children). I sawheryearning vainly for the sweet ties of kindred. I followed her from thence out into the world, where allbutherself, even the humblest, seem to have some human tie to make life sweet; I saw her wandering hither and thither, like Noah’s weary dove, without finding the heart’s resting-place; wondering, when she had time to wonder (for the heavy burden of daily toil which her slender shoulders bent beneath), if one heart yet beats on God’s green earth, through which her own life-tide flows.
I think of this—I wonderwhoit is who “wants information” concerning her. I wonder is it some remorseful relative, some brother, some sister, some father whose heart is at length touched with pity for the unrecognized little exile—ay—such things have been!
“Clerks out of employment.”
“Clerks out of employment.”
Need it be? With acres of fertile earth lying fair in the broad sunshine, waiting only the touch of their sinewy muscles, to throw out uncounted embryo treasures, while ruddy Health stands smiling at the plow!
Then I read of starving seamstresses, with no stock in trade but their needle; nothing but that too often, God help them! between their souls and perdition; and, then, in the very face of my womanly instincts, I say,letthem lecture—letthem preach—let them even be doctors, if they will (provided they keep their hands off me!)
Then I read, alas! advertisements, which promise youth and purity to lead them through the scorching fires of sin unharmed, unscathed, which say that the penalty annexed by a just God to his violated laws (even in this world),theywill turn aside; that a mancantake fire into his bosom andnotbe burned. And then I think that the editor who for paltry gain, throws such firebrands into pure and happy homesshould look well that the blight fall not on his own.
But there is comedy as well as tragedy in an advertising sheet. I am fond of poetry; my eye catches a favorite extract from Longfellow, or Bryant, or Percival, or Morris; I read it over with renewed pleasure, blessing the author in my heart the while. I am decoyed into the building to which it serves as a fairy vestibule. Where do I find myself?
By Parnassus! in a carpet-warehouse—in a sausage-shop—in a druggist’s—shoemaker’s—tailor’s—or hatter’s establishment.
Who shall circumscribe American ingenuity where dollars and cents are concerned?
Answer me, great Barnum!
“Tell you what are the fashions?” I, who am sick of the very word fashion? who could shake hands with every rustic I meet, for very delight at his napless hat, and ark-like coat?
You should be surfeited, as I am, with harlequin costumes; disgusted, as I am, with troops of women, strutting, like peacocks, to show their plumage; but who, less sensible than peacocks, nevershed their feathers. You should see brocades, and silk velvets, fit only for carriage or dinner dresses, daily mopping up the tobacco pools on these unmitigatedly nasty sidewalks. You should see the gay little bonnets, and oh! you should see the vapid, expression-less, soul-less faces beneath them. You should see the carriages, with their liveried servants, in our republican streets, and the faces, seamed withennuiand discontent, which peer through the windows, from beneath folds of lace and satin.
You should see how this dress furore infects every class and circle. You should see the young apprentice girl who can afford but one bonnet, buying a flimsy dress-hat, to be worn in all weathers; securing for Sunday, a showy silk dress and gilt bracelet, when she has hardly a decent chemise, or petticoat, and owns, perhaps, but one handkerchief, and a couple of pairs of stockings. You should see the wife of the young mechanic, with her embroidered pocket-handkerchief, and flaunting pink parasol, while she can number but one pair of sheets, and one table-cloth. You should see her children, with their plumed hats, while parti-colored, dilapidated petticoats peep from beneath their dresses, and they are shivering for the want of warm flannels. You should see the servant-girl, with her greasy flounces, and soiled artificial flowers. You should see young men, with staring diamond pins stuck on their coarse shirt-bosoms, with shabby velvet vests, and mock chains looped over them.
You should go into the “furnishing stores for ladies’ and children’s garments;” and see howimpossibleit is to findplain,substantialarticles of clothingfor either—two thirds, at least, of the cost of every article being for elaborate trimming, and ruffling, and useless embroidery. You should go into the “ladies’ cloak stores,” and see these garments loaded indeed with gay trimmings, but miserably thin, and ill-adapted for winter wear; hence thestoriesof garments you frequently notice on New York ladies (as winter intensifies), as if one good, sensible, thickly-wadded, old-fashioned, outside garment, could, by any possibility, be more awkward and ugly than such an “arrangement,” and as if it were not a million degrees more comfortable, and less troublesome; but, then—Fashion says, No!
“Tell you the fashions?”
Excuse my rambling. Well; here they are, as near as I can find out:
Puff your hair and your skirts. Lace your lungs and your handkerchief. Put on the most stunning dress you can find; wear it of astumblinglength, because Queen Victoria’s royal ankles are thick.
Take a handful of artificial roses, each of a different color, half a dozen yards of ribbon ditto, lace ditto. Secure them, for a bonnet, to your bump of amativeness, with two long pins. Then sprinkle the contents of a jeweler’s shop promiscuously over your person; and by no means, before you go out, omit drawing on a pair of brightyellowgloves; thatsine quâ nonof a New York woman’s toilette.
“Tell you the fashions?” Take a walk down Broadway, and see for yourself. If you have a particle of sense, it will cure you of your absorbing interest in that question during your natural life, though your name be written “Methuselah.”
A few scraps from the “Life of Charlotte Bronte,” that I would like to see pasted up in editorial offices throughout the length and breadth of the land:
“She, Miss Bronte, especially disliked the lowering of the standard by which to judge a work of fiction if it proceeded from a feminine pen; and praise,mingled withpseudo-gallant allusions to her sex, mortified her far more than actual blame.
“Come what will,” she says, “I can not, when I write, think always of myself, and of what is elegant and charming in femininity; it is not on these terms, or with such ideas, that I ever took pen in hand, and if it is only on these terms my writing will be tolerated, I shall pass away from the public and trouble it no more.
“I wish all reviewers believed me to be a man; they would be more just to me. They will, I know, keep measuring me by some standard of what they deem becoming to my sex; where I am not what they consider graceful, they will condemn me.
“No matter—whether known or unknown—misjudged or the contrary—I am resolved not to write otherwise.I shall bend as my powers tend.The two human beings who understood me are gone; I have some who love me yet, and whom I love, without expecting or having a right to expect they shall perfectly understand me. I am satisfied,but I must have my own way in the matter of writing.”
Speaking of some attacks on Miss Bronte, her biographer says:
“Flippancy takes a graver name, when directed against an author by an anonymous writer; we then call itcowardly insolence.”
She also says:
“It is well that the thoughtless critics, who spoke of the sad and gloomy views of life presented by the Brontes in their tales, should know how such words were wrung out of them by the living recollection of the long agony they suffered. It is well, too, that they who have objected to the representation ofcoarseness, and shrank from it with repugnance, as if such conception arose out of the writers, should learn, that not from the imagination, not from internal conception—but from the hard cruel facts, pressed down, by an external life upon their very senses, for long months and years together, did they write out what they saw, obeying the stern dictates of their consciences. They might be mistaken. They might err in writing at all, when their afflictions were so great that they could not write otherwise than as they did of life. It is possible that it would have been better to have described good and pleasant people, doing only good and pleasant things (in which case they could hardly have written at any time): all I say is, that never, I believe, did women possessed of such wonderful gifts exercise them with a fuller feeling of responsibility for their use.”
A friend of Miss Bronte says:
“The world heartily, greedily enjoyed the fruits of Miss Bronte’s labors,and then found out she was much to blame for possessing such faculties.”
Mrs. Gaskell says:
“So utterly unconscious was Miss Bronte of what was by some esteemed ‘coarse’ in her writings, that on one occasion, when the conversation turned upon women’s writing fiction—she said, in her grave, earnest way, ‘I hope God will take away from me whatever power of invention, or expression I may have, before he lets me become blind to the sense of what is fitting, or unfitting to be said.’”
Fanny Fern says:
I would that all who critically finger women’s books, would read and ponder these extracts. I would that reviewers had a more fitting sense of their responsibility, in giving their verdicts to the public; permitting themselves to be swayed neither by personal friendship, nor private pique; speakinghonestly, by all means, but remembering their own sisters, when they would point a flippant, smart articleby disrespectful mention of a lady writer; or by an unmanly, brutal persistence in tearing from her face the mask of incognito-ship, which she has, if she pleases, an undoubted right to wear. I would that they would speak respectfully of those whose pure, self-denying life, has been through trials and temptations under whichtheirstrong natures would have succumbed; and who tremblingly await the public issue of days and nights of single-handed, single-hearted weariness and toil. Not that a woman’s book should be praised because it is a woman’s, nor, on the contrary, condemned for that reason. But as you would shrink from seeing a ruffian’s hand laid upon your sister’s gentle shoulder, deal honestly, but, I pray you,courteously, with those whose necessities have forced them out from the blessed shelter of the home circle, into jostling contact with rougher natures.
“No woman ever produced a great painting or statue.”—Ex.
On the contrary, she has produced a great many “statues,” who may be seen any sunshiny day, walking Broadway, in kid gloves and perfumed broadcloth, while “Lawrence” lies in ashes.
“No woman ever wrote a great drama.”—Ex.
Ay—but they have lived one; and when worn out with suffering at hands which should have shielded them, have died without a murmur on their martyr lips.
“No woman ever composed a great piece of music.”—Ex.
What do you call a baby?
“No woman was ever a great cook!”—Ex.
True—it takes a man to get up abroil.
“Women have invented nothing outside of millinery since the world began.”—Ex.
How can they? when they are sohoopedin?
“Women have written clever letters, tolerable novels, and intolerable epics.”—Ex.
Indeed! It strikes me, though, that we have furnished you the material for yours; just tell me whatyour“letters,”your“novels,”your“epics,” would have amounted to, without the inspiring theme—woman. When the world furnishes usheroes, perhapsweshall write splendid novels, andsplendid epics. Pharaoh once required bricks to be made “without straw.”
“Letters?” No man, since the world began, could pen a letter equal to a woman. Look at the abortions dignified by that name in men-novels; stiltified—unnatural—stiff—pedantic, or else coarse. You can no more do it than an elephant can waltz. The veriest school girl can surpass you at it. I have often heard men confess it (when off their guard). One thing at least we know enough to do, viz.: when we wish to make one of your sex our eternal and unchangeable friend we always allow him to beat us in an argument.
“It is too bad,” said a lady to me, not long since, “it is too bad; I am almost tired to death.” She had been to York on a shopping expedition; and, having finished her purchases, and returned, laden with them to the ferry, found two thirds of the seats in theladies’ cabinof the ferry-boat occupied bymen, while she and several other ladies were compelled to stand till the boat reached the pier. “It is too bad,” she repeated; “they have no right to occupy theladies’cabin, when ladies are standing. Give them a dig, Fanny, won’t you?”
“Of course I will,” said I; “the case, to my mind, is clearly against the coat-tails; more especially, as, when the boat touches the pier, they rush past the ladies, and by right of their pantaloons leap over the chain (which femininity must wait to see unhooked), in order to monopolize all the seats in the street cars, to the exclusion of the aforesaid dismayed and weary ladies. Most certainly I will give them a dig, my dear; it is an exhibition of ‘grab’ which is quite disgusting.”
But stay—have theladiesno sins to answer for? May it not be just possible that the men are at last getting weary of rendering civilities to women who receive them as a matter of right, without even an acknowledging smile, or “Thank you?” May they not have tired of creeping, with an abject air, into cars and omnibusses, and gradually and circumspectly lowering themselves amid such billows of hoops and flounces? May they not at last have become disgusted at the absurd selfishness which ladies manifest on these occasions? the “sit closer, ladies,” of the conductors and drivers being met with a pouting frown, or, at best, the emigration of the sixteenth part of an inch to the right or left. And is it not a shame, that a deprecating blush should crimson a gentleman’s forehead because he ventures to seat himself, in a public conveyance, in the proximity of these abominable, limb-disguising, uncomfortable, monopolizing hoops? Women who are blessed with hips, should most certainly discard thesenuisances, and women who are not, should know that narrow shoulders, and a bolster conformation, look more ramrod-y still, in contrast with this artificial voluminousness of the lower story.
And then the little girls! The idea of hunting under these humbugs of hoops, for little fairy girls, whose antelope motions are thus circumscribed, their graceful limbs hidden, and their gleeful sports checked—the monstrosity of making hideoustheirperfect proportions, and rendering them a laughing-stock to every jeering boy whom they meet; and—worse than all—theirreparable moral wrongof teaching them that comfort and decency must be sacrificed to Fashion! Bah!—I have no patience to think of it. I turn my pained eyes for relief to the little ragged romps who run round the streets, with one thin garment, swaying artistically to the motion of their unfettered limbs. I rush into the sculptor’s studio, and feast my eyes on limbs which have no drapery at all.
Yes, it is trying to feminine ankles and patience, to have gentlemen occupy ladies’ places in the “ladies’ cabin,” and gentlemen who do this will please consider themselves rebuked for it; but it is also disgusting, that women have not fortitude sufficient to discard the universal and absurd custom of wearing hoops. Nay, more, I affirm that any woman who has not faith enough in her Maker’s taste and wisdom, to prefer her own bones to a whale’s, deserves the fate of Jonah—minus the ejectment.
Yes, I did say that “it is not every man who has a call to be a husband;” and I am not going to back out of it.
Has that man a call to be a husband, who, having wasted his youth in excesses, looks around him at the eleventh hour for a “virtuous young girl” (such men have the effrontery to beveryparticular on this point), to nurse up his damaged constitution, and perpetuate it in their offspring?
Has that man a call to be a husband, who, believing that the more the immortal within us is developed in this world, the higher we shall rank with heavenly intelligences in the next, yet deprecates for a wife a woman of thought and intellect, lest a marriage with such should peril the seasoning of his favorite pudding, or lest she might presume in any of her opinions to be aught else than his echo?
Has that man a call to be a husband, who, when the rosy maiden he married is transformed by too early an introduction to the cares and trials of maternity, into a feeble, confirmed invalid, turns impatiently from the restless wife’s sick-room, to sun himself in the perfidious smile of one whom he would blush to name in that wife’s pure ears?
Hasheany call to be a husband, who adds to his wife’s manifold cares that of selecting and providingthe household stores, and inquires of her, at that, how she spent the surplus shilling of yesterday’s appropriation?
Hasheany call to be a husband, who permits his own relatives, in his hearing, to speak disrespectfully or censoriously of his wife?
Hasheany call to be a husband, who reads the newspaper from beginning to end, giving notice of his presence to the weary wife, who is patiently mending his old coat, only by an occasional “Jupiter!” which may mean, to the harrowed listener, that we have a President worth standing in a driving rain, at the tail of a three-mile procession, to vote for, or—the contrary? and who, after having extracted every particle of news the paper contains, coolly puts it in one of his many mysterious pockets, and goes to sleep in his chair?
Hashea call to be a husband, who carries a letter, intended for his wife, in his pocket for six weeks, and expects any thing short of “gunpowder tea” for his supper that night?
Has he a call to be a husband, who leaves his wife to blow out the lamp, and stub her precious little toes while she is navigating for the bed-post?
Has he a call to be a husband, who tells his wife “to walk on a couple of blocks and he will overtake her,” and then joins in a hot political discussion with an opponent, after which, in a fit of absence of mind, he walks off home, leaving his wife transformed by his perfidy into “a pillar of salt?”
Has he any call to be a husband, who sits down on his wife’s best bonnet, or puts her shawl over her shoulders upside down, or wrong side out at the Opera?
Has he any call to be a husband, who goes “unbeknown” to his wife, to some wretch of a barber, and parts, for twenty-five cents, with a beard which she has coaxed from its first infantile sprout, to luxuriant, full-grown, magnificent, unsurpassable hirsuteness, and then comes home to her horrified vision a pocket edition of Moses?
Has he any call to be a husband, who kisses his wife only on Saturday night, when he winds up the clock and pays the grocer, and who never notices, day by day, the neat dress, and shining bands of hair arranged to please his stupid milk-and-water-ship?
Has that woman a call to be a wife, who thinks more of her silk dress than of her children, and visits her nursery no oftener than once a day?
Has that woman a call to be a wife, who cries for a cashmere shawl when her husband’s notes are being protested?
Has that woman a call to be a wife, who sits reading the last new novel, while her husband standsbefore the glass, vainly trying to pin together a buttonless shirt-bosom?
Has that woman a call to be a wife, who expects her husband to swallow diluted coffee, soggy bread, smoky tea, and watery potatoes, six days out of seven?
Has she a call to be a wife, who keeps her husband standing on one leg a full hour in the street, while she is saying that interminable “last word” to some female acquaintance?
Has she a call to be a wife, who flirts with every man she meets, and reserves her frowns for the home fireside?
Has she a call to be a wife, who comes down to breakfast in abominable curl-papers, a soiled dressing-gown, and shoes down at the heel?
Has she a call to be a wife, who bores her husband, when he comes into the house, with the history of a broken tea-cup, or the possible whereabouts of a missing broom-handle?
Has she a call to be a wife, whose husband’s love weighs naught in the balance with her next door neighbor’s damask curtains, or velvet carpet?
Has she a call to be a wife, who would take advantage of a moment of conjugal weakness, to extort money or exact a promise?
Has she a call to be a wife, who “has the headache” whenever her husband wants her to walk with him, but willingly wears out her gaiter boots promenading with his gentlemen friends?
Has she a call to be a wife, who takes a journeyfor pleasure, leaving her husband to toil in a close office, and “have an eye, when at home, to the servants and children?”
Has she a call to be a wife, who values an unrumpled collar or crinoline more than a conjugal kiss?
Has she a call to be a wife, to whom agoodhusband’s society is not the greatest of earthly blessings, and a house full of rosy children its best furnishing, and prettiest adornment?
That prurient young men, and broken-down old ones, should seek amusement in matrimonial advertisements, is not so much a matter of surprise; but that respectable papers should lend such a voice in their columns, is, I confess, astonishing. I do not say that a virtuous woman has never answered such an advertisement; but I do say, that the virtue of a woman who would do so is not invincible. There is no necessity for an attractive, or, to use a hateful phrase, a “marketable” woman, to take such a degrading step to obtain what, alas! under legitimate circumstances, often proves, when secured, but a Dead Sea apple. It is undesirable, damaged, and unsaleable goods that are oftenest offered at auction. A woman must first have ignored the sweetest attributes of womanhood, have overstepped the last barrier of self-respect, who would parley with astranger on such a topic. You tell me that marriage has sometimes been the result. Granted: but has a woman who has effected it in this way, bettered her condition, how uncongenial soever it might have been? Few husbands (and the longer I observe, the more I am convinced of the truth of what I am about say, and I make no exception in favor of education or station) have the magnanimity to use justly, generously, the power which the law puts in their hands. But what if a wife’s helplessness be aggravated by the reflection that she hasabjectly solicitedher wretched fate? How many men, think you, are there, who, when out of humor, would hesitate tauntingly to use this drawn sword which you have foolishly placed in their hands?
Our sex has need of all the barriers, all the defenses, which nature has given us. No—never let woman be the wooer, save as the flowers woo, with their sweetness—save as the stars woo, with their brightness—save as the summer wind woos—silently unfolding the rose’s heart.
Every day, in my walks, I pass a large bow window on the corner of two streets, in which is displayed the agreeable spectacle of big and little coffins of all sorts and shapes, piled up and standing on end. This is in bad taste enough; but yesterday, through the ostentatious glass-windows of the shop, I saw a little rosy baby crawling over and around them, while the elder children were using them for play-houses for their dolls! Now such a sight may strike other people agreeably, or they may pass it every day with entire indifference; unfortunately for my peace of mind, I can do neither one nor the other, for by a sort of horrid fascination my eyes are attracted to that detestable window, and familiarity but increases my disgust.
Now I know I shall need a coffin some day or other; but to-day the blue sky arches over my head, the fresh wind fans my temples, and every blade of grass, and new-blown violet, makes me childishly happy; now what right has that ghoul of an undertaker to nudge me in my healthy ribs as I pass, check my springing step, send the blood from my cheek back to my heart, change my singing to sighing, and turn this bright glorious earth into one vast charnel-house? In the name of cheerfulness, I indict him, and his co-fellows, for unmitigated nuisances.
And while I am upon this subject I would like to ask why the New York sextons, for I believe it is peculiar to them, should have the exclusive privilege of advertising their business on the outer church-walls, any more than the silversmith who furnishes the communion-plate; or the upholsterer who makes the pulpit and pew-cushions; or the bookseller who furnishes the hymn-books; or the dry-goods merchant who sells the black silk to make the clergyman’s robe? It strikes me that it is a monopoly, and a very repulsive one. In my opinion, this whole funeral business needs reforming. Much of the shrinking horror with which death is invested even to good Christians, is traceable to these repulsive, early associations, of which they can not, by any exercise of faith, rid themselves in after years. These unnecessary, ostentatious, long-drawn-out paraphernalia of woe; these gloomy sable garments, which all should unite in abolishing; these horrible pompous funerals, with their pompous undertakers, where people who scarce ever glanced at the living face congregate to sniffle hypocritical tears over the dead one; these stereotyped round-about prayers that mean so little, and which the mourner never hears; this public counting of scalding tears by careless gazers at the grave-yard or the tomb; it is all horrible—it need not be—for the sake of childhood, often, through fear of death, all its life-time subject to bondage, itought notto be. Even the “heathen,” so called, have the advantage of us in the cheerfulness with which they wisely invest a transition, from which flesh and blood, with its imperfect spiritualization, instinctively shrinks.
“There is no night there,” though spoken of a place the opposite of New York, is nevertheless true of Gotham; for by the time the ennuied pleasure seekers have yawned out the evening at the theater or opera, and supped at Taylor’s, or danced themselves lame at some private ball, a more humble but much more useful portion of the community are rubbing open their eyelids, and creeping by the waning light of the street lamps, and the gray dawn, to another brave day of ill-requited toil; while in many an attic, by the glimmer of a handful of lighted shavings, tear-stained faces resume the coarse garment left unfinished the night before. At this early hour, too, stunted, prematurely-old little boys may be seen, staggering under the weight of heavy shop window shutters, and young girls, with faded eyes and shawls, crawl to their prisoning workshops; while lean, over-tasked omnibus horses, commence anew their never-ceasing, treadmill rounds. God help them all! my heart is with the oppressed, be it man or beast.
The poet says there are “sermons in stones.” I endorse it. The most eloquent sermons I ever heard were from “A. Stone;” (but that is a theme I am not going to dwell upon now.) I maintain that there are sermons inhorses.
Crash—crash—crash!
I turned my head. Directly behind me, in Broadway, was a full-freighted omnibus. One of the horses attached had kicked out both his hind legs, snapped the whiffle-tree to the winds, and planting his hoofs into the end window, under the driver’s seat, had shivered the glass in countless fragments, into the faces of the astonished passengers, plunging and rearing with the most ’76-y spirit. Ladies screamed, and scrambled with what haste they might, out on to the pavement; gentlemen dropped their morning papers, and uttering angry imprecations as they brushed the glass splinters from their broadcloth, followed them; while the driver cursed and lashed in vain at the infuriated hoofs, which abated not a jot of their fury at all his cursing and lashing.
“Vicious beast!” exclaimed one bystander. “Ought to be shotinstanter!” said a second. “I’d like to lash his hide raw!” exclaimed a third Nero.
Ah! my good friends, thought I, as I went laughing on my way, not so fast with your anathemas. The cause of that apparently malicious and unprovoked attack,dates a long way back. Count, if you please, the undeserved lashings, the goadings, and spurings, that noble creature has borne, while doing a horse’s best to please! Think of the scanty feed, the miserable stable, the badly-fiting, irritating harness; the slippery pavements, where he has so often been whipped for stumbling; the melting dog-days with their stinging bottle-flies and burning sun-rays, when he has plodded wearily up and downthose interminable avenues, sweating and panting under the yoke of cruel task-masters.
’Tis the last ounce which breaks the camel’s back; ’tis the last atom which balances the undulating scales. Why should that noble horse bear all this? He of the flashing eye, arching neck, and dilating nostril? He of the horny hoof and sinewy limb?He!—good for ascoreof his oppressors, if he would only think so!—Up go his hoofs!As a Bunker Hill descendant, I can not call that horse—a jackass.
Are the New York children to be frozen this winter, I want to know? Are their legs to be bared from the knee to the tip of their little white socks, just above the ankle, to please some foolish mother, who would rather her child were a martyr to neuralgia and rheumatism, its natural life, than to be out of fashion? Are sneezing babes to face the winter wind in embroidered muslin caps, lined with silk, the costly lace borders of which are supposed to atone for the premature loss of their eye-sight? Are little girls to shiver in cambric pantalettes, and skirts lifted high in the air by infantile hoops? Are their mothers to tiptoe through the all-abounding “slosh” of New York streets, in paper-soled gaiters, and rose-colored silk stockings? And yet one scarcely cares about the latter, because the sooner such “mothers of families” tiptoe themselves into their graves, the better for coming generations; but for the children, one can but sigh, and shiver too; and inquire, as did an old-fashioned physician of a little undressed victim, “If cloth was so dear that her mother could not afford to cover her knees?” It is a comfort to look at the men, who, whatever follies they may be guilty of (and no human arithmetic can compute them), have yet sense enough to wear thick-soled boots, and wadded wrappers in the proper season. One looks at their comfortable garments and heaves a sigh for breeze and mud-defying pantaloondom; for with the most sensible arrangements for skirts, they are an unabated and intolerable nuisance in walking; and yet those horrid Bloomers! those neutral, yet “strong-minded” Miss Nancys! with their baggy stuff-trowsers, flaping fly-aways, and cork-screw stringlets. Icouldget up a costume! but alas! the brass necessary to wear it! I see now, with my mind’s eye, the jaunty little cap, the well-fitting, graceful pants, the half-jacket, half-blouse—the snow-white collar, and pretty fancy neck-tie—the ravishing boot—the nicely fitting wrist-band, with its gold sleeve-buttons; but why awake the jealousy of the other “sect?” Why drive the tailors to commit suicide in the midst of their well-stocked warehouses? Why send little boys grinning round corners? Why make the parson forget his prayers, and the lawyer his clients?Why drive distracted the feminine owners of big feet and thick ankles? Why force women to mend the holes in the heels of their stockings? Why leave to scavengers the pleasant task of mopping up dirty streets and sidewalks? Why drive “M. Ds.” to take down their signs, and take up “de shovel and de hoe?” I’ll be magnanimous. I won’t do it.
I was at the opera last night. It was all gas-glare, gilding and girls. Oh, the unspeakably tiresome fix-up-ativeness of New York women! The elaborate hair-twistings and braidings; the studied display of bracelets and rings; the rolling-up of eyes, and casting-down of eye-lashes; the simperings and smirkings; the gettings-up and sittings-down, ere the fortunate attitude is fixed upon; the line at which a shawl must be dropped to show a bust; the ermine sheets, worn without reference to lily or leopard complexions; the fat damsels who affect Madonna-ism; the lean women, whaleboned to “Peter Schemel”-ism; the tinsel-y head-dresses; the gaudy opera-cloaks; the pray-do-look-at-me air; the utter absence of simplicity, and of that beautiful self-forgetfulness which is the greatest charm of woman. It is a relief to see some honest country people stray in, simply cloaked and bonneted (and old-fashioned and homely at that,) who, ignorant of the mighty difference between “point” and cotton-lace, ermine and cat-skin, drop into a seat, ignore their artificial neighbors, and lose themselves in the illusions of the stage.
MarkGrisi! What perfection of grace in attitude, what simplicity and appropriateness in costume, what a regal head, what massive white shoulders, what a queenly tread. How could such an imperial creature ever love that effeminate little pocket-edition—Mario? Aprettyman! with his silky locks parted in the middle, and a little dot of an imperial under his little red lip! Antidote me his effeminacy, oh memory, with the recollection of Daniel Webster’s unfathomable eyes and Lucifer-ish frown;—something grand—something noble—somethinghomelyif you like, but for Heaven’s sake, somethingmanly.
“Ismevelvet j-a-c-k-e-t ready to try on?” drawled a lady, dropping her elegant cashmere from one shoulder, as she sauntered into Mme. ——’s dress-making saloon.
“It is not,” replied the young girl in waiting.
“Ve’yextraordinary—ve’ysurprising; madame promised it, without fail, this morning.”
“Madame has been unexpectedly called out,” replied the girl, coolly rehearsing the stereotyped fib.
“Ve’yperplexing,” muttered the lady; “ve’yridiculous—pray, whenwillshe see me?” she asked (unwilling to trust the draping of her aristocratic limbs to less practiced hands).
“This afternoon at five,” answered the girl, fibbing a second time, knowing very well that it was part of madame’s tactics to keep her saloon daily filled with just such anxious expectants, up to the last endurable point of procrastination. And there they sat, poor imbeciles! grouped about the room, pulling over the last fashion prints, overhauling gayly-colored paper dress patterns, discussing modes, robes, basques, and trimmings, with the most ludicrously-grave earnestness, ordering ruinous quantities of point lace and velvet, with the most reckless abandon, and vying which should make themselves look most hideously-Babylonish and rainbow-like; while their husbands and fathers, in another part of the city, were hurrying from banks to counting-houses, sweating and fretting over “protested notes,” care, meanwhile, anticipating old Time in seaming their brows, and plowing their cheeks with wrinkles.
In an unfashionable, obscure part of the city, in the basement of a small two-story house, sat a woman of twenty-seven years, the mother oftenchildren, who were swarming about her like a hive ofbees—fat, clean, rosy, noisy, merry, and happy. They had little space for their gymnastics, it is true, the little room dignified as “the parlor” being only twelve feet square; back of this was a dark bedroom, leading to a small kitchen, filled with the usual variety of culinary utensils. The pot of potatoes for their simple dinner, was boiling over the kitchen fire; the happy mother of this little family was putting the last touches to a silk dress for a lady in the neighborhood; and the baby was sleeping as sweetly, as though its brothers and sisters were not using their lungs and limbs, as Godintendedchildren’s lungs and limbs should be used. On a small table in the corner lay a pile of medical books—for the father of these ten children was absent at a medical lecture, preparatory to a physician’s practice.
“Poor George!” said the prolific young mother, with a laugh—“all these big books yet to be crammed into his curly head;never mind—I had rather do all my own work, take in dress-making, and support the family two years longer, than that he should be disappointed in his favorite wish of becoming a doctor. There he comes!” said she, dropping her needle, as a dark-eyed, intelligent-looking, mercurial little fellow bounced into the room—snatched the baby from the cradle—jumped pell-mell into the laughing group of little boys and girls, and kissed his wife’s forehead, as he helped her to draw out the dinner-table.
Ah, thought I, as I contrasted this with the sceneat Madame B——’s saloon, better is a dinner of potatoes whereloveis, than a stalled ox and a protested note therewith!
“That is all clerks are fit for,” said a heartless woman, who had been diverting herself with turning a store full of goods topsy-turvy.
Is it?
Is the situation of a clerk always a congenial one? Have those who occupy it never a soul above ribbons and laces? Are they as frivolous, and mindless as many of the ladies upon whom they are often obliged to wait? Is their future bounded by the counter to which necessity has chained them?
Not at all.
Look into our library reading-rooms of an evening. See them joining the French, Spanish, German, and Italian classes. See them, unconscious of the flight of time, devouring with avidity works of history, biography, and books of travel. See the eye sparkle, and the brow flush, as they read how a Greeley shut his teeth on discouragement, and hewed out with his unaided arm a path to honor and usefulness. Ah! has the clerk no noble, hopes or aspirations for the future, which the grinding, treadmill round of his daily toil can neither smother nor crushout? Is there no far-off home from which he is an unwilling exile? No mother, no sister, whom he must make proud of son and brother? No bright-eyed, winsome young girl, whose image enshrined in his heart is at once a talisman against evil, and a spur to unremitting exertion? the hope of whose love sweetens and dignifies his unpretending labor, nerves him to bear uncomplainingly, unresentfully, the overbearing and undeserved rebuke of arrogant assumption?
You shake your head, and cite sad instances to the contrary. You tell me of dishonest, dissolute, improvident clerks, lost to every just, generous, and noble feeling; who look not beyond the present hour either for soul or body.
True.
But what if, when they entered upon their clerkship they stood alone in the world, uncared for, irresponsible, held in check by no saving home influences, adrift upon the great human life tide? What if their employers looked upon them merely as tools and machines, not as human beings? What if they ground them down to the lowest possible rate of compensation. What if never by look, act, word, or tone, they manifested a kindly parental interest in their future, cared not what company they kept, or what influences surrounded them in their leisure hours? What if these young men returned at night, after their day’s meagerly rewarded toil, to a small, dreary, desolate, comfortless, lodging room,where there was nothing to cheer the eye or rest the heart? What if the syren voice of sin softly whispered those youthful, restless, craving hearts away?
What then?
Oh! if employers sometimes thought of this! Sometimes stopped the Juggernaut wheels of Mammon to look at the victims which lay crushed beneath, for want of a little human love, and care, and sympathy! Sometimes thought, while looking with fond pride upon their own young sons, that fortune’s wheel, in some of its thousand revolutions, might whirl them through the same fiery ordeal, and that their now unclouded sun might go down while it was yet day.
You, who are employers, think of it!
Youth hungers for appreciation—sympathy—must have it—ought to have it—willhave it. Oh, give it an occasional thought whether the source from whence it is obtained be good or evil, pure or impure! Speak kindly to them.
Oh, the saving power there is in feeling that there is one human being who cares whether we stand or fall!