My very dear young girls, those Arts and accomplishments which form
part of the average education will be taught you by your Governess,
and in some cases, if your parents think it judicious, by a male
Professor. I do not propose in these papers to deal with such
subjects. But there are certain points in the life of the young girl,
about which the handbooks have but little to say, which your teachers
do not include in their course of tuition. Some of these points are
particularly intimate and sentimental. It is here that I would wish
to act as your adviser, and, if I may, as your confidential friend.
I shall always be glad, while these papers are being published,
to receive and answer any letters from young girls on questions of
sentiment and propriety. If we had no sentiment, life would not stand
thinking about; if we had no propriety, life would not stand talking
about. Of the two, propriety is, perhaps, for the woman the more
important, but I shall be glad to answer questions on both. And now
let me say a few words on the subject of the Young Girl's Diary.
[Illustration: (Young girl.)]
You must most certainly keep a Diary.
When I was a young girl of twenty-eight--it is not so very long ago--I
had my Diary bound in pale blue watered silk; it had three locks and a
little silver key which I wore on a riband round my neck. I never took
it off except to--I mean for the purposes of the toilette. There was a
pocket at the end of the book, which would hold a faded flower or any
little souvenir. I always wrote it in solitude and by night. Secresy
has its ritual, and it is infinitely sweet and consoling. If you
should ever choose to read any passage from your Diary to the dearest
of your girl-friends, the confidence becomes in consequence so much
more confidential; for she will know that you are reading to her what
was never intended for any human eye to see, and will enjoy it more.
If you have the least appreciation of what sentiment really means, if
you feel that you are misunderstood, or if you suffer from the most
sacred of all emotions, you will most certainly keep a Diary.
The entries in the Diary need not be of any great length. I once had
a dear girl-friend who, during the happy season of her first love,
became in the pages of her Diary almost entirely interjectional. I
think this was from natural delicacy. I was recently stopping at her
house, and owing to circumstances over which she had no control, I
am able to reproduce here the entries which she made in the few days
which culminated in her engagement.
"_September_ 6.--Why?"
You observe that she is puzzled to account for her own emotions, and
yet hesitates to give the inevitable solution. The intense reticence
of this entry seems to me peculiarly beautiful.
"_September_ 7.--I hate MARY BINDLER."
I can remember the circumstances very well, and I am inclined to think
that she had some reason to be jealous of MARY BINDLER. MARY was not
at all a nice girl.
"_September_ 8.--Joy, joy, joy!"
I think I can explain this entry. MARY BINDLER had been called away
hurriedly. Somebody was dead, or something of that sort. My friend's
expression of relief seems to me very pretty and natural.
"_September_ 9.--Ah!"
"_September_ 10.--Oh!"
In that little word "Ah!" there is the whole history of a pic-nic and
a carriage accident. It was there that she first guessed his feelings
towards her. I am sorry to say that I have not been able to obtain
any adequate explanation of the "Oh!" But I know they went out after
dinner to see if it was possible to play tennis by moonlight. I
conclude that it was not, for the next entry, which consists simply of
a note of exclamation, is really a record of her engagement.
Of course I need not point out the impropriety of mixing in the pages
of your Diary the record of the most sacred emotions, and notes of
things more commonplace. I knew a girl who invariably did this. She
always commenced with an account of any money that she might have
spent during the day. I have managed, with considerable difficulty, to
make a copy of one of these entries, and I give it as a warning:--
"Chocolate, one-and-six. ALGERNON has written to me, asking me to see
him again for the last time. I have written back that my decision
is unalterable. It breaks my heart to have to be so cruel--but fate
wills it, and it's no good fighting against Mamma. Sent my grey to be
cleaned--but it won't look anything when it's done."