young lover at the time her health failed. He would not believe at first
that there was no cure for her. Her instinct had been so true that she
had chosen a perfectly loyal lover whose love could not be shaken by
misfortune. At last he was himself attacked by a terrible disease, and
it was seldom possible for the two to meet after that. But they faced
their trouble together. They said that if the time should ever come
when they could be married they should rejoice; but if it never came
they would be all they could to each other. Sometimes even letters were
impossible between them, but their perfect reliance upon each other was
a constant source of strength and happiness, and their rare interviews
were true radiant points in their lives.
Of course no one would think of calling this woman's life a narrow one,
and yet the only reason it was not so lay in herself.
I know another woman whose poverty would seem to many people an
effectual bar to any breadth of life. As poverty is a relative term, I
will state definitely that she receives less than three hundred dollars
a year for teaching a difficult village school, and that the whole
support of her frail and delicate mother has fallen upon her except that
the two together own their heavily mortgaged little home. A servant
being out of the question, she rises very early in the morning to do as
much of the heavier housework as possible. Her washing, of course, has
to be done on Saturday. Some of us in such a case would be content with
a low standard of cleanliness--but she has an ideal, and her house and
herself fairly sparkle with neatness. Her exquisite cooking is a special
grace of economy, for it makes it possible that a frugal table should
seem to be richly spread. Of course she and her mother must do their
own sewing, and they do it so well that they always have the air of
being dressed as ladies, with great simplicity, to be sure, but with
excellent taste.
At this point, I fancy my readers will make one of two comments. They
will say, "She must have an iron constitution," or "She must spend all
her time on material things. She cannot have a moment for books or
society or travel."
Now she has not an iron constitution. She suffered in her youth from a
wasting disease, and her physician says she was nearer death than any
person he ever knew to recover. This disease has left its traces upon
her. There is hardly a year when she does not have to be out of school a
week or two for illness, and of course sick headaches and trifling
ailments of that kind have to be met every few days.
Nor is it true that the daily necessities absorb her whole life.
Obviously, she cannot be a great reader, or rather it is fortunate she
is not so, for if she spent all her little leisure over books, she would
miss much that is inspiring in her life. But she does care for books,
and particularly for the best books, though her school education was
limited. She reads a tiny daily paper and always takes a leading
magazine. She owns Shakespeare and Scott and Shelley, and knows them
almost by heart. She borrows the best of her friends' books, and
occasionally buys a cheap classic. She always has some volume of
biography or travel from the Public Library, which she reads leisurely
with her mother perhaps. It may take her a month to read some little
volume of two or three hundred pages--such a volume as Bradford Torrey's
"Rambler's Lease," or Dr. Emerson's memoir of his father--and possibly
she may not be able in the end to quote any more fluently from these
books than another who reads them through in an afternoon, although I
think she usually is able, but her advantage is that she thoroughly
enjoys the flavor of every sentence; her reading stimulates and
encourages her and makes her happy.
She was one of the founders of the Book Club in the village, and as the
Public Library grew out of that, there was considerable work to be done
by some of the members, and of this she did much more than her share.
She is one of the most active members also of the Reading Club and the
Natural History Club, two organizations which combine culture and
society quite as effectually as the more ambitious circles in our
cities. Her house is always hospitably open to either of these clubs,
for she loves society and wishes to make the most of all the intelligent
people in the place who belong to one or the other of them. Her
sociability, however, carries her farther. She knows everybody in the
town well enough for a bow and smile in passing, and that is no small
achievement in a modern village where the population is so fluctuating.
I would suggest that we try for a moment to recall the difference it
makes in the cheerfulness of our day whether all the people we meet have
a pleasant word for us or not; and then, I think, we shall see that her
influence is by no means slight or worthless. Perhaps it is a little
candle, but it throws its beams far.
She likes to go to see her friends, and she faithfully returns the
semi-formal calls which cannot be avoided even in the most unfashionable
centres. She makes her own callers heartily welcome, and even invites a
friend or two to tea now and then. She is always hospitably ready to
entertain visitors from a distance, and consequently she often has the
pleasant variety of going away on a visit herself.
She likes to go to the public entertainments of the village. A sewing
society, a Sunday-school picnic, or a fair attracts her. These are
simple pleasures, but taken with such a spirit as hers, they are
innocent and wholesome, even if they seem barren to an outsider.
She always does her part at all such gatherings. She is ready to serve
on any committee. She will make delicious cake for a Grand Army supper,
or sell flowers in aid of the Village Improvement Society. One would
hardly expect her to have time for such duties, but one of the strong
points in her character is that she never has any inclination to shirk
a responsibility that belongs to her, and she is generous in her
interpretation of her responsibilities. It has always interested me to
see the persistency with which she pays the extra fraction of a cent
when any expense is to be divided among several people. She knows the
full value of a cent, for she has to count the cost of everything; but
she evidently takes a brave pride in always doing a little more rather
than a little less than justice requires her to do. She has perhaps too
great a scorn of receiving help from anybody. She once acted as a
substitute in school for a friend who was ill. The obliged friend
insisted that she should receive the ten dollars which would otherwise
have been paid to herself. But the independent young lady instantly took
the money and invested it all in a beautiful piece of lace which she
sent as a present to the convalescent. I know of no one who acts more
thoroughly on the rule, "If you have but sixpence to spend, spend it
like a prince, and not like a beggar."
She is a true lover of nature, without pretense or cant of any kind. She
has an eye for flowers,--indeed her little garden is the delight of the
neighborhood,--and she finds harebells on Thanksgiving Day and ferns in
midwinter. She knows the minerals in the stone-walls, and likes to trace
the course of old glaciers across the farms beyond the village. And she
likes, too, to stroll through the woods, or to float in her dory on the
river, without a thought of mineralogy or botany while she softly
repeats poetry for which she has a real love.
Of course she has not a large margin of income for luxuries, but she
does take a journey now and then, and she enjoys her journeys with a
zest which would surprise many travelers.
She has not much money to give away; and yet she often adds a modest
contribution to a subscription paper for some unfortunate neighbor. And
she has lent her boat a hundred times to people who otherwise could not
have one to use. More than that, she will go herself and row for some
child or old person who cannot manage the oars, but who stands on the
bank and looks wishfully at the river. I have never known anybody who
owned a carriage to give half so much pleasure to other people with it,
as she gives with her boat. She is always ready to "lend a hand." She
has watched with a great many sick people, for instance. Most of her
kindnesses are unobtrusive, and she forgets them the next day, but they
make a definite addition to the comfort and happiness of the world.
"I always like to have Miss Amidon come in to spend the evening", said a
nervous, critical, intellectual man, most of whose life had been passed
among far more pretentious people in large cities, "there is such a
sunny atmosphere about her."
Where does Miss Amidon get the strength to do so many good things? She
is not a common woman of course, and yet there is nothing striking about
her. She does nothing great. I have no reason to suppose that her
teaching even is above the average. I think the rare quality in her
character, however, is that she spends the little strength and money she
has on _essentials_, and so there is always something to show for them.
I once had a friend who was told by several physicians that she had an
incurable disease. Her own home was gone, and she did not wish to be
dependent upon others. She had been a teacher, and she resolved to go on
teaching. There would be months at a time when she would be obliged to
rest, but then, with unfailing courage, she went back to her work. Once,
when she was only able to sit up a few hours in the day, she took a
position in a boarding-school, where her board was but a trifle, and was
given to her for her instruction of one or two small classes which could
recite in her room where she was propped up in an easy-chair.
She had a religious nature, and thought calmly of death, while she felt
that in this world her plain duty was to make the most of her life. She
bore her suffering without complaint, did not allow herself to be
anxious, took all measures she could to alleviate her pain and to
improve her health, and was then free to enjoy the few pleasures still
within her reach. As a result, she grew better, and for half a dozen
years was able to support herself well by teaching in a difficult
school. In order to do this, however, she had to live within very narrow
lines. Her disease was of such a nature, that her diet had to be
confined almost entirely to one article. This made it seem best for her
to live in a hotel where she could have little home life. And such a
diet at times became almost nauseating. It was necessary for her to save
all her strength for her daily work, so she had to put aside even the
few pleasures otherwise within her reach. What made this the harder was
that she had never taught from love of the work, though her fine
intelligence and conscientiousness made her an excellent teacher.
"First, I have to consider my health," she said. "Then I must think of
my work. And that does not leave much room for other things."
But for her determined and heroic observance of the laws of health, her
life must have been a wreck. Her strong good sense not only saved her
from being a burden to others, but enabled her to do a really valuable
work for her scholars, which I have seldom known any one capable of
doing so well. And all her friends were strengthened by the spectacle of
her cheerful courage. The few years she won for herself by her steadfast
struggle would have been well worth living, even if she had had no
alleviations of her lot. But she gladly took such little pleasures as
were in her pathway. She chose a pleasant room in the hotel with a wide
outlook over the sea. She spent some happy hours with her favorite
German books, and in a quiet, friendly way she made the acquaintance of
any congenial people who came to the hotel. All this was not very much,
perhaps, but yet it seems fine to me. So many of us would have spent our
strength in mourning our hard fate! I am sure that all of us who had the
privilege of knowing her must always think of her with reverence.
I know a woman whose deafness shuts her out from ordinary conversation,
and who is nevertheless such an interesting talker and such an
appreciative listener that her friends do not find it a task to spend
hours in talking through her ear-trumpet. Of course each friend brings
only his best to her ears. The very circumstance which would have
narrowed her life if her nature had been narrow, has simply shut off
much that is low from her and left full room for the expansion of all
that is high.
I knew two women on whom blindness fell in middle life. One with morbid
grief stayed always in her own room. She became totally dependent on
others and wore away her years in sorrow. The other gave up the
luxurious rooms she occupied in a hotel, took a lodging-house, which
she was able largely to manage herself, made it a delightful home for
every inmate, and kept herself usefully busy and happy. Each of these
women had an only sister entirely devoted to her. One of them narrowed
and the other broadened her sister's life.
I am almost tempted to say there are no narrow lives except for narrow
natures. But there are many timid and loving women who are forced to
lead restricted lives by domestic tyrants,--a despotic father or
husband, or even sometimes an imperious mother or sister,--and who yet
under other circumstances might expand like a flower. The only help for
such women is in cultivating courage. And it is necessary to remember
that the self-sacrifice which helps others to be their best is good,
while that which suffers them to be tyrants is bad.
XVI.
CONCLUSION: A MISCELLANEOUS CHAPTER.
In these pages I have not catalogued the virtues which make up the
character of a fine woman, but I think I have made it clear that every
woman should be truthful and loving, courageous and modest. No two women
are alike, and sometimes one virtue dominates and sometimes another. And
we must always be on our guard against the faults of our qualities. A
gentle woman is in danger of being cowardly, and a firm woman of being
obstinate. There is one danger which seems to be peculiarly powerful
with women; that of sacrificing too much to the people nearest them. A
woman knows positively that more is required of her than it is fair she
should give, and yet she gives it, and in most cases she feels a certain
satisfaction of conscience in giving it. Her renunciation comes partly
because she loves those for whom she makes the sacrifice, but partly
also from cowardice. So far as it is simple renunciation, I have not
much to say. If Jane Welsh had not sacrificed herself to Carlyle's
unreasonable demands, it is certain that she might have contributed
something of permanent value to literature, and if Carlyle's colossal
egotism had thus been pruned, his own contribution probably would have
been of higher quality; but as the question of sacrifice came up day by
day, she could hardly measure results, and she did feel the necessity of
struggling with her own selfishness. Life is so much more than
literature that I cannot help thinking she did right, though Carlyle did
wrong in allowing her to efface herself for him. But most women go
farther than this. They allow themselves to be blinded by their wish to
please those nearest them. They wish it were right to yield one point
after another, and they finally do yield and hope they are not doing
wrong, though if they did not firmly shut their eyes, they must see that
they are. I think this is even more fatal to a noble character than
deliberately to choose the wrong, because it confuses moral distinctions
and makes one weak as well as wicked. I suppose more good women have
failed in this way than in any other.
English novelists describe American girls as exquisitely beautiful,
stylish, quick-witted, energetic, and good-tempered, while the mothers
are portrayed as awkward, dowdy, stupid, and ill-educated, though honest
and kind. We resent the distortion of this picture, for in America, as
elsewhere, girls are largely what they are made by their mothers, yet we
do have certain conditions which make sharp contrasts between mothers
and daughters more common here than elsewhere.
This is especially so in the present generation, for the last fifty
years have been a transition period in woman's education. Before that,
there were no good schools for girls in America, though the country
academies did what they could; and in a few of the large cities there
was a small class of wealthy people who had private teachers for their
girls in music, French, dancing, and perhaps literature.
Then came the establishment of high-class boarding schools for girls, so
endowed that they were within the reach of people of moderate means. The
eager, ambitious, half-educated mothers sent their bright daughters to
these schools. The best class of girls from the country towns everywhere
now met each other, and mingled, too, with many girls who had had the
opportunities of city life. The teachers in these schools were women of
high character and real refinement, and though they were not all
accustomed to the usages of society, there were always some among them
who were so, and who gave a certain finish to the solid work of the
others. The advantages of these boarding-school girls were so far beyond
those of the previous generation that the line between mothers and
daughters became abnormally broad. The son had advantages at college
which his father had not, but after all, he went to the same college,
and the progress was natural.
Then the high schools were opened to girls, and thousands were able to
get a fair education whose mothers had had no opportunities whatever.
And then about thirty years ago, colleges for women sprang up, and the
young women of our day have the same advantages as the young men.
Mothers must always, of course, expect to be outstripped in some
directions by their daughters. Indeed, they wish to have it so, for they
wish to have their daughters stand on as high ground as possible; but
when the process goes on as rapidly as it has done through the wonderful
opening of the means of education in the last half century, it has a
painful side. Especially is it so in this country, where there is such a
spirit of equality that in spite of all the barriers of caste, the
daughter of a wholly unrefined mother may occupy a high position. In
England a clever daughter may have a stupid mother, but a refined
daughter is not very likely to have a mother who is outwardly coarse,
because class lines have been drawn so distinctly for many generations
that mother and daughter have essentially the same kind of education and
see essentially the same kind of people. In America this is the
exception instead of the rule, though now that the highest education is
open to all women, the chances are that the contrasts will be less sharp
in future.
But at present the gulf between mother and daughter is often so wide
that it requires more than tact to bridge it. A sense of duty will keep
a daughter outwardly kind and respectful to her mother, but love is the
mother's only real security; and a mother must be thoroughly good at
heart and refined in feeling to hold the warm love of a daughter whose
intellectual tastes and social standards she outrages every moment. On
the other hand, if the daughter's education has not taught her that
character is more than intellect, it is worse than useless.
"Intellect separates," said Dr. James Freeman Clarke, "but love unites."
Here lies the key to this problem.
I have said little of marriage, for the subject is difficult. A
thoroughly high-minded woman will not be likely to marry unworthily, and
she may be trusted to meet the problems that rise after marriage in a
worthy manner. The special difficulties in each pathway will depend on
temperament and circumstances, and no general rules can be laid down for
meeting them.
I hold to the old-fashioned doctrine that a true marriage opens the way
to the best and happiest life for both men and women. Anything less than
a true marriage is intolerable and debasing.
But girls can hardly choose whether they will be married or not. They
can say No to all offers, and some women do plan for opportunities to
say Yes, yet most of us feel that there are few circumstances in which
a girl of noble instincts could take the initiative.
Can parents do anything? Certainly not in the way of trying to win a
particular lover; but they may so educate their daughter as to make her
attractive to such a man as they would wish her to marry, provided that
such an education does not sacrifice higher interests; and then they may
give her the opportunity to see as many such men as possible in her own
home, and in other places where the standards are as high as in her own
home.
What are the qualities which most attract men? It is hard to say,
because many of the women most loved in their own families and by other
women are not interesting to even the best of men. Probably
warm-heartedness and sweetness of character stand first in the list, and
these are qualities worth cultivating for themselves. Vitality and high
spirits count for much, also. Beauty I think comes next, even with men
who do not care for mere beauty. I do not think we should be indignant
at this. But can beauty be cultivated? Good health does something for
the complexion. Care of the teeth adds another point of beauty. Even
rough hair may be made beautiful by constant brushing. A good carriage
and a gentle voice are points of beauty that depend partly on ourselves.
Taste may be used in dress without sacrificing simplicity. Scrupulous
cleanliness adds a charm of its own. All these attractions may be
cultivated without nourishing the noxious weed of vanity, which many
mothers dread so much. And is it not natural that a man who can
appreciate a good and intelligent woman should find her still more
winning if she has a sweet, fresh face and a trim dress?
Next we must place domestic tastes. Of course a cook and seamstress and
housekeeper can be hired, and it is quite true that the home instinct is
not the highest in the universe; but it is a fine one, nevertheless, and
at all events it does influence most men in marriage.
Intelligent men like intelligent wives, and value a certain brightness
of mind; but it must be admitted that few men care to marry intellectual
women unless such women have the tact to keep their gifts somewhat in
the background. (I may here say,--it is not worth more than a
parenthesis--that the infallible rule for securing some kind of a
husband is to be able to flatter a man, either by a real or pretended
interest in him, or a real or pretended admiration of his powers. But I
hope I have no reader who would wish for marriage on such terms, so I
will not catalogue any attractions which ought not to win.) You remember
how Charles Lamb speaks of his Cousin Bridget's knowledge of English
literature. "If I had twenty girls, they should all be educated in
exactly the same way. Their chances of marriage might not be increased
by it, but if worst came to worst, it would make them most incomparable
old maids." If a woman is not married in the end, the wider and deeper
her education goes, the happier and more useful she is; and yet can we
deny that a very wide education is likely to repel rather than attract
even highly educated men?
My own solution of the difficulty would be to give a girl the best
education within reach, but to lay such stress on warm-heartedness and
sweet temper that her intellectual attainments would not stand out
prominently and concentrate all attention on them. I should do this, not
chiefly as a matter of policy, but because it seems to me the only way
to preserve the true balance between emotion and thought essential to an
ideal character.
It may be said that all the qualities I have discussed are rather
superficial, and that it is only when two people have high aims in
common that they are capable of the best kind of love on which alone a
true marriage can be based. And that is right. All education ought to
tend to make a girl noble, and no motive of marriage ought to be held up
before her. But I cannot think it is idle for her parents and friends to
try to make her attractive as well as good, and I cannot think a man is
to be blamed who chooses between two high-minded women the one who has
graces as well as gifts.