If men should cut down all the forest trees, as they now threaten,
they could not "cut the clouds out of the sky," as Thoreau affirms.
A roof light in a garret, even, gives the eye visions dazzlingly
beautiful over beyond all the chimney pots, if the eye only looks. We
would go far to see on canvas the lake, the river, the wood that borders
our heritage; and yet we rarely heed their living charms that daily
offer us new pleasures. We cross the ocean to visit great churches, and
we throng to hear an organ played by a master musician; while in yonder
forest we may enter a cathedral, loftier and grander far than art can
form, through whose densely branching arches and solemn aisles sweeps
the music of the winds from the organ pipes of the pines.
Nature, in most of her aspects, will give us small chance for censuring
her scant attractions. A field of grass and flowers, sunshine and
chirping birds, the clinging, changing foliage, or the shimmer of snow
and ice, the light of moon and stars, are in some of her commonest
pictures. We are simply to give heed. As Carlyle suggests, it is not
because we have such superior levity that we pay no attention to Nature.
By not thinking, we simply cease to wonder, that is all.
Oh, get acquainted with Nature, my girls, and see how lovely the world
will become! Do you know that beautiful sketch by Charles Kingsley
called "My Winter Garden"? Read it, and see how he gets the world out
of a small space,--how he becomes rich. You know no man can buy a
landscape,--it belongs to all. We are, every one, rich in summer skies,
in fair forests, in great tracts of meadow verdure. See how Kingsley
grows contented,--how he becomes wise. "Have you eyes to see? Then
lie down on the grass, and look near enough to see something more of
what is to be seen; and you will find tropic jungles in every square
foot of turf; mountain cliffs and debacles at the mouth of every rabbit
burrow; dark strids, tremendous cataracts, 'deep glooms and sudden
glories' in every foot-broad rill which wanders through the turf....
Nature, as every one will tell you who has seen dissected an insect
under the microscope, is as grand and graceful in her smallest as in
her largest forms."
We are told there is something most practical in physiology. One of
its first requirements is proper exercise for the body. Now, no exercise
combines so many advantages as walking: by no other means can we come
so easily to an acquaintance with Nature. Never ride in the country,
or anywhere within Nature's dearest precincts, when you can as well
go on foot. You cannot see things flying by you. Do not adopt the custom
of most pedestrians, that of getting over the ground as rapidly as
possible. Take daily walks, no matter what the weather is; but do not
go too far. Irregularity in this exercise is harmful. It is far better
to walk two miles daily than ten miles at one time, and fifteen a week
hence. Go to see something on your walks, if you discover nothing more
than a great hole in the ground; and come home with some thought about
what you have seen. I found out a great truth, one day last spring,
of which I was wholly ignorant before,--that a rose is sweeter in the
morning than in the noonday. Many a lesson in that; some practical
knowledge too.
In a delightful way, the hermit of Walden tells us how to take walks,
how to truly saunter. He says that the word saunterer was derived from
those persons who, during the Middle Ages, went on crusades to the
Holy Land. When one of them, as he journeyed towards the East, appeared
among the children, they would exclaim, "'There goes a Sainte
Terrer!'--a Holy Lander"--which, you can see, came to be called
"Saunterer." Thoreau says that every one who walks as he should, with
his eyes and his heart open, is bound to a Holy Land. "Every walk is a
sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit in us, to go forth
and reconquer this Holy Land from the hands of the Infidels." Is not
that a beautiful thought?
Walk with freedom of the chest and limbs, carrying nothing in the hands
to prevent the play of any muscles. Breathe through the nose rather
than through the mouth. I suppose the most of the girls can walk in
an ordinary street dress; but I would suggest, if a girl is to go far,
that she wear a full, short skirt, of not very heavy weight, a loose
flannel blouse, and stout shoes. This costume can be arranged so that
it will not in the least shock her townspeople. It is always safest,
and usually most agreeable, to walk accompanied by one or more friends
who are bound on the same quest. Begin your walk as you are to continue
it: at an even, easy pace, or with such steps as you naturally take
when the first signs of weariness appear. Use as much of your body
as you can. Welcome the increased circulation of the blood, and the
glow of the skin; but be very careful to retard these when you are
nearing the end of your saunter, or are about to rest for a while.
Remember the danger of standing or sitting quietly when in a
perspiration.
It is profitable to rest early in a walk, and to break it by frequently
sitting down for a few moments at a time. Do not walk too rapidly.
Remember you are not to care who gets to the top of the mountain first.
It should be your aim to see things on the way up, as well as from
the summit. If one often turns to get views from behind, the ascent
gradually prepares one's mind for the climacteric vision from the top.
You may boast that you have walked a given number of miles, but count
yourself still prouder because you have seen what that number of miles
held for you along the way.
Be careful of your steps, yet be bold and confident, that you may leap
the stream or scale the rock. If you stop to reflect, the stream will
grow wider, and the rock steeper and smoother. A stick helps many in
climbing, but I believe the skilled pedestrian climbs unaided. Do _not_
jump, girls. Creep, slide, crawl; but never shock your system
with a jump of few or many feet in height.
The dangers of walking arise from too great an ambition to go a long
distance, from striving to out-walk somebody, from walking too rapidly
and irregularly, and from allowing the mind to become so exhilarated
as not to be sensible of the fatigues of the body. Stop when you are
tired. Remember that, in a walk of ten miles, the last five are longer
than the first five; then reserve that second half for the next day.
Form observation clubs, mountain clubs, pedestrian clubs,--any worthy
association which will take you out of doors, and teach you about the
region in which you live. Be earnest about it, as about a solemn,
necessary work. Take your English cousins for examples. I think it
was Sara Coleridge who, in her old age, complained because she could
no longer walk more than fifteen miles a day. In that delightful essay,
written by Charles Lamb, on "Old China," Bridget Elia sighs because
she and her companion have become so rich they cannot walk their thirty
miles, as they had so often done, on a holiday.
In England or in Switzerland, one meets whole flocks of English girls
out on a walk of a week's duration. Think of the sport in such a
tramp,--the hilarity on the way! the lunches gathered by hap-hazard
from country bake-shops and groceries, and eaten in any retired nook
that offers by the roadside! Think of the appetite for commonest food,
and of the amusing difficulties which come from lack of knives and
forks! On such a walk, how easy to pick one's self up after lunch,
throw the dinner-table away, and trot on to the next village. As a
girl passes from town to town, how eager she is to note their
characteristics, to look at the people curiously, and to pry into their
shop-windows. How much she learns about Nature! Is the sky so blue
at home? Are the wild flowers so abundant? Is the grass so soft and
green? Oh, girls! try to make yourselves at home with Nature, and walk
out among her attractions. In all your observations of Nature do not
forget her living personality, her power to love you, to comfort you,
and to develop you. Feel that you have a friend with you even when
you seem to go solitary. Remember that, in learning to know Nature,
you are learning to know yourselves. From your friends and your books,
ask all about what you see. Be favored with every grand spectacle in
Nature, but be never wearied with her commonplace aspects. Do not think
of yourselves so much as living in rooms and houses, but as living
in _the_ house, the palace of the earth and sky, whose every gallery,
corridor and hall, is carpeted with Nature's tapestries of unfading
color and deep softness; whose walls are hung with glowing sunsets; and
through whose green roof, here and there, "a pane of blue sky" appears.
III.
HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF WORK.
When God made heaven and earth, and all things beautiful for the
enjoyment of his children, He added His last, best blessing,--the
gift of work. Sweeter than the fruits of Eden, more grateful than the
fragrance that breathed from the flowers of Paradise, and grander than
all the starry hosts of heaven, was this most precious favor. By it
the world is delivered of its hidden riches, and the mind of man
developed into its broadest capabilities. Yes, dear girls, there is a
blessedness in work that transcends every joy you have. You know it; but
the question comes, How to make the most of the gift?
What a dull old world this would be if we spent all our days on hotel
verandas at summer resorts! Absolutely unbearable! We should all die
of ease. It is as necessary for us all to work as it is to breathe.
Nothing exists in the natural world without its special office or duty;
and surely, in the world of man, no one can live without occupation.
Lack of sufficiently worthy work is one of the crying evils of our
day, among both boys and girls. Every thing is done to make labor less,
or to turn it completely into pleasure,--to shirk it, or to scorn it.
The sewing-machine has made the good sewer a phenomenon. Our
grandmothers used to rip their dresses and linings with sharp scissors:
a good jump from a carriage will send us right out of a modern costume.
Teachers learn the lessons now, and the pupils take notes and cram once
in a while. Text-books have gone out of fashion. The next generation
will not see any antique furniture: it will all lie in a hopelessly
unglued state, separated into its elements. There will not be any china
tea-sets,--all broken in the last dish-washing. There may be a few
books in loose bindings and faded covers, and a few works of art in
frames that furnace-heat has set sadly awry. There will be a plenty
of fine machines.
Mr. Froude tells us, "When the magnificent Earl of Essex was sent to
Cambridge, in Elizabeth's time, his guardian provided him with a deal
table covered with green baize, a truckle-bed, half a dozen chairs,
and a wash hand-basin. The cost of all was five pounds." Harvard boys
have somewhat enlarged that invoice of housekeeping goods. What do
you think about the furnishings of college girls?
Welcome improvement. Yes, indeed! Be glad of clothes-wringers, dish-
washers, carpet-sweepers, Quincy methods, Meisterschaft systems, and
all else that will economize labor and time, or make more attractive
the special work you have to do; but never forget that no machine can
be invented which will make housekeeping a sport, and thorough, hard
work of any kind unnecessary. And remember, too, there is no royal
road to learning, as the Alexandrian philosopher said. Kings and queens
must walk over the same rough road which we tread when they go up to
the temple of knowledge. Cloth of gold cannot smooth the way, nor
elegant editions make knowledge more subservient.
Girls, what do you think about shirking work? One of the chief
differences between happy girls and moody ones consists in the amount
of work they do, or leave undone. The despair which settles over many
a girl's days, the indifference, comes from no longer being compelled
to do certain tasks. "Get work, get work: be sure 'tis better than
what you work to get." Do not delay the task that must be done.
Procrastination is worse than the thief of time: it is the robber of
our own character, our own growth and happiness. We need to work
continually to be strong, mentally, physically, or spiritually, even;
and the longer we put off exercise, the less competent we are. I cannot
believe that a lazy person is a real Christian. Who labors, prays.
I know so many girls who delay writing essays, hoping that slight
sickness, or some unforeseen event, may ward off the trouble of thinking
for an hour; then, when the time of necessity comes, and no deliverance
from the hands of tyrannical teachers, a series of nervous attacks
ensue, because of overtaxed minds (?); and the doctors order those
poor girls out of the presence of such cruel task-masters. Medical
science and educational science always do conflict; but eleven-o'clock
suppers, social circles, tri-weekly gad-abouts, and over-anxious
parents, who yearn for a good match for their daughters, disarrange the
brains and stomachs of girls oftener than any undue desire to excel in
study. The average student is never killed by the average school or the
average school-teacher. But shirking work of any kind, delaying it, or
contriving to make it less, will bring about a certain irregularity, and
certain spasmodic efforts that are utterly ruinous.
The cramming system, in schools, or homes, or trades, is deplorable.
You cannot put a whole geometry into your brain three days before
examination, without its bulging and breaking through the cranium in
less than a month's time. You cannot sweep and bake and wash Saturday
morning, without the pies burning, the clothes tearing, and the dust
flying. You cannot do all your book-keeping in just the hour before
the evening train starts: some one's account will be incorrect.
Regularity achieves what intensity never can. It is not the amount of
work that hurts, so much as spasmodic attempts to work. Girls are not as
strong as formerly. Irregular work, fast work, fast living, are largely
at fault. Girls scorn work: it is too humble, or too little appreciated.
Now, the fact is, girls, there is highest worth and dignity in precisely
those kinds of labor that seem the lowliest and count for the least.
Kinds of work differ, not so much in worth as in the use they make
of our faculties to do to our utmost what lies before us. The monotony
of housekeeping, or the daily repetition of work immediately to be
undone, is, after all, the most essential labor. Without it, especially
in America, the home would be destroyed. "If a woman is not fit to
manage the internal matters of a house, she is fit for nothing, and
should never be put in a house or over a house, any way. Good
housekeeping lies at the root of all the real ease and satisfaction in
existence." [Footnote: Harriet Prescott Spofford.]
It is an offence to women everywhere that in summing up women's work,
the census will carefully enumerate those employed in professions,--
doctors, lawyers, ministers, teachers, authors,--those who work in
factories and clothing establishments; those who are accountants,
manufacturers, servants, farmer's, and fish-women, even; but contains
not one word about the home-keepers. Are they not in any profession?
Have they no valuable calling? Enrolled, would not they swell the number
of workers by several hundreds of thousands in Massachusetts alone?
If the census slights home-keepers, however, the girls slight
home-keeping even more. Very few girls are to step aside from the
commonplace, as we carelessly term it; but more depends, in this world,
on the ordinary than the extraordinary. The work of the humblest is as
essential to the labor of the highest as is the work of the highest to
the labor of the lowliest. Michael Angelo could plan a St. Peter's; but
the men who climbed up with wood and stone--"the hewers of wood and the
drawers of water"--were necessary to its construction. Genius is a slave
to labor. Says Smiles, in his work on "Thrift," "Genius is but a
capability of laboring intensely"; making, you see, even talent itself,
and its highest expression, an outgrowth of work.
No simplest task we do but is essential to somebody. Slight it, shirk
it, scorn it, and somebody suffers. Leave the parlor undusted, and
callers are sure to come. Wear a stocking with a hole in it, you will
find it necessary to take your boot off before night. There is the
greatest need among girls of a more entire consecration to certain
humble, homely, housewifely duties. The wearing torment of discontent
with unassuming work arises not from lack of ambition, but from scorn
of what one has to do. I sometimes think this reaching out after the
unattainable is worse for a girl than passive indifference to what
she might acquire. A large part of the success a person achieves is
dependent upon her thinking her calling the very best in the world.
It is not the work which dignifies you: it is you who dignify the work.
The girl who wins honor in medicine, in literature, in music, in
engineering, in astronomy, in laundry-work, in cookery, in needle-work,
ennobles literature, or music, or science, or housekeeping. What worthy
pursuit can you not, by excellence, raise into honor and esteem? Matilda
of Normandy embroidered, in the quiet of her castle, stitch by stitch,
and day after day, the battle of Hastings, at which the Conqueror won.
When that great mingling of Normans and Saxons proved to be the
important and the last step in the making of England, men looked back
to the battle which decided the Norman Conquest, and, lacking needed
information from chronicles, turned to the work of Matilda. There,
on the Bayeux tapestry, was wrought the battle scene they required,--a
piece of woman's work. It was a peasant girl, you know, who brought
victory to France in the Hundred Years' War between that country and
England.
Girls and boys have too slight an appreciation of manual labor. In
most ways, work with the hands is more necessary than mental labor.
God made man work in a garden before he gave him power to write books
or keep accounts. Fine white hands are very pretty when they belong
to a lady; but sunburnt, muscular ones are beautiful in the vineyard.
May I warn you not to despise the small amount of work you can
accomplish, as compared with what others are able to do? Let me remind
you, too, it is not what we get in money, buildings, knowledge,
reputation, influence, by means of work, so much as what labor does
for ourselves, our characters. Carlyle expressed the idea in a very
short sentence, "Not what I have, but what I do, is my kingdom."
Even if our work is spoilt as we near its completion, and, instead
of gain, failure awaits us, we have still been winners in ourselves,
because we have acquired habits of industry, have made our powers of
perseverance stronger, and have developed physical or mental strength
as well. Work is never lost. When Carlyle sat down to write his "French
Revolution" the second time,--a careless servant having burnt his
manuscript,--he was a nobler man than when he wrote out the first issue.
When Walter Scott failed, and Abbotsford was encumbered with a large
debt, when his dream of restoring a kind of baronial life was all
shattered, he did a grander work than in the building of that
magnificent estate; for he strove with all the powers of his mind to
earn the money which should repay his creditors. Though he died in
the struggle, it was not fought in vain.
IV.
WHAT CAN I DO?
"But what can I do?" you ask. Oh, I hear that so many, many times,
and I feel the deepest sympathy for the girl who asks it. Usually,
when the question is put, there is no marked ability in the
asker,--I mean, no special power to do a particular work. I have hardly
the right to say this, however, since we are all endowed in some way,
and each girl must have a work in which she can do better than any
other. Perhaps, girls, you belong to the great middle class,--the people
who have no large fortunes, no particular influence; and, maybe, you
think if you only had a rich relative, or some acquaintance, who stood
in authority, you might do a good work, or, at least, earn a livelihood.
Do you remember that this very class of people have been the greatest
reformers, thinkers, workers, rulers, everywhere? The United States
owes its existence to people who had to depend upon themselves.
But let us see about this question, what to do. In the first place,
if a girl has a decided inclination towards this or that honorable
calling, she should foster every opportunity for pursuing it. If she
can do a nurse's work better than a teacher's, and if no home ties
of an imperative nature restrain her, she ought to become a nurse.
A large field for the special work of nursing has been opened during
late years. In all our prominent hospitals we find training-schools
for nurses. The girl who feels she is fairly strong, and who has a
good amount of physical courage, does a brave deed when she goes into
the hospital to become a nurse. When she graduates, fitted to render
service to the sick, and willing to devote her life to them, she is
a noble acquisition to the world's helpers.
If a girl can do most and best as a physician or surgeon, she ought
to be always the doctor. We no longer question the right or ability
of women to practise medicine. The time will come when women will be
as numerous in the medical profession as men. A girl ought to be very
sure of a few things, however, before she studies medicine with a view
to practising. There are peculiar hardships in a doctor's life,
requiring physical strength, continuous toil, strong nerves, decision,
reticence, and indifference to unjust criticism. With natures more
susceptible than young men possess, be sure, girls, that you are equal
to the burdens that weigh so heavily on the shoulders of the boys.
If a girl can cook better than she can do other work, the kitchen ought
to claim her. Schools of cookery have made of cooking an art to be
industriously followed where success is desired. Superintendents of
cooking are usually reliable persons, and command good salaries. In
a smaller way, many a girl in town or country can turn her knowledge
of cooking to advantage, by selling her cake, or jelly, or pickles,
for a snug little sum. There is a call for such prepared food not only
in the industrial rooms of cities, but in country shops as well. We
buy Miss M.'s orange cake, and Miss F.'s spiced pickles; for the one
makes her cake, and the other her pickles, better, much better, than
others do. The world always wants the best in small as well as in great
things, and will pay for it.
Should a girl enjoy the cultivation of plants, she would be able to
give much pleasure to her friends by caring for a private conservatory
or window-garden. In this way she could learn much about plants, and
become a successful florist. Then, if there were reasons why she should
earn a living, with a small capital she could gradually work into the
cultivation of flowers to such an extent as to make them very
serviceable money-makers.
Sometimes girls have a fondness for fowls, and like to accumulate pin-
money from the eggs hens lay. Why should they not give much time to
the care of poultry? try for fine breeds, and for eggs that bring the
highest prices?
A good deal has been written recently in relation to the cultivation
of the silk-worm as a means of creating an occupation for girls and
women, and as a method of forwarding American industries. The results
already attained in this work are valuable and highly promising. Very
earnest women are encouraging its progress, and will gladly supply
any needed information in regard to it. Girls, you will come to see
that women of large hearts and generous souls are deeply interested
in your welfare. I hope every city has such noble examples of this
kind of women as Boston presents. If you wish to know more about silk
culture, please refer to Miss Marian McBride of the "Boston Post."
I have cited sufficient examples to urge that, if desire turns a girl
to this or that occupation, she ought to seek it and follow it,
provided, always, her judgment is as clear as her wish is ardent.
Remembering that a lady is such of herself, whether in a drawing-room or
an attic, behind the counter or in the school-room, a girl will be of
noble worth, and will become one place as well as another. I do believe
in choice of work; but I believe even more strongly in a girl's
preserving the "eternally womanly," whatever she does, and wherever she
is.