"Jerusalem, my happy home,
Oh! how I long for thee;
When will my sorrows have an end?
Thy joys when shall I see?"
The other, like Mr. Beecher, enjoys a good dinner, a nimble-footed
horse, a big play with the children and the dogs, seems joyous in
the sunshine, and,--wretched sinner,--does not sigh to depart.
So deep-seated is this old pagan prejudice, that a ringing shout of
laughter from a young woman is very suspicious to the deacons of her
church.
Leaving the religious fanaticisms, we come upon another form of this
prejudice.
The fragile, pale young woman with a lisp, is thought, by many silly
people, to be more of a lady, than another with ruddy cheeks, and
vigorous health.
It is, perhaps, difficult to define it exactly, but there exists,
somehow, in the fashionable world, the notion that a pale and
sensitive woman is feminine and refined, while one in blooming
health is masculine and coarse.
But every acute observer knows that the feminine soul, like the
masculine, utters its richest harmonies only through a perfect
instrument.
While the languid, low voice, and deliberate manner of the invalid
lady may suggest refinement to the casual observer, the
discriminating physician who probes the soul, as well as the body,
finds a marvellous correspondence between them.
Not only is it true that, in extreme cases of physical exhaustion,
the mind gives way with the body, but those keen, exquisite
sensibilities of the soul become weak and blunt. No physician of
large experience will fail to recal instances of extreme hemorrhagic
exhaustion, in which all sense of modesty disappears.
Assuming that the highest possible health of the body is represented
by 100, and the lowest possible by the figure 1, and assuming, what
no physiologist or metaphysician will question, that the head and
heart keep step with the body, we shall not hesitate long in
determining the state of the mind and soul of the fashionable,
languid, nervous lady whom we meet in America at every turn, and who
ranges from 10 to 50 on our scale.
It is but natural that she should be occupied with trimmings, and
feel no interest in the great social and moral movements of the day.
Caeteris paribus, a young woman whose physical health is represented
by 80 on our scale, has twice as much feminine delicacy and
character as another whose health is represented by 40. If this is
not a logical deduction from the laws of physiology and metaphysics,
I know of nothing that is. While, as already suggested, every
discriminating physician is constantly called upon to listen to the
harmony between the body and the soul.
The notion that delicacy of the body indicates delicacy of the body
indicates delicacy of the mind and heart, contributes more to the
fashion of delicacy than all other influences.
Miss Leonora, observing that Bridget O'Flaherty, the scrub-girl, who
is ignorant and coarse, has a large waist and a powerful chest, and
that Miss Seraphina Flamingo, who is a perfect angel, has a fragile,
delicate form, draws the inference that a woman with a strong body
is ignorant and coarse, while a sylphlike form signifies the
spirituel.
Besides this, a strong, muscular body is associated with work, with
a servant; while Miss Leonora is not long in discovering that the
mistresses,--the ladies,--are pale and sickly.
Don't you see now how it is? To have a strong and muscular body is
to be suspected of work, of service; while a frail, delicate
personnel is a proof of position, of ladyhood.
Go through the town and observe the women. Are any of the
fashionable ladies strong and muscular? Not one! Are any of them
able to perform hard work? Not one! But there are women who do hard
work, very hard work. They are not ladies, they are servants! The
ladies are delicate. The servants are strong. Don't you see what a
plain case it is? Miss Leonora desires, above all things, to be a
lady, and to be always, and everywhere, and immediately recognized
as a lady. How clear it is that the one, unmistakable, conclusive
proof is, that she should look and move like a lady. If she looks
strong, and moves with a will, she will be mistaken for a worker,
for a servant. If she looks delicate, and moves languidly, it will
be seen at once that she does not belong to the working class.
It is true that many strong, muscular women are coarse and ignorant;
they have given their lives to hard work, and have been denied all
opportunities to cultivate their minds and manners. To compare such
with the petted, pampered daughters of social and intellectual
opportunity, and then to treat the strong body of the one as the
source of the coarseness and ignorance within, and, in the other
case, to treat the weak, delicate body as the source of the fine
culture, is to reason like an idiot.
In order to arrive at anything like a fair illustration of the
influence of health upon the mind and temper, we must visit a family
in which there are daughters in sparkling health, and others who are
languid and delicate.
We visited such a family, in a neighboring state, three summers
since, and shall never forget our observations and experiences. The
oldest daughter was delicate. The youngest two were likewise
sensitive and delicate. But there were two girls who were in fine
health.
When the stage stopped at the gate, the girls, who were expecting
us, came out on the piazza, and the healthy ones came rushing down
to the gate, and threw their arms around one of us, nearly
smothering that one with kisses, (I shall not tell you whether it
was my wife, or myself,) while they shook hands most cordially with
the other one. They took hold of our hands and fairly danced us up
the walk. On reaching the piazza, we were very cordially and
languidly welcomed by the other girls.
During our stay, the well girls ran over constantly. They devised
and executed scores of little plans for our amusement, while the
Misses Languid were the recipients of attentions from us all. The
Misses Vigorous ran over and flooded us all, while the Misses
Languid absorbed from us all.
Never have I more fully realized the common saying, that "sickness
is selfish." The Misses Vigorous had enough for themselves and all
the rest of us. The Misses Languid had nothing to spare, and were
constant borrowers and beggars. Do you imagine the well girls were
less lovely, less beautiful in heart and soul, than the delicate
ones?
Or, if you prefer, do you think a young lady who leaves the city in
June for the mountains, pale, nervous, unhappy, hardly able to take
care of herself, unable to even think of anything but her own
wretchedness, do you think her more lovely than when, returning in
October, she comes bounding in, all radiant with joy, and full of
sympathy and helpfulness?