accomplished little. A boarding-house has been established in New York
for working-girls, excellent in its way, but intended mainly for those
who "have seen better days," and not for the most needy class of which
I have spoken. A noble institution, however, called "The Working
Woman's Protective Union," has sprung up, for the benefit of this
latter class, their object being to find places _in the country_, for
such of these girls as will leave the overcrowded city, not as
servants, but as operatives on sewing-machines, and to other similar
revenues of employment. Their places are secured before they are sent.
The person who engages them pays their expenses on leaving, and the
consent of parents, or guardians, or friends, is always obtained
before they leave. A room is to be connected with this institution,
containing several sewing-machines, where gratuitous instruction will
be furnished to those who desire it. A lawyer of New York has
generously volunteered his services also, to collect the too tardy
wages of these girls, due from flinty-hearted employers. Many of the
girls who have applied here are under fifteen. At first, they utterly
refused to go into the country, which to them was only another name
for dullness; even preferring to wander up and down the streets of the
city, half-fed and half-clothed, in search of employment, than to
leave its dear kaleidoscope delights. But after a little, when letters
came from some who had gone, describing in glowing terms, their
pleasant homes; the wages that one could live and save money on; their
kind treatment; the good, wholesome food and fresh air; their hearty,
jolly country fun; and more than all, when it was announced that one
of their number had actually married an ex-governor, the matter took
another aspect. And, though all may not marry governors, and some may
not marry at all; it still remains, that _inducing them to go to the
country is striking a brave blow at the root of the evil_; for we all
know, that human strength and human virtue have their limits; and the
dreadful pressure of temptations and present ease, upon the
discouragement, poverty and friendlessness of the working-girls of New
York, must be gratifying to the devil. I do not hesitate to say, that
there is no institution of the present day, more worthy to be
sustained, or that more imperatively challenges the good works and
good wishes of the benevolent, than "The New York Working Woman's
Protective Union." May God speed it!
_WASHING THE BABY._
You may think it a very simple thing to wash a baby. You may imagine
that one feels quite calm and composed, while this operation is being
faithfully and conscientiously performed. That shows how little you
know. When I tell you that there are four distinct, delicate chins, to
be dodgingly manipulated, between frantic little crying spells, and as
many little rolls of fat on the back of the neck, that have to be
searched out and bathed, with all the endearing baby-talk you can
command, the while, as a blind to your merciless intentions; when I
tell you that of all things, baby won't have her ears or nose meddled
with, and that she resents any infringement on her toes with shrill
outbreaks, and that it takes two people to open her chubby little
fists, when water seeks to penetrate her palms. When I tell you the
masterly strategy that has to be used to get one stiff, little,
rebellious arm out of a cambric sleeve, and the frantic kickings which
accompany any attempts to tie on her little red worsted-shoe; when I
tell you that she objects altogether to be turned over on her stomach,
in order to tie the strings of her frock, and that she is just as mad
when you lay her on her back; when I inform you that she can stiffen
herself out when she likes, so that you can't possibly make her sit
down, and at another time will curl herself up in a circle, so that
you can't possibly straighten her out; and when you enumerate the
garments that have to be got off, and got on, before this process is
finally concluded, and that it is to be done before a baking fire,
without regard to the state of the thermometer, or the agonized dew on
your brow; when I inform you that every now and then you must stop in
the process, to see that she is not choking, or strangling, or that
you have not dislocated any of her funny little legs, or arms, or
injured her bobbing little head, you can form some idea of the relief
when the last string is tied, and baby emerges from this, her daily
misery, into a state of rosy, diamond-eyed, scarlet-lipped, content;
looking sweet and fresh as a rosebud, and drowsing off in your arms
with quivering white eyelids and pretty unknown murmurings of the
little half-smiling lips, while the perfect little waxen hands lie
idly by her side. Ah me! how shall one keep from spoiling a baby? Ah!
how can one ever give brimming enough love-measure--to this--_the
motherless_.
_CHILDREN HAVE THEIR RIGHTS._
There is not a day of my life in which I am not vexed at the injustice
done to children. A Sunday or two since, I went to church. In the pew
directly in front of me sat a fine little lad, about twelve years old,
unobtrusively taking notes of the sermon. By my side sat a
man--gentleman, I suppose, he called himself--his coat, pants, boots,
and linen were all right as far as I am any judge, and dress seems to
be the test now-a-days--who occupied himself in leaning over the front
of the pew, and reading what the boy was writing--evidently much to
the discomfiture of the latter. Now I would like to ask, why that
child's pencilled notes should not have been as safe from curious eyes
as if he had been an adult? and what right that grown-up man had, to
bother and annoy him, by impertinently peeping over his shoulder? and
of what use is it to preach good manners to children, while nobody
thinks it worth while to practice the same toward them? The other day
I was sitting in a car, and a nice, well-behaved boy of ten years took
his seat and paid his fare. Directly after, in came the conductor, and
without a word of comment, coolly took him by the shoulder and placed
him on his feet, and then motioned a lady to his vacant seat? Why not
_ask_ the child, at least? I have often been struck with the ready
civility of boys in this respect, in public conveyances--but that is
no reason why they should be imposed upon; the lady who took the seat
might possibly have thanked a _gentleman_ for yielding it to her, but
she evidently did not think that good manners required she should
thank the boy. Again--what right has a gentleman to take a blushing
little girl of twelve or thirteen and seat her on his knee, when he
happens to want her seat. I have seen timid, bashful girls, suffering
crucifixion at the smiles called forth by this free and easy act; and
sometimes actually turning away their faces to conceal tears of
mortification; for there are little female children unspoiled even by
the present bold system of childhood annihilation--little violets who
seek the shade, and do not care to be handled and pulled about by
every passer-by. Again--why will parents, or those who have the charge
of children, make hypocrites of them by saying, Go kiss such and such
a person? A kiss is a holy thing, or should be, and not to be lightly
bestowed. At any rate, it never should be compulsorily given. Children
have their likes and dislikes, and often much more rationally grounded
than those of grown people, though they may not be able to syllable
them. I never shall forget a snuffy old lady whom I used to be
obliged, when a child, to kiss. I am not at all sure that my
unconquerable aversion to every form of tobacco does not date from
these repulsive and compulsory kisses. With what a lingering horror I
approached her, and with what a shiver of disgust I retreated to scrub
my lips with my pinafore, and shake my locks, lest peradventure a
particle of snuff had lodged there. How I wondered what she would do
in Heaven without that snuff-box, for she was a "church member," and
my notions of Heaven could by no stretch of liberality admit such a
nuisance; and how I inwardly vowed that if I ever grew to be a woman,
and if I ever was married, and if I ever had a little girl, all of
which were dead certainties in my childish future, I would never make
her kiss a person unless she chose to do it, never--never--which
article of my pinafore creed I do here publicly indorse with my
matronly hand.
* * * * *
Again, what more abominable tyranny than to force a child to eat
turnip, or cabbage, or fat meat or anything else for which it has an
unconquerable and unexplainable disgust? I have seen children actually
shudder and turn pale at being obliged to swallow such things. Pray,
why should not their wishes in this respect be regarded as much as
those of their seniors? Not that a child should eat everything which
it craves indiscriminately, but it should never, in my opinion, be
forced to swallow what is unpalatable, except in the case of medicine,
about which parents tell such fibs--that it "tastes good," and all
that--when they should say honestly, "It is very bad indeed, but you
know you _must_ take it, and the sooner it is over the better; now be
brave and swallow it." I do protest too against forcing big boys to
wear long curls down their backs after they are well into jackets, for
the gratification of mamma's pride, who "can't bear to cut them off,"
not even though her boy skulks out of sight of every "fellow" he meets
for fear of being called a "girl-boy;" or the practice making a boy of
that age wear an apron, which the "fellows" are quite as apt to twit
him about, or anything else which makes him look odd or ridiculous.
There is no computing the suffering of children in these respects. I
dare say many who read this will say, "But they should be taught not
to mind such things," etc.; that's all very well to say, but suppose
you try it yourself;--suppose you were compelled to walk into church
on Sunday with a collar that covered your cheeks, and your
great-grand-father's coat and vest on; to hear the suppressed titters,
and be an object of remark every time you stirred; and you a man who
hated notoriety, and felt like knocking everybody down who stared at
you? How would that suit? Nothing like bringing a case home to
yourself. Just sit down and recall your own childhood, and remember
the big lumps in your little throat that seemed like to choke you, and
the big tears of shame that came rolling down on your jacket, from
some such cause, and don't go through the world striding with your
grown-up boots on little children. They are not all angels, I know;
some of them are malicious, and ugly, and selfish and disagreeable;
and whose fault is it?--answer me that? Not one time in ten, the
child's. You may be sure of it. God made it right, but there were
bunglers who undertook a charge from which an angel might shrink.
* * * * *
And now I want to put in a plea for the children about story-reading.
At a certain age, children of both sexes delight in stories. It is as
natural, as it is for them to skip, run and jump, instead of walking
at the staid pace of their grandparents. Now some parents, very well
meaning ones too, think they do a wise thing when they deny this most
innocent craving, any legitimate outlet. They wish to cultivate, they
say, "a taste for solid reading." They might as well begin to feed a
new-born baby on meat, lest nursing should vitiate its desire for it.
The taste for meat will come when the child has teeth to chew it; so
will the taste for "solid reading" as the mind matures--_i. e._, if it
is not made to hate it, by having it forced violently upon its
attention during the story-loving period. That "there is a time for
all things," is truer of nothing more, than of this. Better far that
parents should admit it, and _wisely_ indulge it, than, by a too
severe repression, give occasion for _stealthy_ promiscuous reading.
* * * * *
How delicious in these days of hot-house-childhood it is to find a
little one who can relish puss in the corner. To find one who does
not at six years of age turn up its little nose at everything but
"round dances," and a supper of "pâté de foie gras" and champagne.
What a sorrowful sight are those blasé languid little things who are
incapable of a new sensation before they are out of short clothes--to
whom already there is no childhood left--who have turned their backs
on that path of flowers to which they can never return, through long
years of satiety and weariness. What shall compensate them for the
dear, fresh, innocent, simple delights, which to children, naturally
and simply brought up, are so attractive? We are all making grave
mistakes about children. Those who unfortunately live always in a
great city, are mostly the sufferers. Life there is such a maelstrom,
swallowing up every hour so much that is lovely and beautiful.
Fathers, and mothers, delegating so much of the care and oversight of
them to those, whose paid service yields neither sympathy nor
appreciation to the victims under their charge. Toy shops are
ransacked, and small fortunes expended, to supply this lamentable
deficiency; till the weary little one at six or seven has exhausted
the stock, and sighs for "something new;" like a flirt who has put her
slipper on a thousand hearts, or a man of the world, reduced by too
much money and leisure, and too little brains, to caress the head of
his cane, long, weary hours, staring out of his club window. I think
this is very pitiful, both for the child and the man. Indeed it is
children so brought up, who make such men, and women of a
corresponding type. Life seems fast losing its simplicity merely for
want of the brave courage to defy fashion's encroachments. "What will
they think?" is at the bottom of it. Who among us has pluck enough to
snap our fingers at that question, and face the formidable--"_Did you
ever?_" which treads upon the heels of independent thought and action,
even in a right and obviously sensible direction. Nor is it a question
of sex. I find as much of this spirit, or the want of it, in one sex
as in the other, and the children are the victims.
Now children naturally hate fine clothes and the restrictions upon
freedom and enjoyment that they impose. Children naturally prefer live
animals, to the pink dogs, and blue sheep, and green cows, presented
in a wooden "Noah's Ark." Children naturally prefer a garden and a
shovel, to a stereotyped lounge, with a silent cross nurse, over city
pavements. Children should be put to bed by loving hands, and their
eyes closed with a kiss, as our cherished dead pass into the land of
silence. Children should leap into loving arms when they again open
their eyes with the baptism of the fresh morning light.
Children should be kept in ignorance of nearly all that is now as
familiar to their ears as their own names. But, alas! we all know how
different things really are, and the result--is the children of
to-day--children, with rare and blessed exceptions, only in name. Oh!
the perpetual "nurse;" the perpetual nursery! The sad sight of the
spirit-weary little child checked in its most innocent and healthy
impulses; called "naughty," for being buoyant and merry, till
sullenness and defiant mischief are the result. Oh, mother in the
parlor, take off that silk dress which little feet may not climb upon,
and take a seat in your own nursery, and give that little one the
love, without which its whole sweet nature shall be turned into
bitterness. Oh, father, at the sound of whose footstep that child must
_always_ "hush up" or beat a hasty retreat to parts unknown--how much,
how _very_ much you lose, when never that little face grows brighter
that "papa has come home;" when, with your hands thrust into your
coat-pocket, you lounge along toward your door, and never invite with
your love that dear blessed little nose, to flatten itself against the
window-pane, watching for "my papa."
_My_ papa! Good heavens! what is it to be Senator, Member of Congress,
President, _King_, to that? "_My_ papa!" Man! what can you be thinking
of, that the sweet, trustful, blessed ownership in those two little
words, fails to move every drop of your blood? And what can the wide
earth, with all its cheating promises, give you, in compensation for
that which your short-sighted folly throws away? Oh, _sometimes_, stop
and think of that.
_MOURNING._
It is very strange how differently people are affected by a great
bereavement. One desires nothing so much as to flee as far as possible
from any scene, or association, which shall recall the lost. Every
relic he would banish forever from his presence. The spot where his
dead was laid he would never revisit, and, if possible, never
remember. When the anniversary of death occurs, no person should
allude to it in his presence; he would himself prefer to glide
obliviously over it. Another finds comfort and solace in the very
opposite course. He desires nothing so much as that the little
favorite home-surroundings of the dead should remain unchanged, as if
the owner were still living. He would sit down among them, and recall
by these silent mementoes every cherished look and tone; jealously
recording every detail and circumstance, lest memory should prove
unfaithful to her trust. Everything worn by the form now lifeless,
would he have often before his eyes, touching their folds with
caressing fingers. At the table and by the hearth, rising up and
sitting down, going out and coming in, would he evoke the dear
presence. He would pass through the streets where so often his dead
have passed with him. The place of that friend's sepulture, is to him
the place of all places where he would oftenest go. He plants there
his favorite flowers, and woos for them the balmiest air and warmest
sunshine. He reads over the name and date of birth and burial, each
time as if they were not already indelibly engraven on his memory; and
still, though months and years may have passed in this way, whenever
he catches himself saying, "It was about the time when our John," or
"our Mary, died," he will still shiver, as when the first time he had
occasion to couple death with that household name.
Again: One person on the death of a friend, is punctiliously
solicitous that no etiquette of mourning habiliments should be
disregarded, to the remotest fraction of an inch as to quantity; and
that the quality and fashioning of the same should be according to the
strictest rules laid down by custom on such occasions; considering all
variation from it, although demanded by health or comfort, as a
disrespect to the dead.
Another is scarcely conscious that he wears these outward tokens; or,
if so, knows little and cares less whether all the minutiæ of depth,
width and blackness is punctiliously followed. Attention to these
details seems to him a mockery, from which he turns impatiently away.
The whole world seems to him already draped in sable; what matters,
then, this intrusive pettiness? And that any one should measure the
depth of his loss by the width of a hem or a veil, or the fashion of a
hat, or the material of a garment, seems to him too monstrous an
absurdity for credence. And when he hears the common expression that
such a person is "in _half mourning_" it is so utterly repulsive to
him, that he almost feels that he should honor the dead more by a
total breach of the custom, than by its observance.
In truth, it may be a question whether a genuine grief can exist in
the artificial atmosphere where these slavish mourning etiquettes are
cultivated. The devil himself probably knew this; and contrived this
ingenious way to turn the mass of mankind aside from sober reflection
at a time when the march of life stands still.
When the bolt falls, which sooner or later strikes every man's house,
how philosophically lookers-on reason about it. How practically
unconscious are they, while gazing at the blood-besprinkled door-post
of a neighbor, that the advancing finger of Destiny is already pointed
at their own, as they plan for happy years to come the future of
husband, wife, child, brother and sister, as if _for them_ there was
immunity from dissolution and disruption. No acceleration of pulse, no
heart-quiver, when the funeral train passes by, or the sad face looks
out from its frame of sable; for no sweet bright face is missing from
_their_ little band. No pained ear listens at _their_ fireside for the
light footfall that will never come. No street is avoided in _their_
daily walks, which agonizingly suggests a floating form once watched
and waited for there. Nor may the passing stranger, whose step and
voice stir the troubled fountain of your tears, know by what personal
magnetism he has evoked your dead, and chained you to linger, and
look, and feed your excited fancy, till the impulse to throw yourself
on that strange heart and weep, almost sweeps away cold propriety.
_Ah! the difference, whether the hearse stands before one's own door,
or one's neighbor's._ And yet, how else could we all live on, playing
at jack-straws, as we do, day after day, while a momentous future
little by little unfolds itself? How else would one have courage to go
on planting what another hand than his shall surely reap; and what
pleasure would there be beneath the sun, if one sat crouching, and
listening for the step of the executioner, or clasping wild arms of
protection round the dear ones. Merciful indeed is it, that we can
travel on in to-day's sunshine, trusting to our Guide to shelter us,
when the storm shall gather and break over our heads.
_TO YOUNG GIRLS._
I wonder how many girls tell their mothers everything? _Not_ those
"young ladies" who, going to and from school, smile, bow, and exchange
notes and cartes de visite with young men, who are perfect strangers
to them. I grant this may all be done thoughtlessly and innocently,
for "fun," and without any wrong intention; but surely--surely--such
young girls should be told that not in this spirit will it be
received; and that to hold themselves in so cheap estimation, is
certainly to invite insult, how disguised soever it may be in the form
of compliment and flattery. Imagine a knot of young men making fun of
you and your "picture;" speaking of you in a way that would make your
cheeks burn with shame, could you hear it. All this, most credulous
and romantic young ladies, they will do, although they gaze at your
fresh young face admiringly, and send or give you charming verses and
bouquets. No matter what "other girls do;" don't _you_ do it. No
matter how "ridiculous" it is that you have "never had an offer,
although you were fifteen last spring;" there is time enough, and to
spare, yet. Girls who, falling in love, insist on getting married when
they are babies, will find that studying after marriage is tedious
work. A premature, faded, vacant old age!--you surely cannot desire
_that_. When is your mind to be informed, or to grow, if you place it
in a hot-house, that only the flower of Love be forced into early
bloom, to the dwarfing of every other faculty? And even should such a
foolish school flirtation end in early marriage, how long, think you,
before your husband would weary of a wife who only knew enough to talk
about dress or dancing? How painful for you to be silent, through
ignorance, should you chance to have intelligent guests at your house.
How painful, when your only charm, youth and its prettiness, has
faded, to find your husband gradually losing sight of you, as his mind
expanded, and yours grew still narrower, with the inevitable cares,
that only the _brain_ of a sensible woman can keep from overwhelming
her. How painful, as time passes on, and your children grow up about
you, to hear them talk intelligently on subjects of which you scarcely
know the names.
And this, remember, is taking the most _favorable_ view of the result
of school-girl flirtations. They _may_ end far more disastrously, as
many a foolish, wretched young girl could tell you.
But let us not talk of this. Your yearning for some one to love you,
and you only, is natural and right; it is a great need of every
woman's heart. But there is a time for everything; and it is wisdom
before seeking this to wait. Your choice at fifteen would be very
different from your choice at twenty. A man who would quite suit you
then, would only disgust and weary you when you grew older. Till
school-days are over, therefore, you can well afford to let love rest.
Don't let the bloom and freshness of your heart be brushed off in
silly flirtations. Study all you can and keep your health. Render
yourself _truly_ intelligent. And, above all, tell your mother
everything. "Fun" in _your_ dictionary would sometimes be
_indiscretion_ in hers. It will do you no harm to look and see. Never
be ashamed to tell her, who should be your best friend and confidant,
all you think and feel. She was once a girl herself; she had _her_
dreams, and can understand it. Not having been always as wise as she
is now, she can spare you many a pang of humiliation and regret if you
will profit by her advice.