"mother," that which is most important she should know. It is very sad
that indifferent persons should know more about her own fair young
daughter than she herself. Don't you think so? You find it quite easy
to tell your mother that you want a new dress, or hat, or shawl; but
you would be quite ashamed to say--Mother, I wish I had a lover. Why
not? It is nothing at all to be ashamed of. It is a perfectly natural
wish; and your mother was given you to tell you just that, and a great
many other things, which would convince you, if you would listen to
her, that it was best for you not to hurry into life's cares and
responsibilities till your soul and body were fitted to carry you
patiently, and hopefully through them.
* * * * *
Another thing I want to speak to you about: It is very common, at the
present day, for young ladies to accept presents from gentlemen not
related to them, or likely to become so--in fact, mere acquaintances.
It was not so in _my_ day; and with no partiality for old customs,
merely because they _are_ old customs, _I_ confess an admiration for
that feminine delicacy which shrinks from accepting favors from chance
acquaintances of the day or hour. That all young men have not the true
feelings of gentlemen, our young ladies need not be told; nor, that
those most lavish with their presents, are often as little able to
afford it, as they are able to _refrain from boasting that these
presents have been accepted when among their young male companions_.
The cheek of many an innocent but unguarded young girl, would crimson
with mortification could she hear the remarks often made on this
subject among young men. _Don't do it, girls_; don't accept any
presents from a gentleman unless he is an accepted suitor, a relative,
or some old, well-known friend of the family, who has proved his claim
to be good for such a proof of your faith in him. This may be
"old-fashioned" advice, and yet--you may live to thank me for it.
* * * * *
There is one point, my dears, upon which I pine for information. Many
an anxious hour have I pondered on it. I never studied medicine, else
I might not now be in the dark. I find no precedent for it in young
people of past ages. It was not so with me, or any of my young female
companions, most of whom, by the way, were boys. I cannot conjecture
what sort of parents, the curiously-constituted young person to whom I
refer, must have had. What time she cut her first tooth, or whether
she cut it at all. Not to harass you with farther conjecture, I will
come at once to the point. I allude to "_the fair young creature of
some seventeen summers_," of whom we so often read. In mercy tell
me,--does she--like the bear--suck her claws in some dark retreat in
winter; or, having "no winter in her year," is her lamp of life
suddenly and mercilessly blown out, not to be rekindled till it comes
time for another of her "_summers_." I beg the philanthropist--I
entreat the humanitarian, to make some inquiry into the circumstances
of this abridged young creature, so long defrauded by unprincipled
story and novel writers, of her inalienable woman's rights to _winter_
in our midst.
* * * * *
Do you ever go home pondering over chance conversation heard in the
street? "Don't you wish something would happen?" I heard a young girl
say, yawning to her companion, as I passed her. My dear, thought I,
rather bless Providence _when nothing happens_. However, she had many
years yet to see, before she could take that adult view of things; the
bread and butter period was beginning to get insipid, that was all;
that passed, she fancied all would be blue sky and roses beyond. What
"happens" to one's neighbor is too apt to be no concern of ours, 'tis
true; but one must walk with closed eyes through the streets of a
great city not to see constant "happenings." Yonder poor woman,
followed by a shouting crew of boys, and struggling in the grasp of a
policeman, her lips white with fear, what can have happened to _her_?
And so surely as that knot of crape flutters from yonder door, there
has "happened" in, over that threshold, a strange, unbidden guest, who
would take no denial. And there is a true woman, her eyes bent
earthward with unmerited shame, guiding home the staggering steps of
him on whom _she_ should have leaned. And farther on, a house-painter
sits swinging aloft, brush in hand, humming daily at his work; a
treacherous step, and he lies a mangled heap upon the pavement. Ah,
who has the courage to tell the busy little wife at home what has
"happened" to him? And yonder is a tearful mother kissing her soldier
lad; you and she both know what has and may "happen" there, and as you
look, your heart joins hers in that sorrowful blessing. And at yonder
pier they are busy over a "body." That is all they know of him whose
blue lips keep their own secret well. And peering through the bars of
that locked cart, jolting over the stones, are eyes that looked
innocently into the faces of fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters,
before this "happened." And so, thinking of all these things as I
listened to that young girl, I said, Blessed is that day, when
_nothing_ "happens."
* * * * *
Often I get letters from young girls who are perfect strangers to me.
The other day, one wrote me saying, "Fanny, suppose you give us a
chapter on working all one's life, just for the sake of working;
working all the time, just to keep soul and body together; without one
friend; one sympathizing word;--honest hard work, I mean, and no
thanks." This was my reply to her: perhaps some of you may feel like
asking the same question, so you can consider it written also to you.
Well, my dear child, there are thousands who are compelled to do this,
as there are thousands more who will do it, in time to come. This view
of the case may not make you more contented with your lot, but I think
our sufferings are sometimes intensified by imagining that nobody in
the world ever had to endure the _peculiar_ hardships which afflict
our individual selves. You must remember that to this initiatory
school of self-conquest the world owes many of its best and most
gifted children. To learn to wait, to be willing to endure, is indeed
the hardest of all earthly lessons. To wait athirst for sympathy; to
wait for the tardy lifting of the iron hand of toil, which seems
crushing out everything but the grinding care for daily bread _is_
hard. I say _seems_ crushing, for often it is _only_ seeming. The seed
that _seems_ buried is only for a time hidden; some day when we least
expect it, it gives to our gladdened sight verdure, blossom and
fruitage. Persistent discontent is the rust of the soul. They have
half won the battle who can work while they wait. Having measured
one's capacities; having satisfied oneself that at present nothing
better can be achieved; it is wise to do cheerfully with our might
what our hands find to do, though with listening ear for the day of
future deliverance. And it will surely come to such, though not,
perhaps, just in the manner, or at the moment, their shortsightedness
had marked out. A bird that ceaselessly beats its delicate wings
against the bars of its cage must soon lie helpless. Better to nibble
and sing, keeping a bright eye for a chance opening of the door out
into the green fields and blue sky beyond. But this achieved, remember
that the sky will not always be blue, nor the wind gentle; then, when
the storm comes, comes again a struggle to get above the clouds, into
another atmosphere.
Like the child who essays to walk--many a fall, many a bump, many a
disappointment in grasping far-off objects that seemed near, or
finding their shining but dimness when gained, must be ours; till,
like it, we come, gladly, at last, weary with effort, to rest
peacefully on the bosom of Love. So--when to Him who appointeth our
lot, we can say trustingly, "Do what seemeth good in Thy sight;"--so,
when the mad beating of our wings against the bars of a present
necessity shall cease, and the lesson of self-conquest shall be
achieved, then--is freedom and victory in sight!
_A LITTLE TALK WITH "THE OTHER SEX."_
Tom Jones would like to be married. Tom does not quite relish the idea
of a connubial idiot; and yet, for many reasons unnecessary to state,
he does not desire a wife who knows much. He would like one who will
be always on tiptoe to await his coming, and yet be perfectly
satisfied, and good-humored, if after all her preparations, culinary
and otherwise, he may conclude at all times, or at any time, to prefer
other society to hers. He also desires his wife to be possessed of
principle enough for both, because in his own case, principle would
interfere with many of his little arrangements. He would like her
always to be very nicely dressed, although his own boots and coats are
innocent of a brush from year's end to year's end. He wishes her to
speak low, and not speak much; because he has a great deal to say
himself, and when he has roared it out, like the liberal, great Dr.
Johnson, "he wishes the subject ended!" Tom wishes his wife possessed
of military instincts, so that she may discipline her household; after
that is done, he wishes to turn the key on these military instincts,
lest they might be of use in some emergency necessary to her personal
happiness. Tom wants a wife who loves more than she reasons, because
he intends himself to pursue quite a contrary policy. Tom would like a
wife who adjusts everything with a smile; although he may use his
boots for other purposes than that of locomotion. She must have a
pretty face, an easy temper, and an intellect the size of which would
allow him to consider his own colossal. Any young lady very weak in
the head, and strong in the nerves, and quite destitute of any
disgusting little selfishnesses, may consider herself eligible,
provided she has money; none others need apply.
* * * * *
Since the world began, there probably never was a marriage of which
somebody did not "disapprove." That somebody, and everybody, including
relatives, have a perfect right to an opinion on such a subject,
nobody doubts. But how far you prove your greater love for "Tom," by
whispering round "confidentially" your foreordained determination not
to believe that "that woman" can ever make him happy, is a question.
Poor fellow! and _she_ of all people in the world; the very last woman
_you_ would have selected; which of course is sure to get to Tom's
wife's ears, and produce a fine foundation for belief in the reality
of your regard for him, and your good nature generally.
Now as there were seldom, or never, two parties bound together in
_any_ relation of life, whether as business partners, pastor and
people, teacher and pupil, master and subordinate, mistress and maid,
who always moved along with perfect unanimity, it is hardly to be
expected that the marriage of "Tom" and his wife will effect a total
revolution for the better in human nature, any more than did your own
marriage. Perhaps even Tom and his wife, though loving each other very
much, may have a difference of opinion on some subject; but what is
that to you? They don't need your guardianship or supervision in the
matter. It is very curious that those persons who clamor most loudly
when "Tom" marries without their consent and approbation, are, ten to
one, those who have themselves married clandestinely, or otherwise
offended against the rigid rule which they would apply in his
particular case.
Broad philanthropists! Tom can surely be happy in no way but theirs.
They love him so much better than "that woman" possibly can. Poor
"Tom!" He looked so poorly last time they saw him. _Her_ fault, of
course. They knew it would be just so. Didn't they say so from the
first? Poor Tom! such a sacrifice! It is unaccountable how he can like
her. For the matter of that, they never _will_ believe he does, (and
they might add, he shan't if we can help it.) And so, when they see
him, they inquire with a churchyard air, "Is he well?" "Is anything
the matter?" "Ah, you needn't tell us; _we_ know how it is; poor
Tom--we know you _try_ to bear up under it. Come and see _us_. We will
love you. You never will find _us_ changed."
No. That's the worst of it! No hope of their changing. Bless their
souls! How lucky "Tom" has somebody to tell him what a "sacrifice he
has made," or he never would find it out! Well, it is astonishing that
such people don't see that this is the last way to convince any person
with common sense, that they are better qualified to be installed
guardians of "Tom's" happiness than "_that woman_."
* * * * *
It is very strange that men, as a general thing, should be proud of
that, of which they should be ashamed, and ashamed of that, which
ennobles them. Now, to my eye, a man never looks so grand, as when he
bends his ear patiently and lovingly, to the lisping of a little
child. I admire that man whom I see with a baby in his arms. I
delight, on Sunday, when the nurses are set free, to see the fathers
leading out their little ones in their best attire, and setting them
right end up, about fifty times a minute. It is as good a means of
grace as I am acquainted with. Now that a man should feel ashamed to
be seen doing this, or think it necessary to apologize, even
jocularly, when he meets a male friend, is to me one of the
unaccountable things. It seems to me every way such a lovely, and
good, and proper action in a father, that I can't help thinking that
he who would feel otherwise, is of so coarse and ignoble a nature, as
to be quite unworthy of respect. How many times I have turned to look
at the clumsy smoothing of a child's dress, or settling of its hat,
or bonnet, by the unpractised fingers of a proud father. And the
clumsier he was about it, the better I have loved him for the pains he
took. It is very beautiful to me, this self-abnegation, which creeps
so gradually over a young father. He is himself so unconscious that
he, who had for many years thought first and only of his own selfish
ease and wants, is forgetting himself entirely whenever that little
creature, with _his_ eyes and _its mother's lips_, reaches out coaxing
hands to go here or there, or to look at this or that pretty object.
Ah, what but this heavenly love, could bridge over the anxious days
and nights, of care and sickness, that these twain of one flesh are
called to bear? _My_ boy! _My_ girl! There it is! _Mine!_ Something to
live for--something to work for--_something to come home to_; and that
last is the summing up of the whole matter. "Now let us have a good
love," said a little three-year older, as she clasped her chubby arms
about her father's neck when he came in at night "Now let us have a
good love." Do you suppose that man walked with slow and laggard steps
from his store toward that bright face that had been peeping for an
hour from the nursery window to watch his coming? Do you suppose when
he got on all fours to "play elephant" with the child, that it even
crossed his mind that he had worked very hard all that day, or that he
was not at that minute "looking dignified?" Did he wish he had a
"club" where he could get away from home evenings, or was that "_good
love_" of the little creature on his back, with the laughing eyes and
the pearly teeth, and the warm clasp about his neck, which she was
squeezing to suffocation, sweeter and better than anything that this
world could give?
_Something to come home to!_ That is what saves a man. Somebody there
to grieve if he is not true to himself. Somebody there to be sorry if
he is troubled or sick. Somebody there, with fingers like sunbeams,
gliding and brightening whatever they touch; and all for him. I look
at the business men of New York, at nightfall, coming swarming "up
town" from their stores and counting-rooms; and when I see them, as I
often do, stop and buy one of those tiny bouquets as they go, I smile
to myself; for although it is a little attention toward a wife, I know
how happy that rose with its two geranium leaves, and its sprig of
mignonette will make her. He thought of _her_ coming home! Foolish, do
you call it? Such folly makes all the difference between stepping off,
scarcely conscious of the cares a woman carries, or staggering wearily
along till she faints disheartened under their burthen. _Something to
go home to!_ That man felt it, and by ever so slight a token wished to
recognize it. God bless him, I say, and all like him, who do not take
home-comforts as stereotyped matters of course, and God bless the
family estate; I can't see that anything better has been devised by
the wiseacres who have experimented on the Almighty's plans. "There
comes _my_ father!" exclaims Johnny, bounding from out a group of
"fellows" with whom he was playing ball; and sliding his little soiled
fist in his, they go up the steps and into the house together; and
again God bless them! I say there's one man who is all right at least.
That boy has got him, safer than Fort Lafeyette.
* * * * *
If there is an experiment which is worse than any other for a young
married couple to make, we believe it to be that of trying to make a
home in a hotel. What possible chance has a young wife there to
acquire domestic habits? To do anything, in short, but dress half a
dozen times a day, and sit in the public parlor, or her own, to gossip
with idle women or bandy compliments with idle men. And how--I ask any
thinking person--can a young married woman be fitted for quiet
home-cares and duties, after a year or two of such idleness and
vacuity; Let no young husband expect any favorable result from such an
experiment. Better a house with only _one_ room, in a quiet place by
yourselves--than such a hollow, shallow life as this. Many a husband
has dated from it the loss of all quiet, home happiness; lucky for
him, if no more. _Go to housekeeping_; unambitiously if need be--as
the old folks did before you. But have a place sacred to
yourselves--have a place which your children in after years will love
to think of as home. Do it for their sakes if not for your own. No
sight is sadder than that of a weary little one--wandering up and
down the entries and halls of a large hotel, peeping into parlors,
offices and bar-rooms--listening to what childhood should never hear,
and with no alternative but the small, dreary nursery, whose
only-window prospect, nine times in ten, is a stack of brick chimneys
or a back-shed full of flapping clothes hung out to dry. A father
should hesitate long before he dooms a young child to such a "home" as
this.
* * * * *
As to women, men are apt to think, and fall into innumerable blunders
by so thinking, that because they know one woman they know all; when,
in fact, each woman is as much of a study as if he had never seen one
of the sex. Bulwer doubts whether man _ever_ thoroughly understood
woman. Truly, how should he? when woman does not understand herself;
nor can tell why she lives on patiently, hopefully, year after year,
with a brute, whose favorite pastime consists in attempts to break her
neck every time things go wrong with him, indoors or out. That the
better educated husband murders with sharp words instead of sharp
blows, makes it none the less murder. The only difference is in the
duration of the misery, one being as deadly as the other. Who cares to
understand how a woman with bruised heart and flesh can throw over
both the charitable mantle that, "he wasn't himself;" and beg off the
offender from merited punishment, public or private. Let us rather
seek to understand how man, who should be so strong, should fall so
immeasurably below his "weaker" self, in the difficult lesson of
self-control and forgiveness of injuries.
* * * * *
Some men profess to dislike coquetry; if so, why do they encourage it?
Why do they often leave a sensible, well-informed woman to play
"wall-flower," while they talk nonsense to some brainless doll, who
can only ogle, sigh and simper? It appears to us that men are to blame
for most of the faults of women. We always regret to hear a man who
has matrimonial views say of a girl, she don't know much, but she is
amiable, has a pretty face, and after all, if I need society, it is
easy enough to find it elsewhere. A man has no right to marry a woman
with intentions so widely diverse from those he professes to
entertain, when he vows to be a husband; he is responsibly blameworthy
for the consequences that result from such an act; besides, it is a
very mistaken notion some men seem to have, that a fool is easily
managed; there is no description of animal so difficult to govern;
what they lack in brains they are sure to make up in obstinacy, or a
low kind of cunning. Then a pretty face cannot last forever, and the
old age of a brainless beauty, we shudder to contemplate, even at a
distance. Women aim to be what men oftenest like to see them; you may,
therefore, easily gauge the masculine standard by the majority of
women one daily meets. Heaven pity the exceptions! they must find
_their_ mates in another world than this.
* * * * *
One of the meanest things a young man can do, and it is not at all of
uncommon occurrence, is to monopolize the time, and attention, of a
young girl for a year, or more, without any definite object, and to
the exclusion of other gentlemen, who, supposing him to have
matrimonial intentions, absent themselves from her society. This
selfish "dog-in-the-manger" way of proceeding should be
discountenanced and forbidden, by all parents and guardians.
It prevents the reception of eligible offers of marriage, and fastens
upon the young lady, when the acquaintance is finally dissolved, the
unenviable and _unmerited_ appellation of "flirt." Young man, let all
your dealings with women, be frank, honest and noble. That many whose
education and position in life are culpably criminal on these points,
is no excuse for your short-comings. It adds a blacker dye to your
meanness, that woman is often wronged through her holiest feelings.
One rule is always safe: _Treat every woman you meet, as you would
wish another man to treat your innocent, confiding sister._
* * * * *
After all, how any young fellow can have the face to walk into your
family, and deliberately ask for one of your daughters, astonishes
me. That it is done every day, does not lessen my amazement at the
sublime impudence of the thing. There you have been, sixteen, or
seventeen, or eighteen years of her life, combing her hair, and
washing her face for----_him_. It is lucky the thought never strikes
you while you are doing it, that this is to be the end of it all. What
if you _were_ married yourself? that is no reason why she should be
bewitched away into a separate establishment, just as you begin to
lean upon her, and be proud of her; or, at least, it stands to reason,
that after you have worried her through the measles, and chicken-pox,
and scarlet-fever, and whooping-cough, and had her properly baptized
and vaccinated, this young man might give you a short breathing-spell
before she goes.
_He_ seems to be of a different opinion; _he_ not only insists upon
taking her, but upon taking her immediately. He talks well about
it--very well; you have no objection to him, not the least in the
world except that. When the world is full of girls, why couldn't he
have fixed his eye on the daughter of somebody else? There are some
parents who are glad to be rid of their daughters. Blue eyes are as
plenty as blueberries; why need it be this particular pair? Isn't she
happy enough as she is? Don't she have meat and bread and clothes
enough, to say nothing of love? What is the use of leaving a certainty
for an uncertainty, when that certainty is a mother, and you can never
have but one? You put all these questions to her, and she has the
sauciness to ask, if that is the way you reasoned, when her father
came for you. You disdain to answer, of course; it is a mean dodging
of the question. But she gets round you for all that, and so does he
too, though you try your best not to like him; and with a--"well, if I
must, I must," you just order her wedding-clothes, muttering to
yourself the while,--"dear--dear--what sort of a fist will that child
make at the head of a house? how will she ever know what to do in
this, that, or the other emergency"--she who is calling on "mother"
fifty times a day to settle every trifling question? What folly for
her to set up house for herself! How many mothers have had these
foreboding thoughts over a daughter's wedding-clothes; and yet that
daughter has met life, and its unexpected reverses, with a heroism and
courage as undaunted as if every girlish tear had not been kissed away
by lips, that alas! may be dust, when this baptism of womanhood comes
upon her.
* * * * *