comprehending. How _can_ he comprehend? He who stands in his pride,
with his panting soul uncovered, in the scorching Zahara of _Reason_,
and then complains that no dew falls, no showers descend, no buds,
blossoms, or fruit cheer him. How can he who faces with folded arms
and defiant attitude, comprehend the twining love-clasp and satisfied
heart-rest which come only of love? Thank God, woman is not too proud
to take what she so much needs. That she does not wait to comprehend
the Infinite before she can love. That she does not plant her foot,
and refuse to stir, till her guide tells her why he is leading her by
this path instead of that; and though every foot-print be marked with
her heart's blood, she does not relax her grasp or doubt his faith.
Well may her glance, her touch, the rustle of her garments even, have
power to soothe and bless; well may the soft touch of such upon brows
knotted with the world's strife bring coolness and peace. Oh, woman,
be strong-minded as you will, if only you be pure and gentle-hearted.
* * * * *
While on the Woman Question I wish to say that my sympathies have
always been strongly enlisted for female teachers. Of all who go
fainting by the roadside of life, heart-sore and heart-weary, none are
more utterly so than the majority of our female teachers. A
male-teacher is, generally, able to overawe the misgoverned young
girls committed to his charge; or, if he is not, his tougher
organization precludes the possibility of that exquisite degree of
torture which _she_ endures from it. The female teacher must withdraw
to her room when the day's toil is over, quivering often with nervous
excitement, worn out, body and spirit, with the struggle for daily
bread, hungering more for sympathy and a kind word than for that;
taking to her dreams the rude superciliousness of pupils, spoiled to
her hand; the only answer possible to whom has been the burning blush
of degradation, the suppressed tear or sob.
I shall be told that there are teachers who abuse their
trust--mercenary, ungrateful, impervious to any moral considerations.
Of course, in all professions there are those who are better out than
in it. Plenty who are trying to regulate delicate microscopic springs
with an iron crowbar. Teaching is not exempt from its bunglers and
charlatans; but, outside of this, there is the long, pale-cheeked
procession of female teachers, stretching out feeble hands from the
jostling crowd, trembling lest by some unintentional oversight of
theirs they lose the approbation of employers, and with it their means
of subsistence; bearing patiently the petty insults of willfulness, of
selfishness, of arrogance, all uncomplainingly, day by day, week by
week, month by month, as the slow years roll on; nor, is there any
help for this, as many young people are at present educated; when a
teacher, though often possessed of double the native refinement of the
taught, is considered by them merely as an upper servant, to be
quizzed, to be cheated, to be tormented, at every possible
opportunity; and with all her earnest and conscientious endeavors, to
be held responsible for the consequences of natural dullness and
premeditated sloth; and all for the grudging permission to keep soul
and body together. Many may think this an overdrawn picture. Would
that it were!
Not long since, a young girl apologized to her private lady-teacher,
for the necessary postponement of several lessons, on account of
illness. With much feeling the teacher answered: "Do not mention it, I
beg. That is nothing. That is unavoidable. Meantime, you are always
respectful to me, always kind, always polite. _You never hurt my
feelings, mademoiselle._ Some of my pupils are so rude, so insolent;
it is very hard to teach such." Comment is unnecessary. _How_ "hard"
it must be for a gentle, refined and educated woman to endure these
things, my readers can judge.
If any young girl should read this who has hitherto supposed that
money gave her the power to treat with disrespect such a person; that
money could remunerate her for the agony she made her endure, let her
remember that money sometimes takes to itself wings, and that there
may come a time when, seeking her daily bread, _she_ too may hunger
for the respectful appreciation she now so heedlessly withholds.
We believe it is generally admitted that a woman of even average
acquirements can write a better letter than a man. We think there are
two good reasons for this. First, they are not above narrating the
_little_ things which bring up a person or a scene more vividly to the
mind than anything else. They write _naturally_, as they talk; while a
man takes his pen too often in the mood in which he would mount a
platform to address his "fellow-citizens," using big words, and
stiltified language. Hence a man's letters are for the most part stiff
and uninteresting. Commend us to a woman's letter when information
about home matters, or any other matters, is really needed. In making
these remarks, we do not forget a sentimental class of female
letter-writers; they are the exceptions, and any one who has patience,
may read their wordy, idea-less effusions. We cannot. Still every one
of us must remember, when absent, letters from some female member of
the family, which were worth more than all that the collected male
intellect of the household could furnish. You, and you, and you--have
them now we dare say, stained by time and perhaps tears, yet still
precious above rubies.
There are sometimes women who develop a smart business capability
worthy of a man; but as a general thing there are few people who speak
approbatively of such a woman. No matter how isolated or destitute her
condition, the majority would consider it more "feminine," would she
unobtrusively gather up her thimble, and, retiring into some
out-of-the-way-place, gradually scoop out her coffin with it, than to
develop the smart turn for business which would lift her at once out
of her troubles; and which, in a man so situated, would be applauded
as exceedingly praiseworthy. The most curious part of it is, that they
who are loudest in their abhorrence of this "unfeminine" trait, are
they who are the most intolerant of dependent female relatives.
"Anywhere out of the world," would be their reply, if applied to by
the latter for a straw for the drowning. "Do something for yourself,"
is their advice in general terms; but, above all, you are to "do it
quietly," unobtrusively; in other words, die as soon as you like on
sixpence a day, but don't trouble _us_! Of such cold-blooded comfort,
in sight of a new-made grave, might well be born "the _smart business
woman_." And, in truth, so it often is. Hands that never toiled
before, grow rough with labor; eyes that have been tearless for long,
happy years, drop agony over the slow lagging hours; feet that have
been tenderly led and cared for, stumble as best they may in the new,
rough path of self-denial. But out of this bitterness groweth
sweetness. _No crust so tough as the grudged bread of dependence._
Blessed be the "smart business woman" who, in a self-sustained crisis
like this, after having through much tribulation reached the goal, is
able to look back on the weary track and see the sweet flower of faith
and trust in her kind still blooming.
* * * * *
A good honest soul once said that "all she wanted, when she got to
Heaven, was to put on a clean apron and sit still." After all, the
idea is more profound than funny. There are times in every
housekeeper's life when this would be the embodiment of Paradise. When
the head throbs with planning, contriving, and directing; when every
bone aches in the attempt to carry the programme into successful
execution; when, after having done one's best to draw to a focus all
the infinitesimal cob-web threads of careful management, some new
emergency is born of every last attempt, till every nerve and muscle
cries out, with the old woman, for Heaven and a clean apron! Of
course, after a period of carefree rest, this earth seems after all a
very nice place to stay in; but while the fit lasts, no victim of
unsuccessful love, or of sea-sickness, is more truly deserving of that
which neither ever get--_heartfelt pity_. It is well that is not the
prevailing feeling, else how could we all toil and moil, as we do, day
after day, for six feet of earth to engulf it all at last! It is well
that to painstaking mothers and delving fathers, earth seems so
_real_. Were it not so, the wheels of this world would stick fast, of
course.
The men would hang themselves because there are three hundred and
sixty-five days in a year, and every morning of all these days, they
must button their shirt-wristbands. The women would think of nine
children and one at the breast, and every one to be worried through
the measles, scarlet fever, chicken-pox, and whooping-cough; while
Bridget and Betty would incontinently drown themselves at the
never-ending succession of breakfasts, dinners and suppers, to be
gobbled up by people constantly ringing the bell for "more." Heaven
and a clean apron! the idea is delicious. Let us hope the old woman
got it.
* * * * *
Speaking of Bridget and Betty, let me ask the women who read this one
question. How do you treat your household servants? "None of my
business." But it is yours; and for fear you should forget it, I take
the liberty to call your attention to it. Are they overworked?
underpaid? indifferently fed? Do you ever give them a holiday? Do you
ever lend them a book to read of a leisure evening? Do you ever give
them a leisure evening? Do you care for them when they are sick? Do
you remember that they, like yourself, have fathers, mothers, sisters,
brothers, toward whom a good word or kind action from you, might be
the pivot upon which their whole life should turn, for good or evil,
joy or sorrow? Perhaps some young girl among them, dependent and
oppressed, despondent and discouraged, to whose side you might step,
and to whose heart you might bring that delicious joy, _the sense of
protection_, for the want of which so many despairing feet turn astray
forever.
None of my business? Make it yours, then: for a woman's heart beats in
your kitchen,--over your wash-tub,--over your ironing-table,--down in
your cellar,--up in your garret. A kind word is such a little thing to
you--so much to her. _Your_ cup is so full to overflowing,--_hers_
often so empty, so tasteless. And kindness so wings the feet of Duty.
Think of it.
* * * * *
There is one thing that puzzles me about our women who live in the
country; as a general thing they might as well, it seems to us, be
without feet, for all the use they make of them, out of doors. We
cannot but think they make a mistake in tackling up old Dobbin to
convey them a mile, or a mile and a half, as the case may be, to the
village store, for any little articles of home consumption. Why not
array themselves in thick shoes fit for rough roads, and stir the
blood by a little healthful exercise? We do not believe, how active
soever their indoor occupations may be, that they can ever entirely
supersede this necessity for _out-door_ exercise. We have often
marvelled, when chance has thrown us among them for a few days, at
their slavish subserviency to horse-flesh on every trifling occasion.
They seem to regard the city visitor's preference for walking, as a
sort of lunacy, harmless perhaps, but pitiable. They see "no object,"
in going over the threshold "just for a walk." Well--every one to
their taste--notwithstanding the currents of "fresh air" always to be
had by every one who lives _inside_ a country house, _we_ would not,
voluntarily, surrender the privilege of snuffing it _outside_, and
snuffing it _on foot_, too. This is our advice to both the _country_
and the city wife.
* * * * *
Wife! There are no four letters in the language expressive of so much
that is holy and sweet. Wife! that is a word claimable only by one. A
man can have but one _wife_, in a Christian community! That is _her_
proud, undisputed, indisputable, title. Let her hold on to it.
The other day we overheard this exclamation. That _his_ wife! and a
long sigh, and ominous shake of the head followed it. The object of
this commiseration had "a genius" for a husband. Crowds of worshippers
had he--male and female, known and unknown, declared and silent.
According to them, he never opened his mouth without scattering
word-pearls. All were desirous to know him; some because they really
admired his talent; many because it made them of consequence to be his
friends. Presents of all kinds were laid at his feet and just enough
enemies had he to convince the most skeptical that he had made a
success in the world.
And that was his wife! Good gracious! That little, plain, unpretending,
quiet body, with not even a "stylish" air to recommend her! It was
awful. _Why?_--didn't she love him? Oh, yes; how could she help it? Was
she not a good mother to his children? Oh, yes. Was she not a careful,
orderly housekeeper? Oh, yes. Was she not sensible and well-informed,
and able to take a creditable place as conversationalist at his table
and fireside? Oh, yes all of that; but _he_ should have had an elegant,
talented, brilliant wife. _No he shouldn't._ He has just the wife he
wants. A practical, common-sense woman, proud of her husband in her own
demonstrative way. Smiling quietly at the world's estimate of the
unostentatious virtues, which make his home a pattern of neatness,
order and comfort. Smiling quietly, as the conscious possessor of his
heart could afford to do, at the meddling short-sightedness which would
displace her "brilliant, talented woman," whom ten to one, even had she
good sense with her brilliancy he never would like half as well,
because God has endowed few men with magnanimity enough to rejoice in
those qualities which make a wife--like her husband--resourceful and
self-reliant. No--no, my friends, let them alone. What affair is it of
yours, if they themselves are content? Ah--but we won't believe they
_are_ content. We persist in pitying him. We could pick out twenty
splendid women with whom he would be better mated. Very like--my dear
madame;--and yourself, first of the twenty, no doubt! Pshaw! leave him
with his patient, quiet, unobtrusive, sensible, good, little, homely
wife. "A male genius"--my sentimental friend--likes a good
dinner--plenty of _kicking_ room--and a wife who, if she differs from
him in opinion, won't say so.
_A TRIP TO THE NORTHERN LAKES._
I trust that it involves no disloyalty to Queen Victoria to dislike
Toronto; it is the last of her Majesty's dominions that I should
select for a residence. Its tumble-down, dilapidated aspect, its
almost total absence of adornment in architecture, or ornamentation in
shrubbery, was, I confess, very repelling to me. One excepts, of
course, what is called the "College Walk," leading to the fine new
University buildings and grounds, consisting of an entire mile of
handsome shade trees, but alas! a line-and-plummet, undeviating,
straight mile, innocent of the faintest suspicion of a curve. Still,
on the pleasant afternoon we walked there, we enjoyed it, as well as
the sight of the crowd, dressed in holiday attire, sauntering past us.
I saw no beauty in their faces, but a look of jolly health, which, to
my eye, was quite as pleasing. The young girls, perhaps, looked a
trifle too theatrical, in the little straw crowns of hats without
brim, a large ostrich feather being curled over the forehead, instead.
This head-dress, worn with quite ordinary dresses, seemed to me
incongruous, and not in good taste; but one forgives much to a sunny,
bright face, and this would be a very monotonous world, were all
individuality destroyed. It struck me that there was an immense
number of sixteen-year-old young girls in Toronto; perhaps their
mothers and aunts don't go out, or _they_ may be youthful mothers and
aunts--who knows? It struck me, too, that the Torontonians enjoyed
themselves; every face wearing a smiling, care-free expression, rare
to meet in larger places; so, if they like their pigs to run loose in
the street, who shall say them nay, provided they don't trip up the
Prince of Wales?
It was funny to see the "beadle" standing in the cathedral porch on
Sunday morning, with his scarlet cloth collar and pompous air. If he
had the usual cocked hat belonging to his office, I didn't see it, but
he found us a good seat, and I trust we prayed for "the Queen and
Prince" after the minister, with as much zeal as any of her subjects.
The church service was indeed the best part of the performance, the
sermon being very harmless and rigidly respectable. Perhaps that was
the reason my thoughts wandered to a lad of twelve or thirteen near
by, who was starched up in a white cravat, and dressed like his
grandfather. There were some stylish equipages round the church door
as we came out, and many that were not stylish, but seemed comfortable
enough for all that. If I thought Toronto rather a "slow" place, the
fault may be in my quicksilver temperament, which sent me off by
railroad through the backwoods to Detroit, after one day's sojourn in
it. Ah! that I liked! Those grand old woods, those primeval trees,
towering and stately as "cedars of Lebanon;" those log-huts with the
bronzed mother standing in the door-way, and a group of rosy little
children about her; the woodman near by, resting on his axe at the
sound of the shrieking whistle, all unconscious how pretty a picture
he and his were making. And so on, for miles and miles, through that
bright day, we never wearied of gazing till the sun went down. When it
rose again it found us in Detroit, and quite as comfortably settled as
we could have been in the best hotel in New York. Breakfast, and then
a carriage to see the place. _Detroit will do._ There are flowers in
Detroit; there are pretty gardens and vine-festooned windows; they
make good coffee in Detroit, and grow peaches, or at any rate _sell_
them--which answered my purpose just as well. Some of the streets and
buildings are very pretty. There are funny little market carts,
similar to those one sees in Quebec, driven about by women who sell
apples, beans and potatoes. There are plenty of stores there, and
civil salesmen. One need not cut his throat in Detroit, said I, as we
took a farewell glance from the deck of the propeller, on which we
were to glide up Lake St. Clair. It seems so strange that people will
go, year after year, through the tiresome monotony of watering-place
life; the same unvarying, uninteresting round of dressing and dancing,
when a tour of a week or more on our Northern Lakes would be so
soul-satisfying and healthful. It must be that many of them only need
reminding of its superior advantages, and the ease and comfort with
which so many hundred miles may be traversed, to undertake it. But to
enjoy it, it must be done on the right principle. If a woman, you are
not to dress up, and, striking an attitude in the ladies' saloon, take
out that everlasting crochet-work, with which so many women martyrize
themselves and their friends, to pass the time. You are to array
yourself in a rough-and-tumble-dress, with the plainest belongings;
then you are prepared to scramble up on the upper deck, to promenade
there and look about; or go into the wheel-house and ask questions of
the jolly, gallant captain; or go "down below" and see emigrant life,
among the steerage passengers; or, when the boat stops to take in coal
or freight, to jump out on the landing, and make your way, through
boxes and barrels, up into the town during the brief half-hour stay of
the boat. You are to do anything of this kind that a modest,
dignified, independent woman may always do, without regard to Mrs.
Grundy, or her numerous descendants on sea and shore. That's the way
to make the Northern Lake trip.
* * * * *
Eleven days without a newspaper! and yet we ate, and drank, and slept,
and grew fat, as our boat carried us farther and farther from all
knowledge of the "horrid disclosures," and "startling developments" of
fast Gotham. We were blissfully ignorant how many men choked,
poisoned, and were otherwise attentive to their wives, during those
bright days when we sat on deck, basking in the sun, with our
fascinated gaze fixed upon the bright foam-track, or upon the
sea-gulls, that, with untiring wing, followed us hundreds of miles,
now and then laving their snowy breasts in the blue waves; or, as we
gladly welcomed the smaller, friendly birds, that flew into the cabin
windows, and fluttered about the ceiling, as if glad to see new faces
in their trackless homes. We were ignorant--and contented to
be--during this tranquil period, of "mass-meetings," and "barbecues,"
and "pugilistic encounters," and scrambles for office, the baptismal
name of which is "patriotism." Meanwhile the fresh wind blew on our
bronzed faces, and we glided past lovely green islands, on which
Autumn had hung out, here and there, her signal flag, warning
us--spite of the pleasant breeze--not to linger too long where the
fierce winds would soon come to lash the waves to more than old
Ocean's fury. Who could dream it, "with the blue above and the blue
below," and we so gently rocked and cradled? Who could believe
it--that heavenly evening, when we watched the sun sink beneath the
waves on one side of us, as the moon rose majestically out of them on
the other, while before us the beautiful island of "The Great Spirit,"
was set like an emerald in the sapphire sea? Now and then an Indian in
his fragile canoe, with a blanket for a sail, gave us rough welcome in
passing. How could we realize on that balmy evening, that for eight
months in the year, he saw those green pines covered with snow, or
that he guided huge dogs to carry the mail, through paths accessible
only to Indian feet, or that spring and autumn were there almost
unknown, so rapidly did winter and summer, with their intense heat and
cold, succeed each other. Entranced and spell-bound we asked, Can it
_ever_ be dreary here? Hark! to that sound of music, as another boat,
homeward bound, plashes past us, with its living freight. One moment
and away! Heaven send them safety! And now picturesque little huts are
dotted in and out among the trees, along the line of shore, and the
solemn mysteries of life and death go on there too. And now, as if
every illuminated page in Nature's book were to be turned for us,
flashes up the Aurora! in long, quivering lines of light,--rose-color
and silver--till earth, sea and sky are ablaze with glory! Oh, let us
go home and gather together all who love us, (this boat would more
than hold them,) and let us _always_ live on these waters, said I;
such nice, quiet sleep in the cosy little state-rooms where one cannot
lose anything, because there is no room to lose it; and then the
pleasant surprise of the new landing-places with their Frenchy-Indian
names, and the strange but friendly faces on the pier; the mines too,
to explore in this rich country, often held by residents in the old
world; oh, you may be sure, even without Broadway, there would be no
lack of excitement on these Lakes, no more than there would be lack of
culture, refinement and intelligence among their residents; for it
must needs be men of mark who are the pioneers in these wildernesses;
men who will stand strong as do its rocks, when the waves of
discouragement dash against them, waiting the lull of winds and
storms, for the fore-ordained sunshine of prosperity. There are
_women_, too, here; not flounced and be-gemmed and useless, but
bright-eyed and fair-browed, for all that, and loving appreciatively
the wild, grand beauty of these lakes and woods, even when laggard
Winter holds them ice-bound. Nor need the traveller be surprised, on
stepping ashore, to find here a large, well-appointed hotel, with a
bill of fare no epicure need despise, especially when the far-famed
fish of these regions is set before him.