possible to _them_ too, at the biding of custom! They must be swathed
in sackcloth although only two or three years of sunshine have put the
golden gleam in their hair. Is it not enough that papa or mamma, or
sister or brother, may never answer again when their bird-like voices
call them! Is it Christian or even humane, so to surround them with
gloom that "death" shall be a never-ceasing nightmare? I never see a
little creature so habited, that I do not long to hang a garland of
roses about its neck, and point to the blue heavens as an emblem of
that serene rest which has come to the sleeper.
But you may ask, "Would you give _no_ sign, _no_ token that the
footprints of the Destroyer are over your threshold?" Yes, the same
that is used by military men when their chief has departed--a crape
upon the arm. This simple token--no more; since, as I say, multiplied
bombazine and crape do _not_ always express either grief or respect;
since they often represent the contrary, and mostly an expense which
can ill be borne by the survivors even when grief is sincere; and
since this already recognized military badge of bereavement answers
all the purpose--why not?
The white ribbon tied upon the door-handle, with rosebuds attached,
when the baby's lids are forever closed--oh! that is beautiful. There
are, and must be, breaking hearts inside that door; but I know by
experience that the moment will surely come, after nature shall have
had its saving flow of tears, when, in the sense of perfect peace, and
safety for the little song-bird, now far above the clouds of earth,
they will forget themselves and remember only that.
Then away with all these heathenish insignia; they certainly stand no
more for grief or respect than a flashing diamond on the neck or
finger, denotes wealth or social position, or even respectability.
Above all, away with this bugaboo nightmare of little children, who
will have enough, God knows, to contend with, as they grow older,
without prematurely draping with the blackness of darkness, the
entrance to a portal through which they are certainly destined to
pass, and which the light of faith in their maturer years may gild, as
the shining gate to the Celestial City.
"_DELIGHTFUL MEN._"
Isn't he a delightful man? This question was addressed to me by a lady
in company concerning a gentleman who had rendered himself during the
evening, peculiarly agreeable. Before I answer that question, I said,
I would like to see him at home. I would like to know if, when he jars
his wife's feelings, he says, "Beg pardon" as willingly and promptly
as when he stepped upon yonder lady's dress. I would like to know if,
when he comes home at night, he has some pleasant little things to
say, such as he has scattered about so lavishly since he entered this
room this evening; and whether if the badly cooked dish, which he
gallantly declared to the hostess at the table, "could not have been
improved," would have found a similar verdict on his own table, and to
his own wife. _That is the test._ I am sorry to say that some of the
most agreeable society-men, who could, by no possibility, be guilty of
a rudeness abroad, could never be suspected in their own homes of ever
doing anything else. The man who will invariably meet other ladies
with "How very well you are looking!" will often never, from one day
to another, take notice of his own wife's appearance, or, if so, only
to find fault. How bright that home would be to his wife with one
half the courtesy and toleration he invariably shows to strangers.
"Allow me to differ"--he blandly remarks to an opponent with whom he
argues in company. "Pshaw! what do _you_ know about it?" he says at
his own fireside and to his wife. Children are "angels" when they
belong to his neighbors; his own are sent out of the room whenever he
enters it, or receive so little recognition that they are glad to
leave. "Permit me," says the gallant male _vis-a-vis_ in the omnibus
or car, as he takes your fare; while _his_ wife often hands up her own
fare, even with her husband by her side. No wonder she is not "looking
well" when she sees politeness is for every place but for
home-consumption.
"Oh, how men miss it in disregarding these little matters," said a
sad-eyed wife to me one day. And she said truly; for these little
kindnesses are like a breath of fresh air from an open window in a
stifled room; we lift our drooping heads and breathe again! "Little!"
did I say! _Can_ that be little which makes or mars the happiness of a
human being? A man says a rough, rude word, or neglects the golden
opportunity to say a kind one, and goes his selfish way and thinks it
of no account. Then he marvels when he comes back,--in sublime
forgetfulness of the past,--that the familiar eye does not brighten at
his coming, or the familiar tongue voice a welcome. Then, on inquiry,
if he is told of the rough word, he says: "O-o-h! _that's_ it--is it?
Now it isn't possible that you gave _that_ a second thought? Why, _I_
forgot all about it!" as if this last were really a palliation and a
merit.
It would be ludicrous, this masculine obtuseness, were it not for the
tragic consequences--were it not for the loving hearts that are
chilled--the homes that are darkened--the lives that are blighted--and
the dew and promise of the morning that are so needlessly turned into
sombre night.
"Little things!" There _are_ no little things. "Little things," so
called, are the hinges of the universe. They are happiness, or misery;
they are poverty, or riches; they are prosperity or adversity; they
are life, or death. Not a human being of us all, can afford to despise
"the day of _small_ things."
Yes, husbands, _be cheerful at home_. I daresay, sir, _your_ Bible may
belong to an expurgated edition; but this sentiment is in mine. I have
unfortunately loaned it to a neighbor, so that I cannot at this minute
point to the exact chapter, but that's neither here nor there.
In every "Guide for Wives" I find "cheerfulness" the first article set
down in the creed; with no margin left for crying babies, or sleepless
nights, or incompetent "help," or any of the small miseries which men
wave off with their hands as "not worth minding, my dear!" So when the
time comes for John's return from the shop or office, they begin the
cheerful dodge, just as they are bid, by the _single_ men and women,
who usually write these "Guides for Wives." They hurry to wash the
children's faces, or to have them washed, and stagger round, though
they may not have had a breath of fresh air for a week, to make things
"cheerful" for John. John's beef and vegetables and dessert are all
right. He accepts them, and eats them. Then he lies down on the sofa
to digest them, which he does silently--cow-fashion. The children, one
by one, are sent to bed. Now, does it occur to John that he might try
_his_ hand at a little "cheerfulness"? Not a bit. He asks his wife,
coolly, if there's anything in the evening paper.
She is so tired of the house and its cares, which have cobwebbed her
all over till she is half smothered, soul and body, that this question
seems the cruelest one that could be put, in her nervous condition.
She _ought_ to answer as he does, when she asks him what is in the
_morning_ paper, the while she is feeding Tommy--_his_ Tommy as well
as hers: "Read it, my dear; it is full of interest!"
Instead, she takes up the evening paper wearily; and though the
tell-tale, exhausted tones of her voice as she reads, are sufficiently
suggestive of her inability for reading aloud, yet he graciously
listens well pleased, and goes to sleep just as she gets down to the
advertisements, which is a good place!
Now that woman _ought_ just then, quietly to put on her bonnet and
shawl, and run into one of the neighbors', and stay till _she_ has got
a little "cheerfulness;" but the "Guide to Wives" insists that,
instead, she sit down and look at her John, so that no unlucky noise
may disturb his slumber; and half the wives do it too, and that's the
way they make, and perpetuate, these very Johns.
The way men nurse up _their_ frail bodies is curious to witness, in
contrast with the little care they take of their wives. Now it never
occurs to most wives that being "tired," is an excuse for not doing
anything that, half dead, they are drummed up to do. Now there's just
where I blame them. If they wait for their Johns to _see_ it, or to
_say_ it, they may wait till the millennium. There's no need of a
fight about it either. _He_ wants to lie there and be read to.
Well--let him lie there; but don't you read to him, or talk to him
either, when you feel that way. If he is so stupid or indifferent, as
not to see that you can't begin another day of worry like that,
without a reprieve of some kind, bid him a pleasant good-evening, and
go to some pleasant neighbor's, as he would do, if he felt like it,
for the same reason--as he _did_ do the evening before, without
consulting your preference or tiredness.
Now this may sound vixenish, but it is simply _justice_; and it is
time women learned that, as mothers of families, it is just as much
their duty to consult their physical needs, as it is for the fathers
of families to consult theirs, and more too, since the nervous
organization of women is more delicate, and the pettiness of their
household cares more exhaustive and wearing, than a man's can possibly
be; and this I will insist on, spite of Todd and Bushnell, and every
clerical pussy-cat who ever mewed "Let us have peace!" Peace, reverend
sirs, is of no sex. _We_ like it too; but too dear a price may be
paid even for "peace."
Now I know there are instances, for I have seen them, in which the
husband is the only cheerful element in the house--when his step, his
countenance, like the sunrise, irradiates and warms every nook and
corner. But ah! how rare is this! I know too that cheerfulness is
greatly a thing of temperament; but I also know, that it is just as
much a man's duty to cultivate it by reading to his wife, and
conversing with his wife, as it is hers to amuse and cheer him when
the day's cares are over. And in this regard I must say that men, as a
general thing, are disgustingly selfish. Absorbing, but never giving
out--accepting, but seldom returning. It is for women to assert their
right to fresh air, to relaxation, to relief from care, whenever the
physical system breaks down, just as men always do; for the
Johns seldom wake up to it till a coffin is ordered--and
pocket-handkerchiefs are too late!
And, speaking of that, nothing is more comical to me, in my
journeyings to and fro in the earth, than the blundering way in which
most men legislate their domestic affairs. Mr. Jones, for instance, is
attracted to a delicate, timid, nervous little lady, and moves heaven
and earth, and upsets several families who have a special objection to
her becoming Mrs. Jones, in order to bring about this desirable
result. After an immense besieging outlay, he gets her. We will leave
a margin for the honeymoon. Then commences life in earnest. The
little wife stands aghast to find that her husband's whole aim, is to
transform her into the direct opposite to that which he formerly
admired. In short, that to retain his love and respect, she must make
herself, by some process or other only known to herself, entirely
over. For instance, she is so constituted that the sight of blood has
always given her a deadly faintness, and she never was able to assist,
in any emergency or accident, where physicial pain was involved. Now
this is not an affectation with her--she _really can not_ do it. Now
Mr. Jones, with masculine acumen, immediately sets in motion a series
of little tyrannies, to force what a lifetime could never bring about,
no more than it could change his wife's hair from jet to flaxen color.
Does their child break a leg, or arm, he insists, although other aid
is at hand, that she shall not only be present, but assist in the
dressing and binding up of the same, by way of eradicating and
overcoming what he calls a "folly." To this end he uses sarcasm,
ridicule, threats, every thing which he thinks the "head of the
family" is justified in using, to force this child-woman's nature,
which once had such fragile attractions for him, into an up-hill
course, in which it is impossible for it ever to go, with all the
tyranny he can bring to bear upon it; and thus he keeps on
trying,--year after year,--with an amount of persistence which should
entitle him to a lunatic's cell, and which is gradually preparing his
wife for one, through mortification and wounded affection.
Again--a man is attracted to a woman of marked individuality of
character. He admires her decision and self-poise, her energy and
self-reliance, and stamps them, with one hand on his heart, with the
conjugal seal. Directly upon possession, that which seemed to him so
admirable conflicts with his opinions, wounds his self-love, and even
though gradually and properly expressed, seems to breathe defiance.
Now _this_ woman he, too, strives to _make over_. He disputes her
positions and opinions with acidity, because they differ from his own,
and therefore must be wrong. Perhaps he looks at her, and at them,
more through the eyes of impertinent outsiders who have nothing to do
with it, than through his own spectacles. Many a man will perpetrate a
great injustice in his own household, rather than bear the slightest
meddling imputation that he is not its master. So, year after year,
this fruitless effort goes on, to transform a full-grown tree to a
little sapling, capable of being bent in any and every direction,
according to the moulder's capricious whim or fancy, with not the
ghost of a result, so far as success is concerned.
I might cite many other instances to illustrate the absurd manner in
which men persist in marring their own happiness; committing those
flagrant injustices of which women either die, and make no sign, or
break into what is called "_unwomanly_" rebellion, when their sense of
justice is outraged, by the _love_ which has proved weaker than
_pride_.
It is pitiful to think how frequent are these life-mistakes, and more
pitiful still to think, that women themselves are responsible in a
great measure for them. Let parents see to it, especially let
_mothers_ see to it, that the little boy is to yield equally with his
sisters in their games and plays. Let the maxim, "Give it to your
_sister_," issue as often from your lips as "Give it to your
_brother_." Let the father say as often to his son, "Prepare to become
the excellent husband of some good woman," as the mother to her
daughter, "Prepare to be the worthy wife of some good man." In other
words, begin at the fireside. Remember that you are training that
little boy to make or mar the happiness of some woman, according as
you teach him self-government--justice--and the contrary. This is an
idea which even abused wives seldom think of. It might be well for
them, and some now happy girl, who may lose through that boy, heart
and hope in the future, did they do so.
_CHOOSING PRESENTS._
"Which would you prefer," asked a friend of me,--"a pretty useless
present, or an ugly useful one?" I had to stop and think before
replying. I knew it was a trap sprung for my halting; so, woman-like,
I dodged my weak side by saying, "There is no necessity, as I see, for
either extreme."
One of our first biographers has remarked of me, that if he brings
home an _ugly-looking_ book, and lays it upon the table, I very soon
transfer it to a less conspicuous locality. This may or may not be
true; meantime I am not going to blink the fact that I adore pretty
things. Butter tastes better to me from a dainty little dish. So do
vegetables. Nor, to compass this, does one need the purse of
Fortunatus. Pretty shapes in vases, pitchers, plates, and the like,
have commended themselves to me, though not of silver. In fact, since
the burglars relieved me of my silver while in the country last
summer, I resolutely set my face against any further invitations to
them in that shape. This is to certify that henceforth only plated
ware, but very _pretty_ plated ware, shall cross my threshold.
But, not to digress, what a "mess" people generally make of holiday
presents! Some houses contain only silver soup-ladles, others a
superabundance of butter-knives. Some babies, again, have silver cups
enough so furnish all their descendants, be they more or less. The
most harrowing present I know of is a "picture annual," all over gilt,
with wide margins inside, and with common-sense at a discount. It is a
type of a pretty mouth from whence issues only folly. Worsted cats and
dogs come next, in the shape of mats, chair-covers, etc. Now a dozen
of handkerchiefs or gloves, may be both pretty and sensible as a
present. So is a flower-stand, without which, in my opinion, no parlor
is furnished, how plentifully soever satin and gilt may abound. I am
frivolous enough to like rings, brooches, ear-rings, and bracelets, of
lovely, but above all, _odd_ forms and designs, if worn at the proper
time and place. But, dear! dear! I shouldn't make a good Quaker, for a
bit of scarlet somewhere in my room, is quite necessary to my peace of
mind. I look at that elaborate little bird-house for sparrows,
fronting the Quaker meeting-house, and I think I see a symptom of the
coming millennium for Quakers. I frankly own to exchanging a white
syrup-pitcher the other day, in favor of a white one with a scarlet
handle. I like these little touches of color to a degree, that, if
Heaven depended on their absence, might possibly peril my chances of
Paradise.
Now I am not apologizing for this--not a bit! I am only sorry
for those of you who trudge along whether from choice or
necessity--through life's dusty highway, without stopping to notice,
or to cull, the flowers hidden in its hedge-rows, and place them as
you go, in your hair, or in your bosom.
Pretty things are humanizing. I wish every work-room could have its
flowers and its pictures. _My_ God don't turn His back on either. Even
in the dull old yard of a tenement house, He sends up through the
chinks tiny blades of grass and dandelion, and chickweed blossoms. And
does not the pure white snow come sifting down over the garbage-heaps
and ash-barrels before the door of poverty which man, less merciful,
would doom to have all the year round before their disgusted vision?
Meantime, let us hope that "the minister's" holiday present may be a
pair of boxing-gloves instead of a hymn-book, of which latter he has a
surfeit. As to his wife--for goodness' sake, send her the same thing
you would, were she the wife of a layman. And if you order her a cake,
don't surmount it with a cross, of which ministers' wives have already
too many in their parishioners. Give an editor a new subscriber and
you can't miss it. Send a lawyer no bones to pick, unless--well
covered with meat! And don't make a _pup_ of your husband by giving
him a velvet dressing-gown. And as to you, sir, don't pick out for
_your_ wife just what your friend Jenkins does for _his_; because,
though men are all alike, and cigars are always acceptable to them,
yet a man can never be certain whether his wife, on the receipt of a
present from her husband, will box his ears, or fall to kissing him;
and since Variety is the god of most men, I suppose this is all right.
It must be owned, that of all perplexing things on earth, the greatest
is the perplexity of choosing a present. After you have considered,
first your purse; then the multifarious demands upon it; then the age,
desires, and taste of the recipient--comes the weary tramp in hot,
crowded stores for the desired article; comes the known incivility of
_most_ women bent on shopping errands, to their fellow-women; of
addressing the clerk, upon whom you, as first-comer, have a prior
claim, or even drawing from your and his fingers the very article you
have under distracted consideration. Of course I don't mean _you_, my
dear; didn't I say _most_ women? You will always find that I leave a
door of escape open, before I insinuate that my sex are not all
seraphs. Well--you make your purchase, and perspire in your furs,
while "cash" performs his gymnastics through feminine feet and hoops,
to get it _parcelled_ and return your change. But, alas! this is only
one present, and it has taken an entire morning to get it, and when
you get home Aunt Jemima whispers confidentially "that she overheard
John say that _he_ had bought that very article for the same person
for whom yours was intended;" and, what is worse, you can't transfer
it, because there is no other member of the family for whom it would
be suitable. You wonder if it wouldn't do to enclose so many dollars
to each member of the family, and let them make their own selection.
Sentiment would have to "go under," of course; but don't it when a
recipient wonders "how much you paid for your gift"? Time was, when a
present was acceptable, or on the contrary, according to the love
which prompted it, and not according to the value of the gift. Now,
young ladies expect diamonds, and pearls, and rubies, and quite turn
up their pretty noses at a book, or a work-box, or a writing-desk.
What with "golden weddings" and "silver weddings," and other bids for
gold and silver in various shapes, what with the bugbear word "mean"
in such connection, bankruptcy, or an inglorious exit, is the only
alternative to many. I have been some time coming to my moral, which
is this: that the "present" system is, to use a slang expression, "run
into the ground." I except the present a husband gives his wife, for
whom nothing of course is too good, or too tasteful, or too costly;
and who can, while receiving it, ask him to give her a hundred dollars
or so, to go out and _buy him one_! Also, in all heartiness, and
without joking, I except the little children, whose lovely dream of
Santa Claus vanishes with the flossy, golden-tipped curls of babyhood.
Pile up for them the dolls, and tops, and whistles, and wagons, and
kaleidoscopes, and velocipedes, that they may always when old age
seats them in the chimney-corner have this bright spot to look back
upon, over the graves of buried hopes and hearts, which could not else
bear thinking of.
_A BID FOR AN EDITORSHIP._
I think I should like to be an editor, if somebody would do all the
disagreeable, hard work for me, and leave me only the fancy touches. I
don't know how profound my political articles would be, but they would
be _mine_. I think my book reviews would be pleasant reading, at least
to everybody but some of the authors. I should have a high railing
round my editorial desk, and "through the lattice" microscopically and
leisurely regard the row of expectant men waiting outside for a
hearing. I should not need a spittoon in my office. Nobody should
contribute to my paper who smoked, or chewed, or snuffed tobacco; that
would diminish my contributors' list about right. I should discard
Webster and Walker, and inaugurate a dictionary of my own. I should
allow anybody who felt inclined to send me samples of big strawberries
and peaches, and bunches of flowers; and I should get a fine library,
free gratis, out of the books sent me to review. As to grinding the
axes of the givers in return, why that, of course, should always be
left to the option of the editor. Before I commenced an editor's life,
I should secure money enough in some way to be able to snap my
fingers in the face of that grim ogre, "Stop my Paper!" I tell you I
_wouldn't_ stop it. It is a free country. I'd keep on sending it to
him. I'd always have something in every number about him, so that he
couldn't do without having it, how much soever he might want to.