sour bread and sour theology, the element of cheerfulness is
especially needed to keep the young folks from turning into premature
vinegar cruets, it is a very great pity that at a picnic their only
outlet for conviviality--dancing, by the youngsters--should be
considered a sin. "It would break up the whole thing--it would never
do!" was the reply to a philanthropic suggestion of the kind. Heavens!
I wonder they don't fetter the legs of their lambs and calves; and
insist upon all their birds singing, "Hark! from the tombs a dreadful
sound!" Do you know what young people so brought up will do?--that is,
if they don't commit suicide first. They'll just go to the city, and
break every one of the ten commandments smack through, the first day
they get there. Alas! when will "good people" learn that the devil is
never better pleased than when they try to make "religion" a gloomy
thing.
* * * * *
Said a little child to her mother, "Shall you live as long as I
do?"--"Perhaps not--but I cannot tell," was the reply; "I have lived a
long while, you know."--"Well," said the little one, skipping about
the room and singing, "I guess there'll be somebody to take care of
me." Oh, ye who are "careful and troubled,"--groping like the mole in
the earth, blind to the brightness overhead, look up! like this little
trusting child, look up! When you have made provision for to-day, as
intelligently as you know how, do not be anxiously forecasting the
morrow.
_FROM MY SEAT ON THE ROCKS._
"Dog-fish, cat-fish, cod-fish, cunner." These are the animals that my
friends paddle round for long hours--happy whether they are rewarded
with the sight of five or fifty. Meantime I sit on the rocks, watching
the pretty picture they make as they go sailing into the sunset, and
am content. _My_ feet are _dry_; so are my skirts. We have only one
thing in common: when they shout, "I have a bite!" I respond,
Amen!--with this difference, that mine is from a mosquito instead of a
fish. The ocean is nice to look at: freaky--therefore I think it must
be a _she_; sometimes dark and lowering, sometimes brightly sparkling;
now smooth as deceit, anon lashing itself like a caged creature to get
out of bounds. Don't you believe I enjoy it more than those damp
people that are always vexing it with rod and line? As I said, they
look well as a part of the picture. Those deluded women, now, with
broad hats tied down with bright bits of ribbon--and didn't they
calculate the picturesqueness of the same when they bought yards of it
a thousand miles away? Certainly. And why do they ruin their best
boots treading on rocks covered with treacherous seaweed? And why is
that scarlet shawl disposed just where it will be effective? Answer me
that. Can it be that they are fishers of men instead of cod? Ah!
"worms" are not the only "bait" in that boat. I wonder do men know how
much more attractive they look in slouched hats and easy jackets? Kid
gloves, shiny hat, and tight boots are nothing to it. A man looks
manly then; and that, I take it, is the first requisite in a man. See
how they dress for _their_ work, my sisters. Sleeves up to the elbow,
not for the purpose of showing a round white arm either; trousers
turned up at the heel; while you--! Wont the laundress rub the skin
off her knuckles when she tries to get the fish-bait off _your_
ruffled skirt, my dear? You can't be made to believe that those
gentlemen would like you just as well in a dress suitable for "worms."
But, all things being equal, I really think they would; or, if they
didn't, their opinion would be a matter of small consequence.
I wish I could understand the difference between a brig, a sloop, a
dory, a schooner, and a yacht. I have had them explained so many times
at the seaside, but it has never yet lodged in my head a minute. I
think the reason is, that before my expounders get half through
telling, my eyes are so enchained by the gliding beauty of a boat's
motion, that I have no ears for technicalities. That's it--and I'm not
such a fool after all! I wish my belt were a little more to be
depended on, for I'd like to drift over to the Isle of Shoals, or to
Newburyport, or some of those places at which the sea-fog plays hide
and seek so temptingly from these rocks. Of course I "can go by land;"
but did _you_ never get possessed to do or to have what the Fates
denied? Well, I'm human too. You may catch those wriggling fish if you
fancy--I don't wonder they make such horrid mouths at you before they
die--if only I could drift dreamily away into that golden sunset?
"Gates of amethyst and pearl!" I'm glad my Bible has "Revelations" in
it. I don't know any poet who comes better to my assistance than
Revelations. Keren Happuch, and Obed, and Jael--and "them" I am apt to
skip; also who "begat Shem;" but the grand old "Psalms" and
Revelations, I tell you, Tennyson, or any other "Son," may in vain
crack their harp-strings trying to rival. Then imagine that watery
dilution of a "Tupper" after reading a chapter in "Proverbs"! Put this
in your note-book--that about all the good things you clap your hands
at were stolen from the Bible. Brush the dust from off yours now, and
see if it is not so; and have the grace to own up, when you do see it.
My heart is torn trying to decide whether my allegiance finally be
given to the mountains or the ocean. I can see with my mind's eye
lovely Brattleboro' and its enchanting mountains, the mist rolling
slowly off their sides at sunrise, crowning their tops with many-hued
wreaths; or I can see one gorgeous cloud at sunset resting lightly on
their summit, and gradually fading away before the growing lustre of
the bright evening star. All these pictures are framed in my memory,
and never a tint has faded out through the busy years. But this later
love of mine--the ocean--whom I perforce must admire at a respectful
distance, sinuous, cold, treacherous, glittering, repelling, yet
fascinating me as does the serpent the bird, I know not how to resist.
Only last night this ocean drew a mist-veil softly over its face, and
by help of a huge black cloud above it, jaggedly notched in and out at
the upper edge, cunningly wooed me, in this mountain shape, to believe
that whatsoever form I liked, that form _it_ could assume to win me.
Surely such devotion should have its reward.
_WISHINGS AND LONGINGS._
Did you never _wish_ you had it? Of course you have, a thousand times.
You never would be miserable any more if it could only be so. You are
sure of that. It may be a fine house, a fine store, a fine carriage.
No matter what; the desire for it has taken the spice and flavor out
of every blessing you possess. I used to play with a little girl once,
who told me in confidence, and in pantalettes, "that she should never
be happy till she had a real _true_ gold watch; and that she meant to
be married, as soon as ever she could, to a rich man who would give
her one." For myself, I had much rather at that time have had a bunch
of flowers, and I didn't suppose she really meant what she said, as
she stood there tying on her doll's bonnet. But she was in dead
earnest, though I _didn't_ know it. Sure enough, she got her rich
husband, and her gold watch; and was sick enough of both, as I have
since found out, before the honeymoon was well over.
One day I heard a boy say to his younger brother, who was crying
lustily, "Now, Tom, I know you don't want anything, but what do you
_think_ you want?" That boy was a philosopher, and went to the root of
the matter. It is not what we really want, but what we _think_ we
want, that frets most of us. Perhaps you tell me that you suffer just
as much as if your longing were a reasonable or a sensible one. That's
true too; but if you only could snatch _to-day's_ legitimate
happiness, instead of wondering if you could not get a great deal
more, for that to-morrow which may never come to you, wouldn't it be
wiser? The other day I went off into the woods, with a dear little
girl, who is much more of a poetess than a philosopher. Not a patch of
soft green moss, not the tiniest bud of a wild flower, or flitting
butterfly, or bird, or tree-shadow on the smooth clear lake, escaped
her bright, glad eyes. The _first_ flower she found enraptured her,
and she climbed quite a steep rock with her mites of feet for the
second, and so on till her tiny hands were full. Just then she found
quite a bunch of bright pink blossoms; and I was so glad for her; when
suddenly she burst into such a grieved, piteous cry, "Oh dear! oh
dear! what _shall_ I do? _I can't hold them all._"
If we'd only think of that! That "we can't hold them all." That in
order to grasp that which is the moment's wish, we must let something
else drop that we prize. Something that we can never retrace our
steps, in life's devious paths, to reclaim. It may be health, or
character, or life itself, for that which is so perishable, so
unsatisfying, so harmful, that we can never cease wondering how the
"glamour" of it could have so dazzled our mental and moral vision. The
little child I speak of, who clambered up the rock to secure that
_one_ flower, was happier in its possession than with the myriads
that she afterwards found lying at her very feet. She had _earned_
that one! She had encountered a fierce briar-bush; she had got her
hands scratched in the conflict; she had tickled her little nose with
a defiant twig; she had tangled her curls; she had scraped her little
fat knee till it was red--and _got it_! All herself, too! I couldn't
elaborate a better moral, if I preached an hour. We don't value
happiness in heaps. It is the one little sweet blossom, that comes
unexpectedly in our way, that we love best after all. Isn't it so?
* * * * *
How cheap is advice! Advice is like a doctor's pills; how easily he
_gives_ them! how reluctantly he takes them when _his_ turn comes!
Meantime, it is well to keep one's eyes and ears open; but, after
that, to decide for one's self. He who cannot do this is a human
windmill, always beating the air--a weathercock, veering each minute
to a new point. His life is a succession of experiments, all of which
are predestined to be failures. He has no faith in himself, and people
accept him at his own valuation.
_A TRANSITION STATE._
We seem to be in a transition state all round. Politics, religion,
woman's rights, men's wrongs, all seething in the caldron together;
and everybody's finger is being thrust into the boiling mess, and
pulled scalded out of it--some howling with the experiment, others
closing their pioneer teeth upon the pain, and bearing it for the good
of the cause.
This seems to me to be the situation. For one, I am quite willing to
do humble duty by bringing fagots and kindling to keep the fire going,
no matter who "hollers." Anything is better than letting it go out; at
least so far as the woman question is one of the ingredients in the
caldron. The men having the top round of the ladder at present, may
sit there till we climb up and oust them, which wont be long; or
rather, bless their jackets, till we climb up and oblige them to make
room for us to sit down beside them, which, after all, is what we
really want. I, for one, make no secret of liking the brethren, but I
like them near--intellectually and socially. Not looking down at us
from a dizzy height, careless how we stumble by the road-side, or cut
our weary feet, or bruise our hearts, and stuffing their fingers in
their ears, and then making believe they don't hear our cries; but
helping us along generously after them, like good fellows, with a word
of cheer, and a full hearty belief in our good intentions and desire
to do _all_ our duty. Isn't that reasonable? To be sure it is; and the
only reason they don't always say so is, because, with their natural
impatience, they never can sit still long enough to hear us through,
when we talk common-sense. I believe the last question "up" was
woman's right to wait upon herself to concerts, lectures, theatres,
and the like, when she had no male escort. Now that is a subject that
has been pretty well ploughed over in my mind for years. I have known
so many bright, intelligent women obliged to stay at home when they
needed these relaxations from care and toil and bother, because custom
did not permit their attendance, unless they could lasso a coat and
hat to bear them company. It has seemed to me cruel in the extreme,
that this law should not be changed. As I understand it, in Paris a
respectable woman can do this, without discomfort or molestation, with
a _female_ attendant; and though it may be the deathblow to my
reputation to own that I never saw Paris, it is true, and I cannot
therefore judge how much more safe a woman would be in waiting upon
herself home in Paris, at the hour when public amusements are
generally over, than in New York. This, I presume, is the hitch in the
question. If so, women must wait till the majority of men are more
chivalric and spiritual, and that wont be to-day, nor to-morrow. Now,
a woman, by taking a big basket in her hand, and leaving her hoop at
home, and pinning an old shawl over her head, and tying a calico apron
round her waist, may walk unmolested. I know, because I have tried it
when I felt like having a "prowl" all alone, and a good "think,"
without any puppy saying, at every step, "A pleasant evening, Miss."
But this costume isn't exactly festive for the concert or lecture
room. However, with other ingredients, this topic may be tossed into
the caldron above mentioned, and perhaps, after much boiling, may
deposit some substantial sediment of benefit to women. I see so many
men nowadays who ought to be women, that I am positively ashamed of
usurping the place of one. I am quite willing to abdicate, whenever
any one can be found to take a woman's place; but the joke begins
here, that the silliest man who ever lived has always known enough,
when he says his prayers, to thank God that he wasn't born a woman. So
you see how hopeless the case is.
_WHAT MARY THOUGHT OF JOHN._
There's John, reading his newspapers. You might drive nails into his
temples, and he wouldn't know it. Look at him! Legs up. Head thrown
back. The inevitable and omnipresent pipe in his mouth; the very
picture of absorbed enjoyment. Three papers he has there. He will read
every one, criss-cross, cornerwise, upside down, and inside out, till
he has gleaned every particle of news. One good hour he has been at
it. Now if I say to him, "John, what is the news this morning?" that
man will reply, "Oh, none--nothing in particular; there they are; take
'em, if you would like."
Now nobody in his senses believes that John has been employed one good
hour reading "nothing." He is only too lazy to tell what he has read;
that's the amount of it. Now I had much rather read those papers than
mend this coat of his. It is really too bad in John: he might have
given me something to think about, while I was doing it. An idea!
Suppose I try this lazy system on _him_! Now if there's anything men
like, when their wives come home with a budget of news, it is to have
them sit down and entertain them with it. Not about troubles of
servants and broken crockery, of course; but spicy little bits of
gossip; about their friend Jones' wife, and what the witty Mrs. ----
said on such an occasion, and how the pretty and saucy Miss said if
_she_ were Smith's wife she would ----. How they like to hear all about
it! and how they like to question them as to how women think and feel
on such and such subjects, which information they can only obtain by
their wives turning state's-evidence! Of course they do; and when a
bright little woman has chattered to them an hour or more, and told
them more funny and amusing things than you could count, and they have
laughed and enjoyed it, what return do they make? Why they just
stretch their length on the sofa and go to sleep. Now I for one have
borne this state of things long enough! It is all owing to that vile
lethargic tobacco. Before long women will be expected to cut up their
food and feed them; they will be too lazy even to eat. Now I'll tell
you what I mean to do. I am going to stop giving out, and cut off
supplies, till I get something back. I'll just try the monosyllabic
system on John. He will say to-night, "Well, Mary, where have you been
to-day? and what have you seen?" And I'll answer, bending over my
work, "Oh, I went round a little, and I didn't see anything in
particular." Then John will take a scrutinizing look at me, and ask if
I have the headache; and I shall answer sweetly, "No, dear." Then John
will try again: "Well, Mary, did you go shopping?"--"I? no--oh, no,
dear. I didn't go shopping today." Another look at me, and another
period of reflection. "Have you heard any bad news, Mary?"--"No,
John, I hope not."--"Well--what the mischief makes you so silent? You
generally have so much to tell me, and you sometimes get off a very
bright thing, if you did but know it. _Something_ is the matter with
you; what is it?" and John will come round and peep into my face. "Oh!
pshaw--_I_ know; you are paying me off for not talking," he will say,
half-vexed, half-repentant.
Then I shall get up on a chair, in the middle of the room, and preach
after this course: "Yes, John, that's just it. You haven't an idea how
stupid you've grown. I hate that lethargic tobacco! It is going to
revolutionize society; women are squirrel-like creatures and can't
stand it. No wonder all these spicy trials fill the papers. You
needn't laugh. It takes _two_ to make home bright. Don't you suppose
that a woman is as much perplexed and worried and sick of the
practical, at the end of the day, as a man can be? Do you suppose she
always feels like giving out the last remnant of her vitality to amuse
a statue? she wants a response; and she would have it, too, if a man's
soul and body were not so tobacco-steeped, that every sense and
feeling is merged in the one drowsy desire to let the world and
everything in it, including its wives, go to the dogs. _And they are
going, John!_ Now, lastly and finally, I tell you and all other Johns
who may read this, that it is the worst possible policy on your part,
as you would see if you ever read the papers with an eye to your own
firesides, which you don't. You can wonder how Smith's wife, or how
Jones' wife, could ever have done thus and so; but it never enters
your slow heads to ask, if the homes of these wives were silent and
cheerless, and if their husbands took all their attempts to enliven
them as matters of course, and gave no echo back; and that being the
case, whether the bright sunbeams outside, might not glitter too
temptingly for their weariness." And here I shall jump down from the
chair, and, looking at John, shall see--that he is _fast asleep_!
Sometimes I sit and laugh, all by myself, over the newspapers and
magazines in which the "Woman Question" is aired according to the
differing views of editors and writers. For instance, one gentleman
thinks that the reason the men take a nap on the sofa evenings at
home, or else leave it to go to naughty places, is because there are
no Madame De Staels in our midst to make home attractive. He was
probably a bachelor, or he would understand that when a man who has
been perplexed and fretted all day, finally reaches home, the last
object he wishes to encounter is a wide-awake woman of the Madame De
Stael pattern, propounding her theories on politics, theology, and
literature. The veriest idiot who should entertain him by the hour
with tragic accounts of broken teacups, and saucepans, would be a
blessing compared to her; not that he would like that either; not that
he would know himself exactly what he _would_ like in such a case,
except that it should be something diametrically opposite to that,
which, years ago he got on his knees to solicit.
Another writer asserts that women's brains are too highly cultivated
at the present day; and that they have lost their interest in the
increase of the census; and that their husbands, not sharing their
apathy, hence the disastrous result. I might suggest in answer that
this apathy may have its foundation in the idea so fast gaining
ground,--thanks to club-life, and that which answers to it in a less
fashionable strata of society,--that it is an indignity to expect
fathers of families to be at home, save occasionally to sleep, or eat,
or to change their apparel; and that, under such circumstances, women
naturally prefer to be the mother of four children, or none, than to
engineer seventeen or twenty through the perils of childhood and youth
without assistance, co-operation, or sympathy.
Another writer thinks that women don't "smile" enough when their
husbands come into the house; and that many a man misses having his
shirt, or drawers, taken from the bureau and laid on a chair all ready
to jump into, at some particular day, or hour, as he was accustomed,
when he lived with some pattern sister or immaculate aunt at home.
This preys on his manly intellect, and makes life the curse it is to
him.
Another asserts that many women have some female friend who is very
objectionable to the husband, in exerting a pugilistic effect on her
mind, and that he flees his house in consequence of this unholy
influence; not that this very husband wouldn't bristle all over at the
idea of his wife court-martialling a bachelor, or Benedict friend, for
the same reason; but then it makes a difference, you know, a man not
being a woman.
Another writer asserts that nobody yet knows what woman is capable of
doing. I have only to reply that the same assertion cannot be made
with regard to men, as the dwellers in great cities, at least, know
that the majority of them are capable of doing anything, that the
devil and opportunity favor.
It has been a practice for years to father every stupid joke that
travels the newspaper-round on "_Paddy_"--poor "Paddy." In the same
way, it seems to me that for every married man now, who proves untrue
to his better nature, _his wife_ is to be held responsible. It is the
old cowardly excuse that the first man alive set going, and which has
been travelling round this weary world ever since. "The woman thou
gavest to be with me"--_she_ did thus and so; and therefore all the
Adams from that time down, have whimpered, torn their hair, and rushed
forth to the long-coveted perdition, over the bridge of this cowardly
excuse.
_TRAVEL-SPOILED AMERICANS._