ready to sacrifice what is most intimately feminine in times of peril to
their country. The women of Carthage not only gave up their jewels in
the siege of their city, but, in the last extremity, cut off their hair
for bow-strings. The women of Hungary and Poland, in their country’s
need, sold their jewels and plate and wore ornaments of iron and lead.
In the time of our own Revolution, our women dressed in plain homespun
and drank herb-tea,—and certainly nothing is more feminine than a cup of
tea. And in this very struggle, the women of the Southern States have
cut up their carpets for blankets, have borne the most humiliating
retrenchments and privations of all kinds without a murmur. So let us
exonerate the female sex of want of patriotism, at any rate.”
“Certainly,” said my wife; “and if our Northern women have not
retrenched and made sacrifices, it has been because it has not been
impressed on them that there is any particular call for it. Everything
has seemed to be so prosperous and plentiful in the Northern States,
money has been so abundant and easy to come by, that it has really been
difficult to realize that a dreadful and destructive war was raging.
Only occasionally, after a great battle, when the lists of the killed
and wounded have been sent through the country, have we felt that we
were making a sacrifice. The women who have spent such sums for laces
and jewels and silks have not had it set clearly before them why they
should not do so. The money has been placed freely in their hands, and
the temptation before their eyes.”
“Yes,” said Jenny, “I am quite sure that there are hundreds who have
been buying foreign goods, who would not do it, if they could see any
connection between their not doing it and the salvation of the country;
but when I go to buy a pair of gloves, I naturally want the best pair I
can find, the pair that will last the longest and look the best, and
these always happen to be French gloves.”
“Then,” said Miss Featherstone, “I never could clearly see why people
should confine their patronage and encouragement to works of their own
country. I’m sure the poor manufacturers of England have shown the very
noblest spirit with relation to our cause, and so have the silk-weavers
and artisans of France,—at least, so I have heard; why should we not
give them a fair share of encouragement, particularly when they make
things that we are not in circumstances to make, have not the means to
make?”
“Those are certainly sensible questions,” I replied, “and ought to meet
a fair answer, and I should say, that, were our country in a fair
ordinary state of prosperity, there would be no reason why our wealth
should not flow out for the encouragement of well-directed industry in
any part of the world; from this point of view we might look on the
whole world as our country, and cheerfully assist in developing its
wealth and resources. But our country is now in the situation of a
private family whose means are absorbed by an expensive sickness,
involving the life of its head; just now it is all we can do to keep the
family together, all our means are swallowed up by our own domestic
wants, we have nothing to give for the encouragement of other families,
we must exist ourselves, we must get through this crisis and hold our
own, and that we may do it all the family expenses must be kept within
ourselves as far as possible. If we drain off all the gold of the
country to send to Europe to encourage her worthy artisans, we produce
high prices and distress among equally worthy ones at home, and we
lessen the amount of our resources for maintaining the great struggle
for national existence. The same amount of money which we pay for
foreign luxuries, if passed into the hands of our own manufacturers and
producers, becomes available for the increasing expenses of the war.”
“But, papa,” said Jenny, “I understood that a great part of our
Governmental income was derived from the duties on foreign goods, and so
I inferred that the more foreign goods were imported the better it would
be.”
“Well, suppose,” said I, “that for every hundred thousand dollars we
send out of the country we pay the Government ten thousand; that is
about what our gain as a nation would be;—we send our gold abroad in a
great stream, and give our Government a little driblet.”
“Well, but,” said Miss Featherstone, “_what can be got in America_?
Hardly anything, I believe, except common calicoes.”
“Begging your pardon, my dear lady,” said I, “there is where you and
multitudes of others are greatly mistaken. Your partiality for foreign
things has kept you ignorant of what you have at home. Now I am not
blaming the love of foreign things; it is not peculiar to us Americans;
all nations have it. It is a part of the poetry of our nature to love
what comes from afar, and reminds us of lands distant and different from
our own. The English belles seek after French laces; the French beauty
enumerates English laces among her rarities; and the French dandy piques
himself upon an English tailor. We Americans are great travellers, and
few people travel, I fancy, with more real enjoyment than we; our
domestic establishments, as compared with those of the Old World, are
less cumbrous and stately, and so our money is commonly in hand as
pocket-money, to be spent freely and gayly in our tours abroad.
“We have such bright and pleasant times in every country that we
conceive a kindliness for its belongings. To send to Paris for our
dresses and our shoes and our gloves may not be a mere bit of foppery,
but a reminder of the bright, pleasant hours we have spent in that city
of Boulevards and fountains. Hence it comes, in a way not very blamable,
that many people have been so engrossed with what can be got from abroad
that they have neglected to inquire what can be found at home; they have
supposed, of course, that to get a decent watch they must send to Geneva
or to London,—that to get thoroughly good carpets they must have the
English manufacture,—that a really tasteful wall-paper could be found
only in Paris,—and that flannels and broadcloths could come only from
France, Great Britain, or Germany.”
“Well, isn’t it so?” said Miss Featherstone. “I certainly have always
thought so; I never heard of American watches, I’m sure.”
“Then,” said I, “I’m sure you can’t have read an article that you should
have read on the Waltham watches, written by our friend George W.
Curtis, in the “Atlantic” for January of last year. I must refer you to
that to learn that we make in America watches superior to those of
Switzerland or England, bringing into the service machinery and modes of
workmanship unequalled for delicacy and precision; as I said before, you
must get the article and read it, and if some sunny day you could make a
trip to Waltham, and see the establishment, it would greatly assist your
comprehension.”
“Then, as to men’s clothing,” said Bob, “I know to my entire
satisfaction that many of the most popular cloths for men’s wear are
actually American fabrics baptized with French and English names to make
them sell.”
“Which shows,” said I, “the use of a general community movement to
employ American goods. It will change the fashion. The demand will
create the supply. When the leaders of fashion are inquiring for
American instead of French and English fabrics, they will be surprised
to find what nice American articles there are. The work of our own hands
will no more be forced to skulk into the market under French and English
names, and we shall see, what is really true, that an American gentleman
need not look beyond his own country for a wardrobe befitting him. I am
positive that we need not seek broadcloth or other woollen goods from
foreign lands,—that _better_ hats are made in America than in Europe,
and better boots and shoes; and I should be glad to send an American
gentleman to the World’s Fair dressed from top to toe in American
manufactures, with an American watch in his pocket, and see if he would
suffer in comparison with the gentlemen of any other country.”
“Then, as to house-furnishing,” began my wife, “American carpets are
getting to be every way equal to the English.”
“Yes,” said I, “and what is more, the Brussels carpets of England are
woven on looms invented by an American, and bought of him. Our
countryman, Bigelow, went to England to study carpet-weaving in the
English looms,—supposing that all arts were generously open for the
instruction of learners. He was denied the opportunity of studying the
machinery and watching the processes by a short-sighted jealousy. He
immediately sat down with a yard of carpeting, and, patiently
unravelling it, thread by thread, combined and calculated till he
invented the machinery on which the best carpets of the Old and New
World are woven. No pains which such ingenuity and energy can render
effective are spared to make our fabrics equal those of the British
market, and we need only to be disabused of the old prejudice, and to
keep up with the movement of our own country, and find out our own
resources. The fact is, every year improves our fabrics. Our mechanics,
our manufacturers, are working with an energy, a zeal, and a skill that
carry things forward faster than anybody dreams of; and nobody can
predicate the character of American articles, in any department, now, by
their character even five years ago.”
“Well, as to wall-papers,” said Miss Featherstone, “there you must
confess the French are and must be unequalled.”
“I do not confess any such thing,” said I, hardily. “I grant you that in
that department of paper-hangings which exhibits floral decoration the
French designs and execution are and must be for some time to come far
ahead of all the world,—their drawing of flowers, vines, and foliage has
the accuracy of botanical studies and the grace of finished works of
art, and we cannot as yet pretend in America to do anything equal to it.
But for satin finish, and for a variety of exquisite tints of plain
colors, American papers equal any in the world; our gilt papers even
surpass in the heaviness and polish of the gilding those of foreign
countries; and we have also gorgeous velvets. All I have to say is, let
people who are furnishing houses inquire for articles of American
manufacture, and they will be surprised at what they will see. We need
go no farther than our Cambridge glass-works to see that the most dainty
devices of cut-glass, crystal, ground and engraved glass of every color
and pattern, may be had of American workmanship, every way equal to the
best European make, and for half the price. And American painting on
china is so well executed both in Boston and New York, that deficiencies
in the finest French or English sets can be made up in a style not
distinguishable from the original, as one may easily see by calling on
our worthy next neighbor, Briggs, who holds the opposite corner to our
“Atlantic Monthly.” No porcelain, it is true, is yet made in America,
these decorative arts being exercised on articles imported from Europe.
Our tables must, therefore, per force, be largely indebted to foreign
lands for years to come. Exclusive of this item, however, I believe it
would require very little self-denial to paper, carpet, and furnish a
house entirely from the manufactures of America. I cannot help saying
one word here in favor of the cabinet-makers of Boston. There is so much
severity of taste, such a style and manner about the best made Boston
furniture, as raises it really quite into the region of the fine arts.
Our artisans have studied foreign models with judicious eyes, and so
transferred to our country the spirit of what is best worth imitating,
that one has no need to import furniture from Europe.”
“Well,” said Miss Featherstone, “there is one point you cannot make
out,—gloves; certainly the French have the monopoly of that article.”
“I am not going to ruin my cause by asserting too much,” said I. “I
haven’t been with nicely dressed women so many years not to speak with
proper respect of Alexander’s gloves,—and I confess, honestly, that to
forego them must be a fair, square sacrifice to patriotism. But then, on
the other hand, it is nevertheless true that gloves have long been made
in America and surreptitiously brought into market as French. I have
lately heard that very nice kid gloves are made at Watertown and in
Philadelphia. I have only heard of them, and not seen. A loud demand
might bring forth an unexpected supply from these and other sources. If
the women of America were bent on having gloves made in their own
country, how long would it be before apparatus and factories would
spring into being? Look at the hoop-skirt factories,—women wanted
hoop-skirts,—would have them or die,—and forthwith factories arose, and
hoop-skirts became as the dust of the earth for abundance.”
“Yes,” said Miss Featherstone, “and, to say the truth, the American
hoop-skirts are the only ones fit to wear. When we were living on the
Champs Élysées, I remember we searched high and low for something like
them, and finally had to send home to America for some.”
“Well,” said I, “that shows what I said. Let there be only a hearty call
for an article, and it will come. These spirits of the vasty deep are
not so very far off, after all, as we may imagine, and women’s unions
and leagues will lead to inquiries and demands which will as infallibly
bring supplies as a vacuum will create a draught of air.”
“But, at least, there are no ribbons made in America,” said Miss
Featherstone.
“Pardon, my lady, there is a ribbon-factory now in operation in Boston,
and ribbons of every color are made in New York; there is also in the
vicinity of Boston a factory which makes Roman scarfs. This shows that
the faculty of weaving ribbons is not wanting to us Americans, and a
zealous patronage would increase the supply.
“Then, as for a thousand and one little feminine needs, I believe our
manufacturers can supply them. The Portsmouth Steam Company makes white
spool-cotton equal to any in England, and colored spool-cotton, of every
shade and variety, such as is not made either in England or France. Pins
are well made in America; so are hooks and eyes, and a variety of
buttons. Straw bonnets of American manufacture are also extensively in
market, and quite as pretty ones as the double-priced ones which are
imported.
“As to silks and satins, I am not going to pretend that they are to be
found here. It is true, there are silk manufactories, like that of the
Cheneys in Connecticut, where very pretty foulard dress-silks are made,
together with sewing-silk enough to supply a large demand. Enough has
been done to show that silks might be made in America; but at present,
as compared with Europe, we claim neither silks nor thread laces among
our manufactures.
“But what then? These are not necessaries of life. Ladies can be very
tastefully dressed in other fabrics besides silks. There are many pretty
American dress-goods which the leaders of fashion might make
fashionable; and certainly no leader of fashion could wish to dress for
a nobler object than to aid her country in deadly peril.
“It is not a life-pledge, not a total abstinence, that is asked,—only a
temporary expedient to meet a stringent crisis. We only ask a preference
for American goods where they can be found. Surely, women whose
exertions in Sanitary Fairs have created an era in the history of the
world will not shrink from so small a sacrifice for so obvious a good.
“Here is something in which every individual woman can help. Every woman
who goes into a shop and asks for American goods renders an appreciable
aid to our cause. She expresses her opinion and her patriotism; and her
voice forms a part of that demand which shall arouse and develop the
resources of her country. We shall learn to know our own country. We
shall learn to respect our own powers,—and every branch of useful labor
will spring and flourish under our well-directed efforts. We shall come
out of our great contest, not bedraggled, ragged, and poverty-stricken,
but developed, instructed, and rich. Then will we gladly join with other
nations in the free interchange of manufactures, and gratify our eye and
taste with what is foreign, while we can in turn send abroad our own
productions in equal ratio.”
“Upon my word,” said Miss Featherstone, “I should think it was the
Fourth of July,—but I yield the point. I am convinced; and henceforth
you will see me among the most stringent of the leaguers.”
“Right!” said I.
And, fair lady-reader, let me hope you will say the same. You can do
something for your country,—it lies right in your hand. Go to the shops,
determined on supplying your family and yourself with American goods.
Insist on having them; raise the question of origin over every article
shown to you. In the Revolutionary times, some of the leading matrons of
New England gave parties where the ladies were dressed in homespun and
drank sage-tea. Fashion makes all things beautiful, and you, my charming
and accomplished friend, can create beauty by creating fashion. What
makes the beauty of half the Cashmere shawls? Not anything in the shawls
themselves, for they often look coarse and dingy and barbarous. It is
the association with style and fashion. Fair lady, give style and
fashion to the products of your own country,—resolve that the money in
your hand shall go to your brave brothers, to your co-Americans, now
straining every nerve to uphold the nation, and cause it to stand high
in the earth. What are you without your country? As Americans you can
hope for no rank but the rank of your native land, no badge of nobility
but her beautiful stars. It rests with this conflict to decide whether
those stars shall be badges of nobility to you and your children in all
lands. Women of America, your country expects every woman to do her
duty!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VIII.
ECONOMY.
“THE fact is,” said Jenny, as she twirled a little hat on her hand,
which she had been making over, with nobody knows what of bows and
pompons, and other matters for which the women have curious names,—“the
fact is, American women and girls must learn to economize; it isn’t
merely restricting one’s self to American goods, it is general economy,
that is required. Now here’s this hat,—costs me only three dollars, all
told; and Sophie Page bought an English one this morning at Madame
Meyer’s for which she gave fifteen. And I really don’t think hers has
more of an air than mine. I made this over, you see, with things I had
in the house, bought nothing but the ribbon, and paid for altering and
pressing, and there you see what a stylish hat I have!”
“Lovely! admirable!” said Miss Featherstone. “Upon my word, Jenny, you
ought to marry a poor parson; you would be quite thrown away upon a rich
man.”
“Let me see,” said I. “I want to admire intelligently. That isn’t the
hat you were wearing yesterday?”
“O no, papa! This is just done. The one I wore yesterday was my
waterfall-hat, with the green feather; this, you see, is an oriole.”
“A what?”
“An oriole. Papa, how can you expect to learn about these things?”
“And that plain little black one, with the stiff crop of scarlet
feathers sticking straight up?”
“That’s my jockey, papa, with a plume _en militaire_.”
“And did the waterfall and the jockey cost anything?”
“They were very, very cheap, papa, all things considered. Miss
Featherstone will remember that the waterfall was a great bargain, and I
had the feather from last year; and as to the jockey, that was made out
of my last year’s white one, dyed over. You know, papa, I always take
care of my things, and they last from year to year.”
“I do assure you, Mr. Crowfield,” said Miss Featherstone, “I never saw
such little economists as your daughters; it is perfectly wonderful what
they contrive to dress on. How they manage to do it I’m sure I can’t
see. I never could, I’m convinced.”
“Yes,” said Jenny, “I’ve bought but just one new hat. I only wish you
could sit in church where we do, and see those Miss Fielders. Marianne
and I have counted six new hats apiece of those girls’,—_new_, you know,
just out of the milliner’s shop; and last Sunday they came out in such
lovely puffed tulle bonnets! Weren’t they lovely, Marianne? And next
Sunday, I don’t doubt, there’ll be something else.”
“Yes,” said Miss Featherstone,—“their father, they say, has made a
million dollars lately on Government contracts.”
“For my part,” said Jenny, “I think such extravagance, at such a time as
this, is shameful.”
“Do you know,” said I, “that I’m quite sure the Misses Fielder think
they are practising rigorous economy?”
“Papa! Now there you are with your paradoxes! How can you say so?”
“I shouldn’t be afraid to bet a pair of gloves, now,” said I, “that Miss
Fielder thinks herself half ready for translation, because she has
bought only six new hats and a tulle bonnet so far in the season. If it
were not for her dear bleeding country, she would have had thirty-six,
like the Misses Sibthorpe. If we were admitted to the secret councils of
the Fielders, doubtless we should perceive what temptations they daily
resist; how perfectly rubbishy and dreadful they suffer themselves to
be, because they feel it important now, in this crisis, to practise
economy; how they abuse the Sibthorpes, who have a new hat every time
they drive out, and never think of wearing one more than two or three
times; how virtuous and self-denying they feel, when they think of the
puffed tulle, for which they only gave eighteen dollars, when Madame
Caradori showed them those lovely ones, like the Misses Sibthorpe’s, for
forty-five; and how they go home descanting on virgin simplicity, and
resolving that they will not allow themselves to be swept into the
vortex of extravagance, whatever other people may do.”
“Do you know,” said Miss Featherstone, “I believe your papa is right? I
was calling on the oldest Miss Fielder the other day, and she told me
that she positively felt ashamed to go looking as she did, but that she
really did feel the necessity of economy. ‘Perhaps we might afford to
spend more than some others,’ she said; ‘but it’s so much better to give
the money to the Sanitary Commission!’”
“Furthermore,” said I, “I am going to put forth another paradox, and say
that very likely there are some people looking on my girls, and
commenting on them for extravagance in having three hats, even though
made over, and contrived from last year’s stock.”
“They can’t know anything about it, then,” said Jenny, decisively; “for,
certainly, nobody can be decent, and invest less in millinery than
Marianne and I do.”