BELIEVE every one is of the opinion that children should be taught civility; but there is one way that they are tortured, in the zealous parental endeavor to teach them politeness, which seems to us deserving of the severest reprehension. Some person comes to the house, it may be a valued and worthy friend, who is unfortunately repulsive in appearance and manners. Mamma tells Johnny to "go kiss" the lady, or gentleman, as the case may be. Now Johnny, like other human beings, has his personal preferences, and in a case like this especially, prefers spontaneity. He may obey, it is true, but it is a question when a simple recognition would have answered, whether an act involving hypocrisy were not better omitted. I speak from experience, remembering well the horror with which I looked forward, in my childhood, to the periodical visits of a snuffy old person. I think my uncompromising hatred of tobacco in every form, dates back to those forced snuffy kisses, followed in many cases by actual nausea, and in all by a vigorous facial ablution on my part, after the repulsive ceremony. To this day, a colored silk handkerchief, of the antique pattern most affected by snuff-takers, affects me as does the sight of a red shawl, a belligerent rooster, or bull.
That horrible colored silk handkerchief! preferred to a white one, for a reason which makes one's flesh creep, and one's blood run cold, fumbled ever and anon from the stifling depths of a huge pocket, and flourished with its resurrectionized effluvia, under your disgusted and averted nose. Excuse my speaking with feeling, dear reader, for even in these later days have I sacrificed many a comfortable seat in a public conveyance that those infatuated lovers of the weed in every shape might have a wide berth for their noisome atmosphere. Now, to force a little child, fresh and sweet, with a breath like a bunch of spring violets, to contact with such impolite persons, for the sake of "politeness" seems to me an act of tyranny worthy of Nero.
Some mothers seem unwilling to recognize a child's individuality. "She is such a strange child—so different from other children," a mother remarked in my hearing, with a sigh of discontent; as if all children should be made after one model; as if one of the greatest charms of life were not individuality; as if one of the dearest, and weariest, and least improving, and most stagnating things in the world, were not a family or neighborhood which was only a mutual echo and re-echo.
"Different from other children!" Well—let her be different; you can't help it if you would—you ought not if you could. It is not your mission, or that of any parent, to crush out this or that faculty, or bias, which is God-implanted for wise purposes. You are only to modify and direct such by judicious counsel. A child who thinks for itself, prefers waiting upon itself, and is naturally self-sustained, is of course much more trouble than a heavy-headed child, who "stays put" wherever and however you choose to "dump" him down; but it is useless to ask which, with equally good training, will be the most efficient worker in the great life-field. Suppose he does question your opinions occasionally, don't be in a hurry to call it "impertinence;" don't be too lazy or too dignified to argue the matter with him; thank God rather, that his faculties are wide awake and active. Nor does it necessarily follow that such a child must be contumacious or disobedient. Such a nature, however, should be tenderly dealt with, Firm yet gentle words—never injustice or harsh usage. You may tell such a child to "hold its tongue" when it corners you in an argument, often, without any intentional disrespect, but you cannot prevent its thinking. It should not follow that a young person must, as a matter of course, though they mostly do, adopt the parental religious creed. Some parents I have known unwise enough to insist upon this. A forced faith for the wear and tear of life's trials, is but a broken reed to lean upon. On these subjects talk yourself; let your child talk, and then let him, like yourself, be free to think and choose, when this is done.
Out of twenty violets in a garden, you shall not find any two alike, but this does not displease you. One is a royal purple, another a light lilac; one flecked with little bright golden spots, another shaded off with different tints of the same violet color, with a delicacy no artist could improve. You plant them, and let them all grow and develop according to their nature, now and then plucking off a dead leaf, now loosening the earth about the roots, or watering or giving it shade or sunshine, as the case may be, but you don't try to erase the delicate tints upon its leaves and substitute others which you fancy are better. No human fingers could recreate what you would mar—you know that; so you bend over it lovingly, and let it nod to the breeze, and bend pliantly to the shower, or lift its sweet face, when the sun shines out, and through all its various changes you do not sigh for monotony. So, when I see a family of children, I like the mother's blue eyes reproduced, and the father's black eyes. I like the waving, sunny locks, and the light brown, and the raven; I like the peach-blossom skin, and the gipsy olive, round the same hearthstone, all rocked in the same cradle. Each is beautiful of its kind; the variety pleases me. Just so I like diversity in regard to temperament and mental faculties. Each have their merits; Heaven forbid they should be rolled and swathed up like mental mummies, bolt upright, rigid, and fearfully repeated; no collision of mind to strike out new ideas, no progress, no improvement. Surely this is not the age for that.
A public toast recently given runs thus; "Our parents: the only tenders who never misplaced a switch."
Now you may laugh at that—so did I—but where could you find a greater fib? Many a time and oft have parents laid the switch on their children's backs, when they should have applied it to their own; many a time has the lash which should have descended upon the back of the favorite, fallen upon his much abused brother's. There is nothing in creation which parents so often misplace as the switch; and it need not of necessity be a birchen rod or a ferule; there are switches which cut deeper than either, of which many a ruined man and woman can tell you.
I knew two children—one blundering, but honest, sincere, self-reliant, speaking the plain truth on all occasions without qualification, making his requests in few words, and smothering his disappointment as best he might when refused. The other, wily, diplomatic, Chesterfieldian, ever with a soft word on the tip of his tongue, to pave the way for the much desired boon, which was never refused, so winning, so courteous, so apparently respectful was the seeker. Follow these two children. See the latter in the play-ground, boasting to his young associates what he has got from the "old gentleman" or the "old lady," boasting what he will yet get—boasting that he knows how to do it; rehearsing to them the disgusting pantomime of the caress, the respectful, deferential attitude which he uses on such occasions. Follow the other to his little room at the top of the house; see him sitting in gloomy silence, too proud to weep, too proud to complain, brooding over the injustice done him—not hating the fraternal owner of the "coat of many colors," no thanks to those who gave them both birth, but looking into the far dim future with that wistful longing which comes of unloved, precocious childhood; sitting there—with his own hand turning the poisoned arrow round and round in the festering wound, incapable of extracting it, and yet knowing no balm to assuage its intolerable anguish.
Follow out their two histories. See the Chesterfieldian favorite sent to college; contracting long livery-stable, hotel, and tailors' bills, with a perfect reliance upon his diplomatic abilities to "set it all right with the old gentleman;" thanking him deceitfully for his unparalleled generosity to a son so unworthy; alluding delicately to his pride in him as a father, and trusting some day to make a proper return for all his goodness, etc., etc. See the "stupid boy" who is summarily set down to be wanting in cleverness, accepting in silence this verdict, and the consequent disposal of his time in some uncongenial, distasteful employment, till at last, wearied out by the silent drop that descends mercilessly and unremittingly, hour by hour, on his tortured soul, he rushes from the home which has been a home only in name, and wanders forth, with the gnawing pain in his heart for silent company. Merciful God! what is to keep him? His blood is young and warm, his heart throbbing wildly in his breast for what every human thing yearns for—sympathy—love!
Years pass on. The college boy returns with more knowledge of horses, wine and women, than of Greek, Latin and mathematics—returns to receive the congratulations of partial friends that he has passed off for pure gold the glittering brass of his showy superficiality. The truant's name is never mentioned, or if so, with the hope, not that he may be kept from evil, but "that he may not disgrace us." Meanwhile the wanderer lies languishing on a bed of sickness in a foreign country. Woman's heart is the same in all lands, when pity knocks at it, else had he closed his eyes in exile. Pity he had not—pity he returned to be asked, with cold tones and averted eyes, why he did not stay there. Pity that he could not smother that unconquerable longing which approaching death brings, to look our last upon our native land. Pity that the errors born of neglected childhood, and forsaken youth, should have been held up to him by the pharisaical hands which goaded him into them, even at the tomb's portal. Pity that sinful man may not be merciful as a holy, pitying God.
I ask you, and you, and you, who have woven the "coat of many colors" for some one of your household—you who, by your partiality and short-sightedness, are fostering the rank weeds, and trampling under foot the humble flowers—you who are bringing up children whose hearts shall one day be colder to each other than the dead in their graves—you upon whom shall be visited—alas! too late—every scalding tear of agony and disappointment from out young eyes, which should have beamed only with hope and gladness;—I ask every parent who is doing this, if he or she is willing that his or her child shall grow up by these means to lose his faith in man, and sadder still, in God?
I wonder is it foreordained that there shall be one child in every family whom "nobody can do anything with?" Who tears around the paternal pasture with its heels in the air, looking at rules, as a colt does at fences, as good things to jump over. We all know that the poor thing must be "broken in," and all its graceful curvetings sobered down to a monotonous jog-trot; that it must be taught to bear heavy burdens, and to toil up many a steep ascent at the touch of the spur; but who that has climbed the weary height does not pass the halter round the neck of the pretty creature with a half-sigh, that its happy day of careless freedom should be soon ended?
How it bounds away from you, making you almost glad that your attempt was a failure; how lovingly your eye follows it, as it makes the swift breathless circle, and stops at a safe distance to nod you defiance. Something of all this every loving parent has felt, while trying to reduce to order the child whom "nobody can do anything with."
Geography, grammar and history seem to be put into one ear, only to go out at the other. The multiplication table might as well be written in Arabic, for any idea it conveys, or lodges, if conveyed, in the poor thing's head. Temperate, torrid, and frigid zones may all be of a temperature, for all she can remember, and her mother might have been present at the creation of the world, or at the birth of the Author of it, for aught she can chronologically be brought to see.
But look! she is tired of play, and has taken up her pencil to draw; she has had no instruction; but peep over her shoulder and follow her pencil; there is the true artist touch in that little sketch, though she does not know it—a freedom, a boldness which teaching may regulate, never impart. Now she is tired of drawing, and takes up a volume of poems, far beyond the comprehension, one would think, of a child of her years, and though she often miscalls a word, and knows little and cares less about commas and semi-colons, yet not the finest touch of humor or pathos escapes her, and the poet would be lucky, were he always sure of so appreciative a reader. She might tell you that France was bounded south by the Gulf of Mexico, but you yourself could not criticise Dickens or Thackeray with more discrimination.
Down goes the book, and she is on the tips of her toes pirouetting. She has never seen a dancing-school, nor need she; perfectly modeled machinery cannot but move harmoniously; she does not know, as she floats about, that she is an animated poem. Now she is tired of dancing, and she throws herself into an old arm-chair, in an attitude an artist might copy, and commences to sing; she is ignorant of quavers, crotchets and semi-breves, of tenors, baritones and sopranos, and yet you, who have heard them with rapturous encores, stop to listen to her simple melody.
Now she is down in the kitchen playing cook; she turns a beef-steak as if she had been brought up in a restaurant, and washes dishes for fun, as if it had been always sober earnest; singing, dancing and drawing the cook's portrait at intervals, and all equally well done.
Now send that child to any school in the land, where "Moral Science" is hammered remorselessly and uselessly into curly heads, and she would be pronounced an incorrigible dunce. Idiotically stupid parrot-girls would ride over her shrinking, sensitive shame-facedness, rough-shod. She would be kept after school, kept in during recess, and have a discouraging list of bad recitation marks as long as Long Island; get a crooked spine, grow ashamed of throwing snow-balls, have a chronic headache, and an incurable disgust of teachers and schools, as well she might.
She is like a wild rose, creeping here, climbing there, blossoming where you least expect it, on some rough stone wall or gnarled trunk, at its own free, graceful will. You may dig it up and transplant it into your formal garden if you like, but you would never know it more for the luxuriant wild-rose, this "child whom nobody can do anything with."
Some who read this may ask, and properly, is such a child never to know the restraint of rule? I would be the last to answer in the negative, nor (and here it seems to me the great agony of outraged childhood comes in) would I have parents or teachers stretch or dwarf children of all sorts, sizes and capacities, on the same narrow Procrustean bed of scholastic or parental rule. No farmer plants his celery and potatoes in the same spot, and expects it to bear good fruit. Some vegetables he shields from the rude touch, the rough wind, the blazing sun; he knows that each requires different and appropriate nurture, according to its capacities. Should they who have the care of the immortal be less wise?
"You have too much imagination, you should try to crush it out," was said many years ago to the writer, in her school-days, by one who should have known that "He who seeth the end from the beginning," bestows no faculty to be "crushed out;" that this very faculty it is which has placed the writer, at this moment, beyond the necessity of singing, like so many of her sex, the weary "Song of the Shirt."
One request I would make of every mother. Make your "nursery" pleasant. Never mind about your "parlor," but is your nursery a cheerful place? Is there anything there upon the wall for little eyes to look at, and little minds to think about when they wake so early in the morning; or as they lounge about when a stormy day keeps them close prisoners? If not, see to it without delay. Don't say I "can't afford it;" one shilling—two shillings will do it; if you can spare a few shillings more, so much the better. You know the effect a bright, cheerful apartment has upon yourself, even with all your mature resources for thought and pleasure. Think then of the little children, reaching out their young thoughts, like vine tendrils, for something to twine about, something to lean on, something to grow to,—in fine, something to think and talk about. A blank, white wall is not suggestive or inspiriting. Give the little nursery prisoner something bright to look at. Can that be called "a trifle" which makes home attractive? We think not. Therefore we like flowering plants in windows. There are some houses which make us feel as though we were on friendly terms with the inmates, through these cheerful, mute tokens. Mute! did I say? Have our past lives been so barren of incident that the perfume of a flower never brought before us some bright face, or loved form, which has made life for us blessed? You must have felt it—and you and you; I am sure of it. Just such a rose as that you have "seen in her hair;" and you sit dreamily looking at it, as it sways gracefully on the stem; and you wonder what the dear child, so many hundred miles away, is thinking of now; and whether her full-blossomed life has fulfilled its budding promise. And that reminds you how the whirlpool of life's cares and duties has almost engulfed these sweet memories; and resolutely turning your back upon them all, you sit down and write a warm heart-letter, which comes to her in her distant home, like a white-winged dove at the window of a dreary winter day. And all this came of the little rose in your window; the old love wakened in your heart, and the gladness to hers!
Eloquent? If flowers are not eloquent, who or what is? Then, why are so many withered leaves put away with bright tresses and pressed passionately to lonely lips, whose quivering no eye sees save His "who wounds but to heal?" Eloquent? Could mines of gold buy them? This was twined in her bridal veil; that was laid upon her coffin-lid. No fingers but yours may touch the shrivelled treasures. For her sake you have placed their blossoming counterparts in your window. You shut your eyes when you go near them, that their perfume may seem her very breath.
Eloquent? Why does the old man stoop, and with trembling fingers pick the daisy or violet, and place them in his button-hole? Don't question him about it when strangers are by. It is the key to his whole life—that little flower.
"My mother liked primroses," the matron says to her little child; and so they blossom in her home as they did, many years ago, in the sunny nursery-window of her childhood. Ah, these "mothers!" whose "rights," guaranteed by the Great Law-giver, nor statute makers, nor statute breakers can weaken or set aside. Long years after they are dust, shall some little blossom they loved be placed in a bosom which yearns unceasingly, over and above every other human love, for her who gave it these warm pulsations. Blessed be these memorials of "the long ago!"
There is a class of mothers, easy mothers, who lose much time by not finding time for imperative duties. We wish it were possible to persuade some of them, who are otherwise most excellent mothers—how much trouble they would save themselves, by exercising a little firmness toward their young children. Of course it takes more time to contest a point with a child, than to yield it; and a busy mother not reflecting that this is not for once, but for thousands of future times, and to rid herself of importunity, says wearily—"yes—yes—you may do it;" when all the while she knows it to be wrong and most injurious to the child. Then there comes a time when she must say No! and the difficulty of enforcing it, at so late a period of indulgence, none can tell but "easy" mothers of self-willed children. For your own sakes, then, mothers, if you have not the future good of your children at heart; for your own sakes—and to save yourselves great trouble in the future, learn to say No—and take time to enforce it. Let everything else go, if necessary, because this contest must be fought out, successfully, with every separate child; and remember once fought it is done with forever. When we see mothers, day by day, worried—harassed, worn out by ceaseless teasings and importunities, all for want of a little firmness at the outset, we know not whether to be more sorry or angry.
Again: some mothers are so busy about the temporal wants of their children that they are wholly unacquainted with them spiritually. You are very careful of your daughter's dress; you attend personally to its purchase and fit. You go with her to see that her foot is nicely gaitered; and you give your milliner special instructions as to the make and becomingness of her bonnets; but do you ever ask yourself, what she is thinking about? In other words, do you know anything at all of her inner life? Many who are esteemed most excellent mothers, are as ignorant on this all-important point as if they had never looked upon their daughters' faces. They exact respectful obedience, and if the young creature yields it, and has no need of a physician's immediate services, they consider their duty done. Alas, what a fatal mistake! These are the mothers, who, never having invited the confidence of those young hearts, live to see it bestowed anywhere and everywhere but in accordance with their wishes. Is it, can it be enough to a mother worthy the name, to be satisfied that her daughter's physical wants are cared for? What of that yearning, hungry soul, that is casting about, here and there, for something to satisfy its questionings? Oh, give a thought sometimes to this. When she sits there by the fire, or by the window, musing, sit down by her, and love her thoughts out of her. Cast that fatal "dignity" or indifference to the winds, which has come between so many young creatures and the heart to which they should lie nearest in these important forming years. "Respect" is good in its place; but when it freezes up your daughter's soul-utterances; when it sends her for sympathy and companionship to chance guides, what then? A word, a loving, kind word, at the right moment! No mind can over-estimate its importance. Remember this, when you see the sad wrecks of womanhood about you; and amid the sweeping waves of life's cares and life's pleasures, what else soever you neglect, do not fail to know what that young daughter of yours is thinking about.
How strong sometimes is weakness! When a very young child loses its mother, before it has yet learned to syllable her name, we are generally struck with pity at what we call its "helpless condition;" and yet, after all, its apparent helplessness is at once its strength and shield; for is not every kind heart about it immediately drawn toward it in love and sympathy? Do not the touch of its soft hand, its pretty flitting smile, the "cuddlesome" leaning of the little head, the trustful innocence of its eyes, do more for it, than could all the eloquence of Demosthenes? I was struck with the truth of this not long since, upon going into a shop to make a purchase, where I found the young girl who usually waited there, with a little babe in charge, whose mother had just died. Looking about the shop, and remarking the many calls upon her time and attention, as she moved quickly around with this pretty little burden upon her arm, I said, this child must be a great care for you. Yes, said she; but oh, such a comfort, too. And so playing with the baby and talking the while, I learned that before its mother died, it was taken in every night for her to kiss it, before it was put to sleep. After the mother's funeral, as the young girl was passing through that room with it, the little creature stretched out its hands toward the empty bed for the accustomed kiss? Tears stood in her eyes, as she again kissed the baby. I knew now how it was that the "comfort" outweighed the "care." No voice from the spirit-land could so effectually and solemnly have bound up her future with that orphan baby as that mute reaching out of its loving arms to that empty bed. Now had that young girl a soul for labor; a motive for living. Now there was something to repay toil. Something for her to love—something to love her. Every customer who came in, was so much toward a subsistence for little Annie. Ah, the difference between plodding on for cold duty's sake, and working with one's heart in it! The little shop looked bright as heaven, that cold November afternoon, and I went out of it, wondering what people could mean when they spoke of "infant helplessness;" since all New York might have failed to do for that little one, what it had accomplished for itself by that one unconscious, touching little action.
OMEN boarders are often called troublesome; but it must be remembered that all a man wants of his room is to sleep and dress in, but it is a woman's home; and alas! often all she has. She would not be a woman did she not desire to make it tidy and habitable. This—her landlady contracts to do. The fruitless ringings for fresh-water, towels, coal, lights and a clean carpet—and she is not allowed to go down stairs after them herself—are not unknown to any woman who has worn life out in boarding-houses. It is not, as I remarked, in the nature of a woman to be comfortable in Babel; nor does its owner fancy a cloud of dust, raised in the middle of the day, upon her nicely smoothed hair, or clean collar, because the chambermaid has an appointment with John, the waiter, in the entry, or because she enjoys lolling out the front window on her elbows an hour in every room she is "righting," instead of attending promptly to her business, and getting through with it.
Now, man is by nature an unclean animal. I doubt if he would ever wash his face, were there no women about who would refuse to kiss him if he didn't. Well—he clears a hole in the middle of his room, and gets ready for breakfast; which he swallows, and then bolts through the front-door, (dining down town,) not to return again till evening. What possible difference, then, does it make to him, whether his bed be made, and his room swept at ten o'clock in the morning, or four in the afternoon? His home is in the restaurant, in the store, in the street, anywhere and everywhere, that temptation and inclination may lead him; four walls don't bound his vision. He can afford to be philosophical about brooms and dust-pans.
But let Biddy take them into his counting-room. Let him stand round on one leg while she—having moved his desk and displaced his ledgers and papers, preparatory to a sweep—runs out into the street half an hour, under pretence of getting a broom, to gossip with an acquaintance. Let him, getting impatient, sit down in the midst of the hub-bub, and drawing up his inkstand, commence writing. Let Biddie re-enter, just as he gets under way, with a frisk of that wretched, long-handled duster, which tosses on more dust than she ever takes off. Let him rise again and make way for her, and then—let her bob off again—after a little water, and stay another half hour,—and all the while the merciless clock ticking on, and the perspiration standing on his forehead at this unnecessary waste of his time and temper, and the work he hasn't done, and let Biddy repeat this in that counting-room, to that man, every morning in the year, (365 mornings). How long do you suppose he would stand that?
Well, that's just what women in boarding-houses have to put up with. That's why they are troublesome. That's why they can't help it. That's why landladies like men who live everywhere but in their rooms, and who, provided their mattress is not put in their washbowl, and the ends of their cigars are not broken by the landlady's little boy, give her carte blanche as to dirt and other luxuries.
On the other hand I acknowledge that a man-boarder eats four times as much as a woman, and often keeps his landlady waiting weeks to have her bill paid, if indeed he ever pays it. Then he tumbles up stairs at midnight in an oblivious condition, thumping against all the doors as he goes, frightening the single women into fits, and waking up hapless babies, to drain the last drop of the milk of motherly kindness? Then he brings his comrades home to dinner or to tea, and expects his poor struggling landlady to omit all mention of the same when she makes out her bill? Then, notwithstanding this, he sniffs at the eggs, cracks stale jokes on the chickens; rails at the beef, looks daggers into the coffee-cup, and holds his supercilious nose when the butter is too near; and by many other gentlemanly tokens shows the poor widow, whose husband once would not let the wind blow roughly on her, that he will grind her and her children down to the last fraction, that he may spend it on cigars and drinks, while the gray hairs gather thickly on her temples, and she goes to sleep every night with a "God help me," on her lips.
It is a self-evident fact, that all women are not ladies, in the best sense of the word; i. e. by virtue of behavior, not dress; no doubt landladies as well as others have often discovered this. It is very easy to tell "a lady" by the standard of behavior. Ten women shall get into an omnibus, and though we never saw one of them before, we shall select you the true lady. She does not titter when a gentleman, handing up her fare, knocks off his hat, or pitches it awry over his nose; nor does she receive her "change," after this inconvenient act of gallantry, in grim silence. She wears no flowered brocade there to be trodden under foot, nor ball-room jewelry, nor rose-tinted gloves; but the lace frill round her face is scrupulously fresh, and the strings under her chin have evidently been handled only by dainty fingers. She makes no parade of a watch, if she wears one; nor does she draw off her dark, neatly-fitting glove to display ostentatious rings. Still we notice, nestling in the straw beneath us, such a trig little boot, not paper-soled, but of an anti-consumption thickness; the bonnet upon her head is plain, simply trimmed, for your true lady never wears full-dress in an omnibus. She is quite as civil to the poorest as to the richest person who sits beside her, and equally regardful of their rights. If she attracts attention, it is by the unconscious grace of her person and manner, not by the ostentation of her dress. We are quite sorry when she pulls the strap and disappears. We saw a lady do a very pretty thing the other morning. Our omnibus was nearly full of ladies, going down town, when quite an elderly man slowly mounted the steps, and clambered in, taking a seat by the door. The lady next him, observing him take out his fare, smilingly extended her hand to the venerable man, passed the money up to the driver, and returned the change. It was a little thing, but, oh, how lovely! more particularly, as the old man's hat was shabby, his coat seedy, and he had every mark of poverty about him. That woman will make a good wife, said we, and we had half a mind to ask her address, for the benefit of some young man; only that we reflected that unless her virtues were backed by "a fortune," they might possibly go a-begging.
The "term" lady has been so misused, that I like better the old-fashioned term, woman. I sometimes think the influence of a good woman greater than that of a good man. There are so many avenues to the human heart left open to her gentle approach, which would be instantly barred up at the sound of rougher footsteps. One may tell anything to a good woman. In her presence pride sleeps or is disarmed. The old child-feeling comes back upon the world-weary man, and he knows not why he has reposed the unsought confidence which has so lightened his heart. Why he goes forth again ashamed that one so feeble is so much mightier. Why he could doubt and despair where she can trust and wait. Why he could fly from the foe for whose approach she so courageously tarries. Why he thinks of the dagger, or pistol, or poisoned cup, while she, accepting the fierce blast of misfortune, meekly bows her head till the whirlwind be overpast,—believing, hoping, knowing that God's bright smile of sunshine will break through at last.
The world-weary man looks on with wonder, reverencing yet not 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.