Chapter II: Part 2

It is but natural that she should be occupied with trimmings, and feel no interest in the great social and moral movements of the day.

Caeteris paribus, a young woman whose physical health is represented by 80 on our scale, has twice as much feminine delicacy and character as another whose health is represented by 40. If this is not a logical deduction from the laws of physiology and metaphysics, I know of nothing that is. While, as already suggested, every discriminating physician is constantly called upon to listen to the harmony between the body and the soul.

The notion that delicacy of the body indicates delicacy of the body indicates delicacy of the mind and heart, contributes more to the fashion of delicacy than all other influences.

Miss Leonora, observing that Bridget O'Flaherty, the scrub-girl, who is ignorant and coarse, has a large waist and a powerful chest, and that Miss Seraphina Flamingo, who is a perfect angel, has a fragile, delicate form, draws the inference that a woman with a strong body is ignorant and coarse, while a sylphlike form signifies the spirituel.

Besides this, a strong, muscular body is associated with work, with a servant; while Miss Leonora is not long in discovering that the mistresses,--the ladies,--are pale and sickly.

Don't you see now how it is? To have a strong and muscular body is to be suspected of work, of service; while a frail, delicate personnel is a proof of position, of ladyhood.

Go through the town and observe the women. Are any of the fashionable ladies strong and muscular? Not one! Are any of them able to perform hard work? Not one! But there are women who do hard work, very hard work. They are not ladies, they are servants! The ladies are delicate. The servants are strong. Don't you see what a plain case it is? Miss Leonora desires, above all things, to be a lady, and to be always, and everywhere, and immediately recognized as a lady. How clear it is that the one, unmistakable, conclusive proof is, that she should look and move like a lady. If she looks strong, and moves with a will, she will be mistaken for a worker, for a servant. If she looks delicate, and moves languidly, it will be seen at once that she does not belong to the working class.

It is true that many strong, muscular women are coarse and ignorant; they have given their lives to hard work, and have been denied all opportunities to cultivate their minds and manners. To compare such with the petted, pampered daughters of social and intellectual opportunity, and then to treat the strong body of the one as the source of the coarseness and ignorance within, and, in the other case, to treat the weak, delicate body as the source of the fine culture, is to reason like an idiot.

In order to arrive at anything like a fair illustration of the influence of health upon the mind and temper, we must visit a family in which there are daughters in sparkling health, and others who are languid and delicate.

We visited such a family, in a neighboring state, three summers since, and shall never forget our observations and experiences. The oldest daughter was delicate. The youngest two were likewise sensitive and delicate. But there were two girls who were in fine health.

When the stage stopped at the gate, the girls, who were expecting us, came out on the piazza, and the healthy ones came rushing down to the gate, and threw their arms around one of us, nearly smothering that one with kisses, (I shall not tell you whether it was my wife, or myself,) while they shook hands most cordially with the other one. They took hold of our hands and fairly danced us up the walk. On reaching the piazza, we were very cordially and languidly welcomed by the other girls.

During our stay, the well girls ran over constantly. They devised and executed scores of little plans for our amusement, while the Misses Languid were the recipients of attentions from us all. The Misses Vigorous ran over and flooded us all, while the Misses Languid absorbed from us all.

Never have I more fully realized the common saying, that "sickness is selfish." The Misses Vigorous had enough for themselves and all the rest of us. The Misses Languid had nothing to spare, and were constant borrowers and beggars. Do you imagine the well girls were less lovely, less beautiful in heart and soul, than the delicate ones?

Or, if you prefer, do you think a young lady who leaves the city in June for the mountains, pale, nervous, unhappy, hardly able to take care of herself, unable to even think of anything but her own wretchedness, do you think her more lovely than when, returning in October, she comes bounding in, all radiant with joy, and full of sympathy and helpfulness?

FASHIONABLE SUFFERINGS.

So determined is the esprit du corps of the fashionables, that ambitious young ladies secretly pride themselves upon the attainment of womanly weaknesses.

There are certain "female weaknesses" which one would think young ladies might hesitate to mention; but so strong is this secret pride in the signs of ladyhood, that many fashionable young ladies go over the details with real pleasure.

I once heard a conversation between an invalid aunt and four young ladies. The young ladies were all unmarried, and the oldest not above twenty-three. The aunt was a successful competitor in the race for number and intensity of sufferings, and embraced every opportunity to make a tabular statement. Her spine was the favorite theme. The burning, the pain, the sharp and indescribable dartings and excruciating tortures were something fearful to hear. But the girls constantly interrupted her with saying, "That is just the way I feel;" and, "I have exactly that pain;" and, "precisely, I have had that pain for months."

The aunt replied, "Now, girls, don't tell me that. It isn't possible for you to have such afflictions at your age." But they declared, with sparkling eyes, that every one of the sufferings she had described,--every one of them,--they enjoyed in the most dreadful way. The aunt enjoyed another class of affections, upon which she lingered with real gusto. I do not feel at liberty to go into particulars; but here again the young ladies were enough for her. They declared, without flinching, that every one of her sufferings, they had, and what was more, they had certain horrible variations which they described, and which, in fact, I thought rather outdid the poor aunt. Aunt spoke of her headache in the most brilliant style; but here the girls were not to be beaten. In fact, it was neck and neck to the end.

I have heard conversations of another sort which are pertinent in this discussion. A strong country woman, accustomed to work in the garden, and to take long walks, mentions to a group of fashionable young ladies, that she has just walked six miles. "Wonderful! dreadful! is it possible? Why, I couldn't walk six miles to save my life." Perhaps the country aunt says, "I finished a large washing before leaving, and hung the clothes upon the line." Miss Araminta exclaims, "I never washed anything in my life. Why, how is it done? and how dreadful it looks to see all sorts of clothes hanging out in a yard."

The common affectation of ignorance of all useful work is another illustration. A young lady sometimes knows how to make certain rare and delicate cake, but she never knows how to make bread; she knows how to make pink dogs in worsted, but not how to make a shirt. She knows how to crochet, but not how to make garments for herself or her brothers; and thus on through the whole list. She knows nothing whatever of useful work, in which the body and heart may be brought into earnest, womanly play.

My dear girls, I could show you in this city a sight, which would make you sick at heart. I know a home, in which you could see, on any day, just before dinner, a pale, thin, overworked mother hurrying to and fro in her kitchen, and in the parlor overhead four daughters. One young lady is playing the piano (classical music), and the others are crocheting, tatting, and feasting upon the "Awful Secret of the Mysterious Milk-Maid," and one other thing--waiting to be called to dinner. And, although the mother generally thinks it very hard, I have known many cases where she joined in, and really advocated this plan of bringing up daughters.

You may hear such a mother exclaim, "Well, I don't care; my girls shan't be worked to death as I have been. Let them have an easy time while they can; their turn will come soon enough."

So they screw up their waists, recline upon a couch, and ponder the "Fearful Doom of the Mysterious Count," and thus get ready to take their turn. Thousands of young ladies, in this city, are being trained for wives and mothers by such means.

WOMAN TORTURES HER BODY.

Here I want to group the outrages which woman perpetrates upon her beautiful body.

To begin at the top, she almost never permits her hair an opportunity to display its natural beauty. At the present moment, a mass of Japanese bark, or false hair, or some other foreign stuff, full of uncleanness, is piled upon the top of the head, while her own natural hair is twisted, and turned, and pinned, and broken, and ruined in doing subordinate, menial service to the dirty foreign intruder. Besides this, her hair is bedaubed with nameless and dirty greases and oils.

I asked one of the largest retail druggists in this city, "What one article, or line of goods, do you sell most of?"

He replied, without a moment's hesitation, "Preparations for the complexion." These preparations have for their bases three or four deadly poisons. Thousands upon thousands of bottles and boxes are used by the women of Boston every year.

Those glands which, in the economy of nature, are appointed to the most sacred and precious of maternal duties and privileges, are, by the pressure and heat of large artificial pads, almost uniformly ruined. A dressmaker assured me that she very rarely made a dress in which the bust was not padded. The heat and pressure soon spoil the glands.

She bores holes in her ears, and hangs in various trinkets.

In this place I shall not speak at length of that culminating outrage upon woman's body, known as lacing; (not in your case, dear reader, of course, but among your friends.) Look about you, and see what a hideous distortion of the beautiful Greek Slave you see in living figures.

Below the waist there are enormous paddings, which heat and injure the spine.

Below the knee, a ligature, seriously checking the circulation of the feet.

Reaching the feet, we find in the fashionable shoe an ingenious torture. What with the narrow soles and the high heels, the foot is rendered almost helpless, while the ankles are made so weak, that "turning the ankle" is a common occurrence.

In this category I have by no means included all the body tortures in which women indulge; but I have included all that can be properly spoken of in a work which is designed for general reading. Modesty forbids the mention of two or three methods of body torture, in which fashionable women very generally indulge.

STOCKING SUPPORTERS.

Girls, I do not blame you for wishing to keep your stockings smooth. Nothing looks more "shif'less" than stockings in wrinkles. How shall they be kept smooth? The means usually employed, is to apply a ligature just below the knee. If the calf of the leg be very large, the knee small, and the circulation of the feet vigorous, I suppose an elastic garter may be used, to keep the stocking smooth, without serious injury. But, as most American girls have slender legs, as there is but little enlargement at the calf, the pressure of the garter required to keep the stocking in position, is very injurious. It produces absorption of important muscles, and, therefore, weakness of the legs; a lack of circulation, and, therefore, coldness of the feet. The stocking must be drawn up and held. How shall it be done?

Let me illustrate. In attaching a horse to a load, we never draw a strap about its body and attach to that for draft purposes, but we seek some part of the body where the draft may come at right angles, or nearly so. That we find at the shoulder, and it is the only part of the animal upon which, without great harm, a considerable draft may be made.

When we wish to support the several pounds of skirts, the stockings, or any other garment, we look over the woman's body, to determine at what point such support, or draft, if you please, may be applied. To apply it about her legs, or about her waist, is precisely the same mistake that would be made if the draft were attached to the girth of the harness. There is only one point of support, and that is her shoulder.

In another part of this work I have discussed, in detail, the straps applied to the shoulder in supporting the skirts.

In this place it is only necessary to say, that a strap should be fastened to the skirt-band at the side, to run down over the hip, and on the outside of the leg, above the knee to divide into two straps, one of which is to be attached to the stocking on the front of the knee, and the other on the back of the knee.

Somewhere in the course of the single strap, a buckle may be introduced to regulate the tension of the support. This sort of support has been very much used for children's stockings. It has now been adopted by thousands of women, many of whom have spoken to me very warmly of its value.

LARGE vs. SMALL WOMEN.

Petite, applied to a woman, is a very dear word to the fashionables. Ah, the dear, delicate, petite creature! Ah, my darling, sweet petite!

But oh, how dreadful and monstrous such words as--the great creature!--She's as big as all out doors!--for mercy's sake, look at that woman! why, she could lift an ox! Among fashionable simpletons these words are applied to a woman who weighs, say, one hundred and sixty pounds, who has a fine, noble physique, fully competent to the labors and trials of motherhood and life.

By a large woman, I mean one who weighs one hundred and forty to one hundred and sixty pounds. A small woman is one weighing from ninety to one hundred and ten pounds.

The reason for this preference for little women, among men, is simply this. Formerly, women were slaves to the passions of men. In modern times they have, among our better classes, risen a little above that, and have become the pets and toys of men. Now a pet or a toy, say a black and tan, is valuable in proportion to its diminutiveness. A man in selecting a wife that he intends to dress in silks and laces, with trinkets hung in her ears, rings on her fingers, and little ornaments stuck all over her, who is to sit in his parlor while he is absent on business, to dress and redress herself several times a day, to be ready to receive him, all corseted, besilked, bejeweled and bescented, when he shall come from his office,--a man who selects a wife as a pet, a toy, is very likely to have the same sort of preference for a petite wife, that he has for a petite black and tan.

This is the source of the preference for little women.

Whenever women shall rise to a true companionship with men, as their equals, and not their toys, then a small woman will no more be preferred than a small man.

When the great ideas of use, of citizenship, of a true womanhood, of a dignified motherhood, shall come to prevail over this Turkish notion of toy women, then women of noble bearing and commanding presence will be the style; and the little woman will suffer the same disadvantage, in the matrimonial market, that a little man does.

I beg you will not misunderstand me. I am only speaking of the source of a fashion, a prejudice, a false preference. Some of the most lovely, delightful women, as well as the most useful women I have ever met, were small.

However, I am bound in truth to say that, during many years, I have been on the qui vive with reference to the differences between the large and the small, among women, and that I have reached the conclusion that the average large-sized woman is, like the average large-sized man, superior intellectually and otherwise, to the small-sized one.

Women of commanding height, average, so far as my observation has been able to determine, a higher morale, a more dignified character, and greater amiability than the petite ones. I think this statement is true of both sexes. Little men are more irritable, nervous and unreliable, as a class, than large ones.

Some one says, "I don't believe it; it's no such thing; there's that little Mr. R., who is the brightest, smartest man in town." This is not at all improbable.

But what do you think of this fact: At one time in the history of our great Revolutionary War, about fifteen of the most prominent actors in that memorable struggle happened to meet at West Point. They were weighed, and a record made. I have that record. Of the fifteen, only one weighed less than two hundred pounds.

A small man weighs one hundred and twenty five pounds. How many men of that size, or near that size, can you recall, who have figured among the solid, great men in the world's history? We can recall two or three brilliant poets, perhaps as many celebrated orators, who were small men; but when we look among the men who have illustrated the great, grand, solid, enduring traits of human character, in any of the important departments of life, we find that, almost without exception, they are above the average size.

If women were prized for solidity of character, dignity of bearing, strength and reliability of judgment and behavior,--if they were prized as women and citizens, rather than as darlings and toys, there cannot be a shadow of doubt, that women of good size would be greatly preferred, as a class, to small ones.

WHY ARE WOMEN SO SMALL?

American women are becoming the smallest among the civilized peoples, while the men are among the largest. Our army averaged larger than the English, French or German. But look at the droves of school girls, who, at eighteen or twenty years of age, are so small, that it requires a stretch of the imagination to think of them as wives or mothers.

In a neighboring state I was trying to find the house of a friend, and, meeting a little girl, I said:--

"My little girl, will you please tell me where Col. Grant's residence is?"

"Yes, my little boy; he resides in the second house on the right hand, my little boy."

Now, as the scales always allude to two hundred and odd whenever I step on, her remark struck me as sarcastic.

I said at once, lifting my hat, "I hope you will pardon me, I did not intend any offence."

"All right," said she, "but I thought you were making fun of me, by calling me 'little girl.'"

"I trust you will believe me when I assure you that nothing was farther from my mind; but you were so small, I supposed you were a little girl, and so, without thinking, I called you so; it is so dark I could not see your face."

"All right, sir; but my husband would have been very angry if he had heard you call me a little girl."

Born of the same parents, fed at the same table, educated at the same school, why, in America, does a man weigh fifty pounds more than a woman?

I know a good many young ladies, very active in the matrimonial market, who do not weigh more than ninety pounds, and, poor little silly geese, are squeezing themselves as tight as possible with corsets.

This petite size can be accounted for. Nothing, to my mind, is plainer.

Exercise is the great law of development Our girls have no adequate exercise. Besides, the organs on which growth depends, viz., the lungs, stomach and liver, are reduced, by the corset, to half the natural size and activity. These two causes, with living in the shade, explain the alarming decrease in the size of the average American woman.

IDLENESS AMONG GIRLS.

My friend Mr.---- has three daughters and two sons. The girls are between eighteen and twenty-eight, one son is thirty-five perhaps, the other is about fourteen.

The father keeps a trimmings store. The oldest son is somewhere in the West, the youngest son has already left school to assist his father in the store.

The three girls do nothing whatever but dress, play a little, make calls, receive calls, and go a shopping, and, I should add, that during the summer they visit the country, for their health.

Twice the father has compromised with his creditors, and he told me a week ago, that sleep, appetite, and hope had all left him, that he had just borrowed two hundred dollars to enable his girls to go up into New Hampshire, that he saw nothing but ruin before him, that he was completely exhausted, that he had recently felt symptoms of paralysis, and that I must tell him, as a friend, what he could do to save himself from insanity.

These ejaculations culminated in his covering his face with his hands, and bursting into a flood of tears.

"Why, sir," said he, "I owe everybody. Even that faithful creature in my kitchen hasn't had twenty dollars in a year."

A FAMILY COUNCIL.

He went on: "The other day when the girls got ready to go into the country, we held our first family council. My poor wife, who is all worn out, couldn't bear to have the girls troubled with it. She thought it wouldn't do any good, and that we had better keep it to ourselves. But I said, 'no, for once we will have a fair understanding.'

"The girls were to go on Tuesday, so on Monday evening I said to them, 'now, as you are going away to-morrow, let us spend the evening, as a family, alone. I want to advise with you.' They were very good about it; they sent, and broke an engagement with the Browns, and we all got together in the parlor. I tell you it was ticklish business, though. The fact is, we never had had a perfectly frank talk about business with them.

"Mattie was all curiosity, and began at once: 'What in the world is it all about? Why, father, what makes you look so awful solemn; and, dear mamma, why, you're as pale as a ghost.'

"Well, I saw we were in for it, and so I just let right out. I said, 'Girls, mother and I have talked it over, night after night, and we have concluded that we ought to tell you about our circumstances. The fact is, not to be mealy-mouthed about it, we are all on the brink of ruin. I am head over heels in debt, and can't see any way of getting out. Your mother and I are nearly worn out; we can't last much longer. And now, we both feel that we ought to have a plain talk with you.'

"Fanny went into regular hysterics. My wife said, 'Don't, father, don't!' Fanny then began to cry and sob, and declared she shouldn't sleep a minute all night, she was sure she shouldn't sleep a minute.

"Mattie declared she had always lived like a beggar, never had a sixpence to buy anything like other girls, and she wished she had never, never been born.

"Angie, who is always good and loving, said she was very sorry for us. She always was a dear child. She didn't care what the the other girls said, for her part, she was real sorry for us, and what was more, she hoped that business would soon be first-rate again, so that we could all have plenty of money. That child has always been a real comfort to us. She wished we could have another war, it made money so plenty. I tell you she is a sharp one.

"Well, the whole thing ended just about as my wife said it would; it really didn't do any good, but, you see, I was in hopes the girls might help us to think of some way of cutting down. Of course I don't blame them, for, you know, they can't help it.

"Now, my dear friend, what can you say? I feel as if my hands were slipping, as if I were letting go of everything. What shall I do? If you can think of anything, do tell me, for God's sake."

I replied: "My friend, I comprehend your difficulty; I believe I understand it in all its bearings, and I am confident I can help you out.

"Send for your daughters to come home, at once. When they arrive, call another family council. Say to them, 'My dear children, I sent for you for imperative reasons. I am worn out, in debt, wretchedly unhappy, disgraced.--I can't live in this way any longer. You alone can save me. I ask you to abandon, at once, the life you are leading, and help your mother and myself to bear these burdens. I ask you to go with me to-morrow morning to the store, let me discharge both of the clerks, and you become my clerks. My daughters, if you will do this, we shall all be independent and happy. Believe me when I tell you, that these tortures are killing me. While you are all asleep in your beds, your mother and I are grieving and often weeping over the impending ruin. My children, will you save us? Your large acquaintance, your education, your manners, your devotion to our interests, will turn the current in the right direction.'

"Possibly," I said, "they may hesitate; but I don't believe it. In any event, it is the right thing to do. If it should turn out that they draw back, then stand up like an honest, christian man, and declare, 'I will not live another day such a life of fraud; I will not ask the jobbers to trust me with another penny's worth; I will no longer obtain goods under false pretences. If worse comes to worst, you, my daughters, must do what thousands of young women have done before you,--go out into the world and earn your own bread.'

"My friend, I have given you the plan, act at once. Your girls will join you with a whole heart, and, within a year, they will be ten- fold more happy, and you can live an honest, manly life."

HOW IT TERMINATED.

Of course you all wish to know how it came out. The reason for my telling you this story, is, that I was made very happy yesterday, on dropping in at my friend's store, to see, that he had three new clerks, and, after a warn hand-shaking, I congratulated them, from the bottom of my heart, on having gone into business. At this moment the father called me to the rear of the store, where he wished to consult me about a new window; but all he had to say, was, that I must not drop a word of my acquaintance with the history of certain changes.

"All right, my good friend;" but the caution was quite unnecessary. Of course the public must understand that it was of their own brave hearts, that they have gone into this thing.

The father dropped in last evening to tell me all about it. He wrung my hand, laughed, cried, and, in fact, almost went into some of Fanny's hysterics.

"Oh!" said he, "it's all right. I can see the light. And you don't know how happy we all are. The girls spend their time in singing about the house, and asking my forgiveness. It seems to me that we never knew each other before. Oh! I can see the light now, I can see the light! Give me one year, and I can shout victory!

"But you ought to have been concealed where you could have overheard our council. It lasted till near morning, and the first half of it was stormy enough. Fanny declared she would die first. Mattie said she would put on an old dress, and go round begging cold victuals. Angie proposed that they should go into the attic, and give their rooms up to boarders, and have it understood that they had just taken a few friends for company. But, before we retired, we were all of one mind; we all saw that everything but the store was likely to prove a weak, temporary dodge.

"It is just as you told me,--that their life of indolence and selfish indulgence had brought every mean trait to the surface; but that when the depths were stirred I should find they were true women. Yes, thank God, they are true women, as brave girls as ever lived. I can't tell you how happy we all are. They kissed us on coming to the breakfast table this morning for the first time in their lives. We are entering a new life. They already begin to wonder how they could have lived such a life of idleness and good- for-nothingness.

I can't thank you enough. When the girls are quite settled in their new life, I will tell them all about it, and they will invite you down to spend an evening, and then they will thank you themselves."

"Save yourself that trouble," I replied. "The fact is, the idea is not original with me; half the men in town feel just as I do about this fashionable idleness among fashionable women. In thousands of families it involves a system of studied, mean pretence, fraud, and final ruin.

"Besides, we all see that, under its baneful influence, women sadly deteriorate.

"Without a regular occupation, no person, male or female, can preserve a sound mind in a sound body."

IDLENESS IS FASHIONABLE.

Nothing, perhaps, is more fashionable than idleness. We all agree, in theory, at least, that the meaning of life is found in that little word--use; that the happiness of life is found in--work; that to be idle is to be miserable.

Here, however, we must make a distinction. This law is supposed to apply only to men. Men must have an occupation. If a man is without one, we at once begin to suspect he must have some evil designs upon society. The law adds to the punishment, if the culprit has "no visible means of support." That alone is a strong fact against him.

Not only the law, but public sentiment demands that every man shall do something.

"He is an idler," disgraces a man almost beyond any other statement.

Now let us turn to the other side of the house. In America we have a million young women without the slightest pretence of occupation. They spend a portion of their time in visiting. Miss Blanche goes to New York, in the winter, to spend three months with her very dear friend, Miss Nellie, who, in turn, comes to spend three months with Miss Blanche in the summer. This sort of exchange has become an immense system. Blanche and Nellie, with this arrangement, work off six months of the year, and, adding one or two other little affairs of a similar kind, they fill up the residue of the time with the dressmaker, piano practice, the theatre, working sickly-looking pink dogs in worsted, lying late in the morning, dressing three times a day, and reading a few novels. A million young women of the better (?) classes, in America, are training themselves for the future by these methods.

A single year of such life would half ruin a young man. His mind would become unsteady, his will weak and vacillating, his body soft and delicate. Add a "glove-fitting corset" to his wardrobe, and in a few years he would be utterly unfit for husband, father or citizen.

Can any one give us a physiological or metaphysical reason why girls should not suffer the same deterioration? Would you like direct proof that they do? Listen to the conversation of young women,-- educated young ladies!--Beaux, bows, engagements, lovely, Charley, bonnets, Gus, parties, splendid fellow, ribbons, trails, engaged, etc., etc., till midnight.

Watch them as they walk past this window. Does that look like the earnest pursuit of any object in life? If so, they certainly won't catch it. Look at their bare arms,--candle-dips, No. 8.

No "right" of women is so precious, so vital to their welfare, present and future, as the right to work.

Even if a girl had no other object in life than to get a husband, no investment would pay like an occupation. It would give her independence and dignity. Margaret Fuller says:--

"That the hand may be given with dignity, she must be able to stand alone."

Nothing disgusts young men like the undisguised eagerness with which their advances are met. Is a young man a "catch?" send him to Saratoga and watch a few days. The girls do not get down on their knees at his feet, and implore him to take pity on them and marry them, but they do everything else that can be conceived of.

In order that women may marry generally, and without sacrificing themselves, that their hearts may determine their choice; to the end that marriage may be true marriage, and not a contract for board, women must not be compelled to choose between marriage and starvation.

Of course you will say that men despise working-women, that they pass them by on the other side, and seek ladies; by which you mean such girls as have no regular occupation. For a consideration of this point, the reader is referred to the article, "A Short Sermon about Matrimony."

WORK IS FOR THE POOR.

We all know that happiness comes of occupation; and the work must not be irregular and occasional, and such as we have to look up for exercise, but it must be regular; and, to produce the best results, it must not be optional, but imperative.

What an ingenious device of the spirit of caste to represent that work is a badge of the low class. How he cheats the possessors of wealth out of all happiness by this mean lie.

A man, or, if you please, a woman, comes into possession of wealth. With this there come the picture gallery, the beautiful grounds, the perfect house,--everything to gratify her taste, every external good; but caste whispers in her ear, that rich people must not work,--work is a badge of poverty.

Caught with this trick, she soon has no palate for the delicious fruits, no eye for beauty, no relish for the thousand sweet and beautiful things which cluster about her; and, ere long, she would fain change places with the jolly Irishwoman who sweats over her wash-tub.

WORK FOR RICH GIRLS.

You understand all this, and you want to work; but the difficulty is to find something to do. Housekeeping, with its thousand and one duties, offers a useful and pleasant field; but I will suppose that you have already been too much in the house, and greatly need to go out into the air and sunshine.

Now, dear girls, let me suggest something for you, something you will like, and in which you will be, after a little, very happy. Go to bed to-night early, say at half-past eight o'clock, and rise to- morrow morning at six o'clock. I will suppose that you reside in a large town, or a city. Go at once to the suburbs, and you will find the abodes of poverty. March boldly up to one of them, and say:---

"Good morning; how de do, folkses? Thought I'd just come out and see how the the morning air tasted!"

If you are in right down earnest, it won't take you five minutes to establish yourself in the confidence of Bridget O'Flaherty. And if your voice and manner are of just the right sort, there will follow such a wondrous disclosure of family secrets! You will be told all about Michael's stone-bruise, and Patrick's sore toe; probably the boys will be hauled out of bed to show you. But I must leave the secrets to your imagination, or, what is better, to an actual trial.

You find that the mother herself needs a new dress that she may attend mass, and you make a note of it. The little girl needs a dress, and a pair of shoes. The next morning you carry a bundle with your own hands, and leave it with the promise that you will come again in a few days.

Put together all the soft, polite things that your fashionable friends have ever said of you, and as the zephyr to the tornado, so would they all be compared to the gratitude, the admiration, the "God bless her," the "dear swate angel," the very worship which that household would pour out upon you during the few days before the next visit; and when you do go again, the shanty has been thoroughly cleaned and white-washed, the children's feet have been soaked and scrubbed, so that the actual skin has been brought into view; and everything has become wonderfully smart. Tell them of the heart pleasure which all this change gives you, and then speak warmly of the great advantage of such cleanliness, of ventilation, and of such other matters as you see they are ignorant of.

And now you mustn't blame them for casting surreptitious glances at your covered basket; they can't help it, poor things. They try not to look that way, but their imaginations are very busy with the contents of that basket. At length you open it, and taking out a bowl, you say:--

"Mrs. O'Flaherty, I am really troubled about Katie's being so thin. Here is some Scotch oat-meal, and if you will try her with some oat- meal porridge, I am sure it will do her good. If you think, after a little, that it's doing her good, I will bring you more of it.

But oh, how the youngsters long to see what else there is in that basket. After a moment, you put your hand in, and begin to take out things.

"Now, Mrs. O'Flaherty, you won't blame me, will you? I just brought down a few little things; they are of no great value, but I thought you might as well use them, as to have them lie idle. Here are a few pairs of woolen stockings which I have mended all nicely for you. And here is a lot of collars and handkerchiefs which, perhaps, you may make some use of; if so, I am sure you are welcome to them."

"And now, Katie, I have brought a picture for you. I saw it in a shop window yesterday, and thought you might like it. There, do you know what that is?"

"Why, yes mum; that's a picture of the Blessed Virgin! Be's you a Catholic, mum?"

"No, Katie, I am not a Catholic; but I can't see any harm in a picture of the dear Mother of Christ."

"Oh, I thank you mum, I thank you with all my heart."

"And now, Katie, can't you get a frame for this?"

"Oh yes, mum, I can get a frame; I will get a frame in some way."

When you go again, a week later, what a flutter in the neighborhood! Eyes, eyes everywhere. All the neighboring shanties are alive to see that "blessed, swate angel."

As you approach the O'Flaherty's, they are all out, looking wondrously smart, and the old man, for the first time, is without his pipe. Your remark about tobacco seems to be working. Katie is the first to reach you, and she holds up in her hands the picture, in a nice little gilt frame.

But how can I describe your reception? Talk of Jenny Lind at Castle Garden,--that was a fashionable splurge. Talk of the reception of a returning congressman,--that gives the Mayor and Aldermen a chance to ride in barouches, make speeches, and dine at the expense of the corporation. Your reception in Michael O'Flaherty's yard is more hearty, grateful and earnest, than any of the fashionable welcomes. It comes from their very hearts, and would be just as warm if they knew you had come to bid them a final farewell.

Suppose some rich old curmudgeon had given them a few dollars, with which they had purchased the things you have given them. Would they rush out to welcome him? would they clean up the cabin? would the children's eyes sparkle with gratitude and love? No, oh no! It is not the mended stockings, the bowl of oat-meal, or the picture which has so touched them, but it is the gentle, loving spirit in which you have visited them. The poor and lowly are strangely and wonderfully susceptible to such treatment.

A bright woman, residing in a small city in the state of New York, who was a true follower of Christ, for, like him, she went about doing good, happened to go into an Irish neighborhood where the measles were raging, during October. She showed herself an angel of mercy, though her health was so delicate that she could do nothing more than to ride over in her carriage, and distribute gruel, soup, and good counsel.

After the election in November, it came to be known that about fifteen Irish voters, from the neighborhood where Mrs. M---- had acted the good Samaritan, had put in Republican votes, whereat the Democratic managers of the ward were exceeding wroth. The delinquents were visited and labored with.

"What made you go and vote for that--nigger candidate?"

At first they refused to divulge. But, at length, it came out that the candidate's wife, Mrs. M--, had helped their families through the measles. And although their Mrs. M----- was not, in fact, the wife of the candidate, was not even acquainted with him, it was enough for those grateful Irishmen that the name was the same.

A TRUE LOVE STORY.

For years I have advised idle young ladies, who were longing for something to do, to look up poor, unhappy families, and minister to their hungry bodies and hungry hearts. I could give you a great many interesting cases, but one is such a pleasant little love story, I must tell it to you. With the exception of the names, the story is a true one.

Twenty years ago I was practising my profession in a western city. Among my patients was a Miss Dinsmore, a lady of nearly thirty years. Her case was what she called the dumps. I thought it indigestion and general debility. After two weeks, she began to ride out again, and seemed to be doing well enough, when one day she astonished me by exclaiming, "Oh! I wish I was dead!" After some hesitation, she told me that she was perfectly disgusted with life, etc., etc.

I advised her to go out a mile on Marble Street and look up a poor widow woman, a patient of mine, and see if she could not do something to make her comfortable. She couldn't think of it; she had troubles enough of her own; but, after a little urging, she consented to ride that way in the morning, and see if she could do anything. Before the next noon she was at my office with a most pitiful story about "that poor sufferer." I rode out with her at once, and found that Mrs. Ramsey needed some beef-soup and some flannels. Miss Dinsmore volunteered to bring them within an hour. My poor Mrs. Ramsey had pretty good times after that.

I soon had about ten poor patients in Miss Dinsmore's hands. Her sympathy and devotion were often more curative than my doctor- stuffs. At length, she gave me carte blanche to send any poor, sick ones, who needed help; and, from having been a slave to a round of fashionable dissipations, she soon became the most devoted friend of the sick and suffering. To those who have studied the causes of bad health among the devotees of fashion, I need not say that Miss Dinsmore soon became healthy and very happy.

Charles Finlay, a young man of twenty-five years, came to our city, from Philadelphia, to establish a large manufacturing business. He was immediately successful, and quickly won his way to the confidence of our business men. Possessed of noble person, fine culture, and singularly sweet manners, he was soon regarded as the greatest "catch" in town, and innumerable caps were accordingly set for him.

While trying an agricultural machine, one of his hands was seriously hurt, and he sent for me. It was my first personal acquaintance with him, though I had long known him by reputation. After amputating one finger, I contrived to save the residue of his hand. Our daily intercourse continued for several weeks, and we became very good friends. Among other subjects, we discussed matrimony.

I said, one evening, "Finlay, why don't you get a wife?"

"Well, my friend," said he, "that's a long story. I will tell you all about that, sometime."

At my next visit he said:--

"Doctor, speaking of matrimony, did you know that I had purchased the Temple estate on Bernard Street?"

"No; and then you have concluded to establish a home of your own. And who is the happy woman? for most sincerely I do regard her as happy in such an union."

"Ah, my friend, you are getting on too fast. I have no definite purpose in regard to matrimony. Mrs. Oliver, on hearing that I had purchased a house, sought me out directly, and exclaimed, 'Now you have a cage, of course you must have a bird to put into it.' I wonder if she thinks me silly enough to marry one of her daughters? Why, I should infinitely prefer one of those show-figures in the shop windows. They look full as well, have about as much heart, and then they won't get sick. I don't want a bird for my cage. That's just what fashionable wives are,--pretty birds, kept in beautiful cages. I don't want, and I won't have anything of the kind. What I want is a true wife, a real, substantial woman, a companion, an adviser, a friend, one whose voice is not a mere echo of mine, but who has a distinct individuality, with judgment, opinions and will of her own. Of course I know that most fashionable ladies are better than they seem, that this contemptible disguise which they wear,-- this falsehood which they repeat in the hair, the skin, the shape and form of each and every part of the body, is not deliberate falsehood, but the result of a thoughtless compliance with fashion; but it is very difficult for me to separate the woman from the lie. And then their voices! how utterly affected! no matter what the natural voice may be, every one learns exactly the same ridiculous intonation."

Here I interrupted him with:--

"Hold on, my friend, hold on! I really can't stand this any longer. You greatly underrate fashionable ladies. They seem to you silly, false and unworthy; but many of them are not a hundredth part as false and silly as their dress and conversation. Many of these ladies who now seem so preposterous and absurd, will, when married, and fairly settled down, cast off this burlesque, and become sober, solid women."

"But, as they all dress and talk exactly alike, how am I to tell which is which and who is who?"

"Well, well, I must leave you; I have an engagement."

On my rounds I kept thinking what a perfect couple Miss Dinsmore and Mr. Finlay would make! I determined, without saying a word to either, to give them an opportunity to see each other. Fortunately for my plan, Miss Dinsmore had just begun to make her rounds early in the morning, and on foot. I advised Mr. Finlay to take an early ride, and that he might have company, I invited him to go with me in my early morning round. I took him through Miss Dinsmore's parish, and, as I had calculated, we met her with a basket on her arm. I drew up to make some inquiries about several poor and sick ones, for whom we were both interested. Just before we started on, I said, "Mr. Finlay, this is my friend, Miss Dinsmore." Five mornings in succession we rode in the same direction, and every morning but one we met Miss Dinsmore. I was pleased to notice that, as we approached one particular neighborhood, my friend became a little wandering in his conversation, and used his eyes with a marked earnestness.

It struck me as very curious that, although Finlay protracted the conversation more and more each morning on meeting Miss Dinsmore, making many inquiries about her proteges, and showing a singular interest in her work, he did not allude to her during the subsequent part of the ride, nor at any other time.

After a week or so, he said, when I called for him, that he was getting so well, he thought it his duty to attend to business. The very next day, when calling upon the poor widow, to whom I had first sent Miss Dinsmore, she asked, as I was about to leave,--

"Doctor, who was that gentleman that came here with Miss Swan yesterday? He seemed a very nice man." (I will here state that, to save the feelings of her fashionable friends, Miss Dinsmore introduced herself as Miss Swan to all her beneficiaries.)

"What kind of a looking man was he?" I asked.

"A large, tall man, with a black beard, and he carried his right hand in a sling. He carried Miss Swan's basket in his other hand."

"Well," I said, "I suppose it's some friend of hers."

"Oh!" exclaimed the poor widow, "I trembled for fear that it might be some one who was going to marry her, and take her away from me. If that dear, blessed angel should be taken away from me, I am sure I should die."

"Never you fear; I think I know all about him."

So, so, Mr. Charles Finlay, Esq., you are knocking all my plans into "pi." I had got it fixed in my mind that I should invite you to spend an evening at my house, and then I would invite Miss Dinsmore to drop in on some pretence, and so on, and so on, and in less than half a year, I should have you head over ears in love, and then all your lives you would think of me as the occasion of all your happiness; and here you are, just off a sick bed, with only one hand, carrying round a big provision basket before breakfast, at Miss Dinsmore's very heels. So, so, Mr. Charles Finlay, Esq.

Little Charley Finlay, during an attack of scarlatina, had a convulsion. The fond parents urged me, as a special favor, to remain during the night with them. As there was nothing to do but to wait while the little one slept, we fell into a pleasant talk about old times; and then I told them the part which I had played in their first acquaintance, and the hearty laughs I had had over that tall, black-whiskered porter, with one arm in a sling, following a quiet lady, with a basket of provisions. And, although they had been so very quiet about it all, and, although said porter had followed said quiet lady about among the hovels every day for two or three months, and, although both lady and porter saw me frequently, and always kept profoundly mum about things, that I presumed I had heard all about their doings and sayings among their parishoners, almost every day, from the time I took the porter in my carriage down Marble Street, one fine morning, on purpose to get him a situation, up to the time when said black-whiskered porter came into my office one evening, and revealed unto me as follows--

"My friend, do you remember that Miss Dinsmore, to whom you introduced me one morning, down in the mud in Marble Street?"

"Let me see; was she a tall blonde?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"Oh, certainly, I remember her very well. Where is she now, I wonder? (I had had an interview with her that very afternoon.)

And then the tall porter told me, with glistening eyes, that I would receive, the very next day, an invitation card or cards inviting me to attend, etc., etc. He was delighted at my surprise and astonishment.