Ginger-Snaps

WOMAN'S MILLENNIUM

HURRAH for Massachusetts! Read this:

"Chief Justice Bigelow, of Massachusetts, made short work with a divorce case which came before him at Springfield a day or two ago. It was an application of a wife for a divorce from her husband, on the ground of extreme cruelty. It coming up in testimony that the woman had been beaten and otherwise ill-used by her husband, the Judge at once decided the case in her favor, taking occasion to remark that in case of any violence by a husband to the wife, he should not hear all the points before deciding in favor of the latter. The woman might forgive cruelty toward herself, but the court would not."

Now that's what I call a righteous decision. Let all the wives with bruised shoulders, and arms, and backs, and eyes, (bruised hearts are too common to talk about!) emigrate forthwith to this enlightened State. Here's a man who is just to a woman. Think of the rarity of the thing! Compliments, and flattery, and gifts we can all have, till we get to be old women, and some of us afterwards; but justice, Messieurs! ah! that's quite another thing. Female eyes have grown dim looking for that, all through the ages. Men start up from their tobacco-torpor nowadays and ask, angrily, what means this present restlessness of American women? This wide and deep-spread discontent, which heaves to and fro, developing itself in a thousand different forms? My grandmother was contented enough. My aunt never looked beyond her own family. Are you quite sure of the first, and does the latter deserve praise or blame for the pin-measure view of the world to which she, the God-appointed instructor and guide of future men and women, chooses to limit herself? Has she a right to launch them on the turbulent ocean of life, with only one poor miserable broken oar to paddle their way? Such women are not praiseworthy; no more than they who, busying themselves in public affairs, leave their children to "come up" as chance or accident dictates. Are you quite sure, too, that because only lately this "wail of discontent" has reached your ear, that it has not been stifled under thousands of tombstones? Ah, well I remember when too young to know what life meant for a woman, hearing one who I have since learned had suffered and forgiven much, murmur to herself as she wearily laid her head upon her pillow, "God be thanked for sleep and forgetfulness!" and yet not one who saw her smiling face, or heard her cheerful voice, or was charmed with her intelligent conversation, ever dreamed that she was not "a contented wife," as the phrase runs.

And just in this connection I would quote a remark which, for its truth, should be inscribed on the pipe (for there he would oftenest meet it) of every man in the land.

"Only so far as a man is happily married to himself is he fit for married life, and family life in general. Unless he has 'cleared himself up,' as the Germans say, he can at best but enter into ambiguous relations to another. When a man is discordant in himself, he makes all that he comes in contact with discordant."

Now, candidly I ask you, oughtn't that remark to be in the Holy Scriptures? Perhaps you ask if the same is not true of women? I am not such an idiot as to deny that, either; but what I marvel at is this – that it should be such a perfectly natural and eminently righteous thing for a man to halloo to high heaven that his mate is not to his mind, after he has compassed heaven and earth to get her, and such a crime for a woman to be "discontented and restless under similar circumstances".

Nevertheless, I think woman's millennium is to come out of all this unquiet and chaos. Here's a remark made at a royal-literary-fund-dinner in England, – as true as I live, in England, and in London at that, – and by Charles Kingsley at that, – in response to a toast:

"As for imaginative literature," he said, "if the world continued to go on as it was proceeding, ladies must be called upon to fulfil this duty. Where would they find among men such poets as Mrs. Rossetti, Mrs. Jean Ingelow, or Miss A. Procter? Or who could write such works of prose fiction as the authors of 'John Halifax' or 'Romola'? In former times men only dealt with literature, but the more delicate the weapon became, the more delicate were the hands which wielded it. If he could give any advice to young men how they might escape the trials and troubles that might beset their path in the literary profession – how escape Whitecross Street prison and the workhouse – it would be by marrying a literary lady, and setting himself down to the humble and chivalrous duty of reviewing his wife's books."

The picture of that sublime bit of majesty, a British husband, performing such a feat, is so impossible to contemplate, that I must stop, that my readers and myself may take breath.

I am inclined to believe that there are a great many kinds of women, both in England and America. This idea seems to be lost sight of, by the writers of both nations, who have lately undertaken to describe the feminine element, under such titles as "the Girl of the Period," or "The Woman of the Time;" presenting to our view monstrosities, which no doubt exist, but which are no more to be taken specimens of the whole, than is the Bearded Woman, or the Mammoth Fat Girl.

New York, for instance, is not wholly given over to the feminine devil. Angels walk our streets, discernible to eyes that wish to see. Noble, thoughtful, earnest women; sick of shams and pretence; striving each so far as in her lies, to abate both, and to diminish the amount of physical and moral suffering. Then, I never go into the country for a few weeks' summer holiday, that I do not find large-hearted, large-brained women, stowed away among the green hills, in little cottages, which are glorified inside and outside by their presence; women who, amid the press of house and garden work, find time for mental culture; whose little book-shelves hold well-read copies of our best authors. Women – sound physically, mentally, morally; women, whom the Man of the Period, who most surely exists, has never found. Now and then, some man, fit to be her mate, in his rambles in the sweet summer time, is struck as I am by these gems hidden amid the green hills, and appropriates them for his own. But for the most part, the more sensible a man is, the bigger the fool he marries. This is especially true of biographers! What a wrong, then, to the great army of sensible, earnest women in either country to pick out a butterfly as the national type. Because a few men in New York and London and Paris wear corsets, and dye their whiskers and hair, and pad out their hollow cheeks and shrunken calves, it does not follow that Victor Hugo, and John Bright, and the great army of brave men who won our late victory, are all popinjays. For every female fool I will find you a male mate. So when the inventory of the former is taken, the roll-call of the latter might as well be voiced. Are women so "fond of gossip"? Pray, what is the staple of after-dinner conversation when the wine comes on and the women go off? Do women "lavish money on personal adornment"? How many men are there who would be willing to tell on what, and on whom, their money was worse than lavished? Do women "leave their nursery altogether to hirelings"? How many corresponding men are there, whose own children under their own roofs, are almost entire strangers to their club-frequenting fathers? And yet what good, noble men are to be seen for the looking? Faithful to their trusts, faithful to themselves, unmoved by the waves of folly and sin that dash around them, as is the rock of Gibraltar.

I claim that justice be done by these writers on both sides of the water, to both sexes. Fools, like the poor, we shall have always with us; but, thank God, the "just" man and the "just" woman "still live" to redeem the race. Men worthy to be fathers, and large-brained women, who do not even in this degenerate day, disdain to look well after their own households.

It is but seldom that a child needs the rod, especially if taken from the time it is able to understand language, and firmly yet kindly treated, and given to know that No and Yes mean No and Yes, without any shadow of turning. It is a question, too, whether those who have unfortunately come up, instead of being judiciously brought up, are ever made better by harshness, under the name of discipline.

ENGLISH NOTIONS ABOUT WOMEN

OUR neighbors over the water, judging from an article in one of their leading papers, seem to be greatly exercised at present on "The Woman Question." The old model Englishwoman who sneezed exactly at the same hour her great grandmother did, and sat down, and rose up, and went out, and came in whenever her husband bade her, – and made no objection, at the same time, to any irregularity either in his hours or habits, – it seems, has disappeared. Instead, we have that horror, – the English female-physician; the English female would-be voter; in short, the English female who asserts her right to individuality, in action and opinion, equally with her husband.

John Bull sets down his mug of beer, and says that the thing is monstrous. He says that he no longer can lounge off by himself, as in bachelor days, although he is a married – and, therefore, a more important – member of society. He says that he is not allowed, as formerly, to spend every evening with his bachelor cronies, – Tom, Dick, and Harry. He says that his wife positively expects him to act as if he were married. He says that, when he tells her decidedly that he wont do this, that she pays no more attention to this refusal than as if he hadn't made it; but quietly returns to the same point of disputation the next day, and every day, and every month, and all through the year, with a terrible and feline pertinacity. He says that it is like the slow dropping of water on some sensitive part of the frame; he says he don't like it, and don't know what to do about it. He says, besides, that marriage is not at all favorable to largeness of mind, or breadth of view, which is very obvious, in his own case, in the remarks above quoted! He says that all she says and does "has the stamp of Lilliput;" and that should she even have the right of suffrage, she would barter away her vote for a new gown. He says justice is a quality unknown to woman; which is very true, and I want him to understand that is just what she is contending for. He says, to make a long matter short, that when he married he expected to live just exactly the same life that he did before, and that he finds he can't; and, moreover, he says, with a sweeping wave of his John Bull hand, that no husband was ever made more large-hearted, or tolerant, or in any way benefited by marriage.

Now if a man will marry, with such absurd ideas of what marriage ought to be, and if he will marry a fool, I advise him not to go whining round the world about it: he deserves the consequences. But let him not insist that all women are fools, because he got on his knees to obtain one. I will always maintain that there are twenty bad husbands to one bad wife; and that, that one would seldom continue bad if her husband were just and kind to her. As to marriage "narrowing a man's mind," that which never had any breadth cannot be narrowed. And history abundantly shows how wise in counsel, how judicious in influence, how helpful in sympathy and co-operation have been many such wives.

Now it is often said that a wife, to a literary man, is only a hindrance. Provided she is not a fool, it would pay him, in my opinion, to give her a regular salary, if he could not obtain it otherwise, to give him the feminine side of every great question of the day, as it comes up – which by the way, she does unconsciously, and which has anything but a "narrowing" effect either on his mind or his writings, whether he acknowledges it or not.

It is no small thing to be able to toss her a book and say, "I want to know what is in that book, but I haven't time to read it; run it over, will you, and tell me what you think of it?" – or to get from her the condensation of newspapers, magazines, and pamphlets, in the same way; or translations; or to have her assistance in answering letters, without prompting, when pressed for time; to ask her where such and such a passage may be found in certain authors, which have escaped his memory. Is contact with such a woman narrowing?

It is horrible for a man of sense to be yoked to a fool, and vice versa. No one denies it. But the whole kernel of the woman matter is just this: Men no longer are what they were. There are no young men now. Before they have ceased to be young men, the majority of them, by a total disregard of Nature's laws, have unfitted themselves for contact with, and companionship and appreciation of, pure, good women. It is as if a baby should be fed from birth with highly-spiced condiments; and then, at maturity, be expected to have a relish for pure, wholesome food. The fault is not in women, but in the men, who bring to the healthful, simple, sweet pleasures of matrimony, diseased minds and dilapidated bodies.

It is perfectly amazing the quantity of insulting advice volunteered in this day to women. Now here is an extract, I am happy to say, in this instance, from an English journal; the land, par excellence, of wife-beating, and kindred abominations in "high" and "low" life, in which the wife is advised if she would "wind her husband around her finger," – though why that amusement is particularly desirable I fail to see, – if she would do this, "she must carefully study the cookery-book; so that his meals need not be monotonous." How many of his children she must attend to, during this interesting perusal, and while perfecting the results of such study, our writer does not state; nor does he throw any light upon the question – whether, when this delicate animal is gorged like the anaconda, he will, as does the anaconda, go immediately into a state of stupor, and be comparatively harmless until other re-enforcements are needed.

Also he tells the wife that "opposition and contradiction always make him furious; then he stamps and roars and becomes dangerous: she must by all means avoid that." It is so strange, this Solomon says, "that when a wife knows that a certain line of conduct is sure to produce this effect, she will do it, though victory is easy provided" – well, in short, provided she allows him to stamp and roar and become dangerous, like his son Tommy, when he can't have another stick of candy, and whom he himself would severely punish, for imitating his gentlemanly papa.

Are there no lines of conduct a husband persistently pursues towards his wife, though he "knows they are sure to wound and give offence?" And would he think "stamping and roaring and being dangerous" any excuse for a dislike of it? Is the man who sends his dear little child for that which will intoxicate him, or takes that child to bar-rooms and drinking-places to obtain it, never to be remonstrated with by the mother, lest he should be "angry"? Is the man who allows his relatives constantly to interfere with and slander his wife, who never write him letters without containing sly insinuations, intended – howsoever they may fail – to disturb conjugal and family harmony; who institute a court of inquiry into family expenses, probable journeys, &c., location of residence, and insist upon all these things being settled according to their means and standard, is this husband never to be told that such interference is insufferable, "because he will be angry"?

Is there a husband living who would permit a wife's father or brother to insist on managing his business affairs in such a clandestine, down-cellar, surreptitious manner through the wife? If he preferred going to spend the summer at one place rather than another, how would he like that matter settled by a conclave of his wife's relatives, and determined by their probable locality? I do not say that the latter, too, has not happened. In either case, it is a monstrous impertinence, and to be resented. I might multiply other instances of abuse to women, but these will suffice.

Let men, above all, ask themselves with regard to women – to wives – this question – and answer it in a manly, honest manner, whether it is condemnatory of their own "line of conduct" or the contrary: Should I be willing to endure what I expect my wife to bear, were I a woman and a wife? If not – is it just, or right, or manly, then, for me to expect it of her?

It is needless to say that this is the last question asked; and this is the root of all the evil. This making by men a broad easy road of license for themselves, while women are clogged, fettered, penned in, worried, harassed and unjustly treated, till even they – "become dangerous." And though the author above quoted seems to entertain no such possibility, our lunatic asylums and tomb-stones, if they stated the actual causes of insanity and death, might convince the most skeptical.

There is a kind of sentimental preaching to which an audience is sometimes treated, which is very repulsive to the hearty, sincere worshipper. Preaching which is full of poetical quotations; preaching where some of the words are clipped of their syllables, and others chewed, so to speak, indefinitely. Egotistical, drawling preaching, under which people go to sleep, or smile derisively, according to their humor; but from which none come away with the good seed which will spring up and bear fruit a hundred-fold. Essay preaching – walking gingerly round duty, and flattering self-love; milk-and-water preaching – colorless, flavorless, and thin.

RAG-TAG AND BOB-TAIL FASHIONS

WHEN I say that the street-dress of the majority of respectable women of New York today is disgusting, I but feebly express my emotions. I say the respectable women, and yet, save to those who know them to be such, their appearance leaves a wide margin for doubt. The clown at a circus wears not a more stunning or parti-colored costume; in fact, his has the advantage of being sufficiently "taut," – to use a nautical phrase, – not to interfere with locomotion; while theirs – what with disgusting humps upon their backs, and big rosettes upon their sides and shoulders, and loops, and folds, and buttons, and tassels, and clasps, and bows upon their skirts, and striped satin petticoats, all too short to hide often clumsy ankles, – and more colors and shades of colors heaped upon one poor little fashion-ridden body than ever were gathered in one rainbow – and all this worn without regard to temperature, or time, or place – I say this presents a spectacle which is too disheartening even to be comical.

One cannot smile at the young girls who are, one day – Heaven help them! – to be wives and mothers. Wives and mothers! I say to myself, as I see the throat and neck with only the protection of a gold locket between itself and the cold autumnal winds. Wives and mothers! I say, as I see them ruining their feet and throwing their ankles out of shape, in the vain endeavor to walk on heels like corks, fastened far into the middle of the soles of their boots; and those boots so high upon the calf of the leg, and so tightly buttoned across it, that circulation is stopped, and violent headaches follow. Wives and mothers! I say, as I see the heating and burdensome panier tackled on the most delicate portion of a woman's frame, to make still surer confirmed invalidism. What fathers, husbands, brothers, lovers can be thinking about, to be willing that the women they respect and love, should appear in public, looking like women whom they despise, is a marvel to me. Why they do not say this to them, and shame them into a decent appearance – if their glasses cannot effect it – I do not know. Oh, the relief it is to meet a lady, instead of a ballet-girl! Oh, the relief it is to see a healthy, firm-stepping, rosy, broad-chested, bright-eyed woman, clad simply and free from bunches and tags! I turn to look at such an one with true respect, that she has the good sense and courage and good taste to appear on the street in a dress befitting the street; leaving to those poor wretched women whose business it is to advertise their persons, a free field without competition. If I seem to speak harshly, it is because I feel earnestly on this subject. I had hoped that the women of 1868 would have been worthy of the day in which they live. I had hoped that all their time would not have been spent in keeping up with the chameleon changes of fashions too ugly, too absurd for toleration. It is because I want them to be something, to do something higher and nobler than a peacock might aim at, that I turn heart-sick away from these infinitesimal fripperies that narrow the soul and purse, and leave nothing in their wake but emptiness. Nor is it necessary, in avoiding all this, that a woman should look "strong-minded," as the bugbear-phrase goes. It is not necessary she should dress like her grandmother, in order to look like a decent woman. It is not necessary she should forswear ornamentation, because it were better and more respectable to have it confined to festal and home occasions and less to the public promenade. She is not driven to the alternative of muffling herself like an omnibus driver in January, or catching consumption with her throat protected only by a gold locket!

Oh, how I wish that a bevy of young, handsome girls, of good social position, would inaugurate a plain lady-like costume for street and church wear. I say young and handsome, because if an old woman does this, the little chits toss their heads and say, "Oh! she has had her day, and don't care now – and we want ours."

Now that's perfectly natural, and right too, that you should have your youth; that you should, as girls say, "make the most of yourselves;" but in doing so don't you think it would be well not to lessen or cheapen yourselves? and I submit, with all deference to your dress-makers and mammas, that every one of you who appear in public in the manner I have described, are doing this very thing – are defiling womanhood, and are bringing it into derision and contempt, whether you believe it or not.

Blessed be sleep! We are all young then; we are all happy. Then our dead are living. Then, the flowers bloom, though the snow may at that moment be beating against our windows. Then, the ships that have been wrecked are gaily sailing on the seas. Then houses are built and furnished, and, above all, bills are paid. Then, editors have full subscription lists and clergymen big salaries, and scribblers plenty of ideas. Then, ladies have "something to wear," although they may not have it on. Then, Sammy has his coveted velocipede, and Susy her big doll, and Frank his boat, and Fanny a lover, and Grandpa has no rheumatism, and Grandma has not lost her spectacles. Blessed be sleep!

SOME HINTS TO EDITORS

WHAT a pity when editors review a woman's book, that they so often fall into the error of reviewing the woman instead. For instance, "she is young and attractive, and will probably before long find her legitimate sphere in matrimony; or she is an old maid – what can she know of life except through a distorted medium? Let her wait, if so she be able, till some man is deluded into inviting her to change her name. That appears to be her present need. Or she has the affectation of writing over a nom de plume– and must, perforce, be a fool. Or she did write a preface to her book; or she omitted writing a preface to her book, as one might expect of a woman. Or we hear she is a widow; and notoriety is probably her object in writing."

I introduced this article by saying what a pity that editors in reviewing a woman's book should so often only review the woman. Perhaps I should have said, what a pity all editors are not gentlemen. It is very easy to determine this question, if one keeps the general run of editorial articles. Not that it does not sometimes happen that, in the editor's necessary absence, some substitute may get him into "hot water;" or, as a foreigner who once tried to use this expression, called it "dirty water," – but taking the general tone of editorial articles, from one day or one week to another, the want of courtesy and self-respect, or the lack of it, are patent to the intelligent reader.