There is but one remedy; we must bring the home to them, for they will not return to it. Still must their mothers walk beside them, sweet and serious, and clad in the garments of power. The occupations, pleasures and ambitions of men and women must not diverge so widely from each other. Potent beyond all other facts of everyday experience is the rapidly increasing similarity between the pursuits of these two factions that make up the human integer. When brute force reigned, this rapport was at zero. “Impediments to the rear,” was the command of Cæsar and the rule of every warrior—women and children being the hindrances referred to. But to-day there is not a motto more popular than that of the inspired old German, “Come, let us live for our children;” and as for women, “the world is all before them where to choose.”
No greater good can come to the manhood of the world than is prophesied in the increasing community of thought and works between it and the world’s womanhood. The growing individuality, independence and prestige of the gentler sex steadily require from the stronger a higher standard of character and purer habits of life. This blessed consummation, so devoutly to be wished, is hastened, dear girlish hearts, by every prayer you offer, by every hymn you sing, by every loving errand of your willing feet and gentle hands. You are the true friends of tempted manhood, bewildered youth and every little child. The steadfast faith and loyal, patient work you are to do, will be the mightiest factor in woman’s contribution to the solution of this Republic’s greatest problem, and will have their final significance in the thought and purpose, not that the world shall come into the home, but that the home, embodied and impersonated in its womanhood, shall go forth into the world.
I have no fears for the women of America. They will never content themselves remaining stationary in methods or in policy, much less sound a retreat in their splendid warfare against the saloon in law and in politics. The tides of the mother’s heart do not change; we can count upon them always. The voice of Miriam still cheers the brave advance, and all along the line we hear the battle cry: “Speak unto the children of Israel, that they go forward.”
THE CATLIN PAINTINGS.
BY O. T. MASON.
If you will enter the National Museum at Washington, and give your cane or umbrella to the venerable gentleman at the stand, you will see some wonderful old pictures. Turn abruptly to your right, cast a patriotic glance at the clothing and camp furniture of the Father of his Country, and a few steps will bring you into the museum lecture room, whose east, south, and west walls are covered with quaint sketches of American aboriginal life, mounted in the dingiest possible black frames. This is the Catlin Collection, by far the most celebrated Indian paintings in the world, since the dreadful fire in the Smithsonian Institution burned up the Stanley portraits in 1864. A few words about this wonderful painter would certainly interest you before you begin to look at his pictures.
George Catlin was born in Wilkesbarre, Luzerne county, Pennsylvania, in 1796. His father was a lawyer, and, naturally, took every pains to educate his son for that profession, sending him at last to Yale College to finish his course. But that which has often happened to boys was true in George’s case—he loved fishing and painting more than he loved the bar. His law practice lasted two years, after which he established himself in New York and Philadelphia as a portrait painter. In the year 1832 he saw a delegation of Indians from St. Louis, a town of 25,000 inhabitants, then headquarters for the Central Superintendency (see painting 311), and was so overwhelmed by their appearance that nothing could overcome his desire to visit them in their homes. Convinced that the noble savage would rapidly decline before the advance of civilization, and realizing as if by inspiration the value which a pictorial history of the dying race would possess to future students of primitive history, he set out alone for St. Louis, with pen and brush, to accomplish this noble design. Here he became acquainted with Mr. Chouteau, a gentleman thoroughly conversant with the Indian country and character, who secured for the painter a free ride to the mouth of the Yellowstone in a little, rude steamer called the “Yellowstone.”