"And all this fuss about a little smoke," I hear Tom exclaim.
Not exactly. It is the injustice of men toward women for which it stands the horrible, nauseating symbol. Suppose your wife, fancying the smell of asafœtida, should keep an uncorked phial of it in her parlor and bed-room? How long would you stand it? Suppose she should smoke herself or "dip" in self-defence? Suppose that sweet breath were to become nauseous? her curls unbearable in near proximity? Suppose she grew slatternly in her habits in consequence, as all smokers eventually do? Suppose her little baby's clothes were saturated with tobacco? In short, that you were disgusted with its presence or results every hour in the twenty-four, as you would be in your wife's case.
Now I ask, isn't it just as much a man's duty to be clean and presentable and inviting to his wife, as it is hers toward him? Well, replies Tom, men don't look at the subject in that way, and never will, and now, what are you going to do about it?
Me? nothing. The men will continue to put up their heels at night, and smoke till bed-time, and think it a bore to go out, i. e. with their wives, and the disgusted women, who really want to be good wives, and would, if their husbands were more just and manly, will go as they have begun to do, to the next day's operatic matinée for relaxation; and after the matinée, a cup of chocolate or an ice-cream tastes well; and sometimes one meets an agreeable male friend there, who does not prefer a solitary pipe or a cigar to a little bright and enlivening conversation with this tired lady.
Women have a right to protest against that which withdraws husbands, fathers and brothers from their society as soon as they cross the threshold of home, or else dooms them to inhale a nauseous atmosphere, and watch the unsocial puff—puff—which is monotonous enough to drive any woman crazy who already has had quite too much monotony during the day, and finds little variety enough, in watching the curl from that eternal pipe. I blame no woman whose only evening amusement is this, after her children are put to sleep, for protesting, and roundly too, against such unmitigated selfishness; I blame no woman, whose husband, when he does occasionally drum up sufficient vitality to wait upon her out, for requesting that the omnipresent pipe or cigar may for once be dispensed with, as she takes his arm, on that memorable occasion. As I said before, men become so utterly brutified by this disgusting habit, that they lose all sense of politeness and cleanliness. It is quite time they were reminded of it.
GIVE THE CONVICTS A CHANCE.
T seems to me that of all the charities in our great city, none is more deserving of the attention of the benevolent, than that which takes the little children of our poor, from the moral and physical filth of their wretched surroundings, and places them in healthy, pure homes in the country. No one, who has ever had heart and courage to penetrate the terrible lanes, alleys and by-ways of poverty and crime in New York, but asks himself with a shudder, as he looks at the little ones there, what sort of men and women will these children be? How far will He who counteth the fall of the sparrow, hold them responsible for the dreadful teachings of their infancy? Infancy? the word is a mockery. They have none. To feign—to cheat—to steal—this is their alphabet. As to the fathers and mothers, who fold their lazy hands and sit down in these pestiferous places to await the "penny" pittances their children may collect, or their little pilferings which may be turned into "pennies," the sooner the doors of our jails and penitentiaries close on them the better. Their case is hopeless; since sin has reached its climax when it deliberately and systematically debauches childhood. But the little ones? They might be saved. They are being saved; that's a comfort to know. Daily they are being collected, by good men who make it their chief occupation to wash, feed, clothe and transplant these sickly shoots of poverty, into the fair garden of the West. Many a farmer's family there has a rosy face by its hearth, which you would never recognize to be the squalid little creature, whose shivering palm was extended to you at midnight, as you returned home from some place of amusement in the city. There it is being taught useful and happy labor. There is pure air—sweet food, and enough of it. Good company and good books. There are Sundays. Blessed be Sundays! for injudiciously as they are sometimes observed even by good people, be sure that sweet old hymn will go singing through the future life of these children, like a golden thread, gleaming out from the dark woof of care and trouble: