A GAUNTLET FOR THE MEN.
I maintain it: all the heroism of the present day is to be found among women. I say it to your beards. I am sick of such remarks as these: “Poor fellow! he was unfortunate in business, and so he took to drinking;” or—“poor fellow! he had a bad wife, and lost all heart.” What does a woman do who is unfortunate in business, I would like to know? Why—she tries again, of course, and keeps on trying to the end of the chapter, notwithstanding the pitiful remuneration man bestows upon her labor, notwithstanding his oft-repeated attempts to cheat her out of it when she has earned it! What does a woman do, who has a bad, improvident husband? Works all the harder, to be sure, to make up his deficiencies to her household; works day and night; smiles when her heart and back are both breaking; speaks hopeful words when her very soul is dying within her; denies herself the needed morsel to increase her children’s portion, and crushed neither by the iron gripe of poverty, nor allured by the Judas-smile of temptation, hopefully puts her trust in Him who feedeth the sparrows.
She “the weaker sex?” Out on your pusillanimous manhood! “Took to drinking because he was unhappy!” Bless—his—big—Spartan—soul! How I admire him! Couldn’t live a minute without he had every thing to his mind; never had the slightest idea of walking round an obstacle, or jumping over it; never practiced that sort of philosophical gymnastics—couldn’t grit his teeth at fate, and defy it to do its worst, because they chattered so;—poor fellow! Wanted buttered toast, and had to eat dry bread; liked “2.40,” and had to go a-foot; fond of wine, and had to drink Croton; couldn’t smoke, though his stove-pipe did; rushed out of the world, and left his wife and children to battle with the fate that his coward soul was afraid to meet. Brave, magnanimous fellow!
Again—we are constantly hearing that the extravagance of women debars young men from the bliss of matrimony. Poor things! they can’t select a wife from out the frivolous circle of fashion; there are no refined, well-educated, lady-like, practical girls and women, whom any man, with a man’s soul, might be proud to call wife, nobly struggling for an honest maintenance as writers, governesses, teachers, semptresses, and milliners. They never read such an advertisement as this in the papers:
“Wanted, by a young girl, a situation as governess. She can teach the English branches, French and Italian; and is willing to accept a small remuneration, to secure a respectable home.”
Fudge! None so blind as they who won’t see. The truth is, most of the young men of the present day are selfish to the backbone. “Poor,” too—very poor!—never go to Shelby’s or Delmonico’s for a nice little game supper, washed down with champagne at $2 a bottle; never smoke dozens of cigars a day, at six cents a piece; never invite—themselves to go to concerts, the opera, or the theater! Wish they could afford to get married, but can’t, at least not till, as they elegantly express it, “they meet a pretty girl who has the tin.”
SOLILOQUY OF A LITERARY HOUSEKEEPER.
“Spring cleaning!” Oh misery! Ceilings to be whitewashed, walls to be cleaned, paint to be scoured, carpets to be taken up, shaken, and put down again; scrubbing women, painters, and whitewashers, all engaged for months a-head, or beginning on your house to secure the job, and then running off a day to somebody else’s to secure another. Yes, spring cleaning to be done; closets, bags, and baskets to be disemboweled; furs and woolens to be packed away; children’s last summer clothes to be inspected (not a garment that will fit—all grown up like Jack’s bean-stalk); spring cleaning, sure enough. I might spring my feet off and not get all that done. When is that book of mine to get written, I’d like to know? It’s Ma’am, will you have this? and Ma’am, will you have that? and Ma’am, will you have the other thing? May I be kissed if I hadn’t more time to write when I lived in an attic on salt and potatoes, and scrubbed the floor myself. Must I turn my house topsy-turvy, and inside out, once a year, because my grandmother did, and send my MSS. flying to the four winds, for this traditionary “spring cleaning.” Spring fiddlestick! Must I buy up all Broadway to be made into dresses, because all New York women go fashion-mad? What’s the use of having a house, if you can’t do as you like in it? What’s the use of being an authoress, if you can’t indulge in the luxury of a shabby bonnet, or a comfortable old dress? What’s the use of dressing when your cook can outshine you? What is the use of dragging brocade and velvet through ferry-boats and omnibusses, to serve as mats for market-baskets and dirty boots? “There goes Lily Larkspur, the authoress, in that everlasting old black silk.” Well—what’s the use of being well off, if you can’t wear old clothes. If I was poor, as I was once, I couldn’t afford it. Do you suppose I’m going to wrinkle up my face, scowling at unhappy little boys for treading on a five-hundred-dollar silk? or fret myself into a fever because some gentleman throws a cigar-stump on its lustrous trailing folds? no, no; life is too short for that, and much too earnest. Give me good health—the morning for writing, and no interruptions, plenty of fresh air afterwards, and an old gown to enjoy it in, and you may mince along in your peacock dry-goods till your soul is as shriveled as your body.