With her accustomed shrewdness, Mrs. Practical has put her finger upon the hardest knot of the tangle. Says that other model of sterling, every-day sense, Miss Betsy Trotwood, touching Mr. Micawber’s difficulties: “If he is going to be continually arrested, his friends have got to be continually bailing him out—that is all!”
The family of Neverthinks (“may their tribe decrease!”) act upon the reverse principle. If their acquaintances will be continually working themselves into line with the flying hours, they—the Neverthinks—must be zealous in pulling them to the rear. They are like an army of mice scampering through the tidy cupboards of Mesdames Practical and Notable. They claim, like Death, all seasons for their own. Against such there is no recognized law, and no redress except in the determined will and wise co-operation of their victims.
Dropping the fictitious personages, let us talk of this matter plainly, as face-to-face, dear reader! Why have women, as a class, such an imperfect conception of the value of time to themselves and to others? To Mrs. Trollope belongs, I believe, the credit of bringing into general use a word which, if not elegant, is so expressive that I cannot do without it in this connection. Why do women dawdle away seconds and minutes and hours in playing at work, or affecting to play? A clever young girl was once showing me a set of chairs embroidered by herself. Knowing that she was her mother’s efficient aid in the cares entailed by a large family, I asked her how she had made the time for the achievement.
“O! I did it in the betweenities!” she returned, gayly. “Between prayers and breakfast; between the children’s lessons; between the spring and fall sewing; between morning and evening calls, and in a dozen other gaps. I had a piece of it always within reach, and every stitch taken was a gain of one.”
We all need play—recreation, wholesome and hearty diversion. I would guard this point carefully. God-willing, we will talk of it, more at length, some time, but to make the day’s work even and close, our life’s work rich and ample, we must look well after the “betweenities.”
Let me probe a little more deeply yet. Have not the prejudices and gallantries of generations had their effect upon the formation of feminine opinions on this head? begotten in many minds the impression that we are unjustly dealt with in being obliged to take up and carry forward as a life-long duty any business whatsoever? Is not the unspoken thought of such persons one of impatient disappointment at finding that earth is not a vast pleasure-ground and existence one long, bright holiday? If men will speak of and treat women as pretty playthings, they at least should not complain when the dainty toy proves to be an unserviceable domestic machine. A man who acknowledges that he dislikes the business by which he earns his living is looked upon with instant distrust, as silly, indolent, or, at the best, unphilosophical. If his auditor has occasion to avail himself of the services of one of the craft to which the unwilling workman belongs, he will assuredly seek a man who would be likely to do himself and his employer more credit than can be given by his half-hearted labor. But housewives confess freely that they loathe housekeeping and all pertaining thereto. I speak that which I do know when I say that where you find one who works con amore in her profession, there are two who drudge on grumblingly, and consider themselves aggrieved because the morning brings labor and the evening care. The fault begins very far back.
“If girls knew when they were well off, they would never marry.”
“A butterfly before marriage—a grub afterward.”
“Let well enough alone.”
“She who weds may do well. She who remains single certainly does better.”