Some tell us that their youthful ardor is to uphold the standard of woman's mission: they want to work.
Well, all we can say is—go it! for under the circumstances, with no one to work for them, the best possible thing they can do is to work for themselves. But couldn't they do more, or at least as much, without so much noise? If they only had plenty to do, and not so much spare time to talk about what they are going to do, wouldn't they be better off, and poor frail man be the gainer thereby?
If they could only resolve upon such a course, and stick to it, don't you think they would receive more aid, material and moral?
Many would gladly contribute of their substance in such a cause, with overflowing hearts; and the world of man will gladly guarantee to those who avow their determination not to marry, entire immunity from any temptation in that direction.
As to the rest—those weak creatures who will be satisfied with good husbands and broad home-missions—they know no better; they will continue to move in their limited spheres, benighted but happy, and every thing will be satisfactory.
Lawyers tell us that since the statutes of 1848, a woman's real estate has been within her own control; we take a broader view: we think it always has been within her own control by virtue of that old first statute given to our gentle mother, EVE.
AN OLD BAILEY PRACTITIONER.
In England they have an institution called the Old Bailey. It dealt from time immemorial in such queer animals as "four-footed recognizances," and in such strong assistance to justice as "straw bail" affords. The court-room of the Old Bailey may be called a historical vat of crime. Until recently, New-York was Old Bailey-less. Now detectives go about the streets singing an air which reminds one forcibly of the tune called "Unfortunate Miss BAILEY," only that it is Mister BAILEY they have missed. Old BAILEY is really like JOHN GILPIN in two respects; all rumors about him begin by calling him "a citizen of credit and renown;" and they generally end by referring to him as a man who was gone to "dine at—where?"
Our New-York Old BAILEY has disappeared. Either the FULLERTON earthquake has swallowed him up, or he has gone to the unknown land to which most Spiritual mediums migrate. There never was a greater Spiritual medium than Old BAILEY. He has had spirits on the brain during several years past. He throve on spirits. He had only to rap on casks of spirits, and greenbacks would rustle therefrom like trailing garments out of the Spirit-world. He had assistant mediums in all the Federal officers. And now the question asked of Commissioner DELANO, (who, by the way, in this respect would gladly become DELA-yes) is "Canst thou call 'spirits from the vasty deep?' and if thou canst, where is Old BAILEY?" Banker CLEWS is one of his sureties, but he owns no Clews to his principal's whereabouts. Do not PUNCHINELLO'S subjects all know that whisk brooms sweep clean, and that no broom swept cleaner the Augean stables of Federal plunderers than that wretched Old BAILEY'S whisky broom? There is, however, an old proverb which claims that industrious brooms soon wear out. But BAILEY is unlike a broom, in that no one can find a handle to his whereabouts.