Part 4

A FAMILY COUNCIL.

He went on: "The other day when the girls got ready to go into the country, we held our first family council. My poor wife, who is all worn out, couldn't bear to have the girls troubled with it. She thought it wouldn't do any good, and that we had better keep it to ourselves. But I said, 'no, for once we will have a fair understanding.'

"The girls were to go on Tuesday, so on Monday evening I said to them, 'now, as you are going away to-morrow, let us spend the evening, as a family, alone. I want to advise with you.' They were very good about it; they sent, and broke an engagement with the Browns, and we all got together in the parlor. I tell you it was ticklish business, though. The fact is, we never had had a perfectly frank talk about business with them.

"Mattie was all curiosity, and began at once: 'What in the world is it all about? Why, father, what makes you look so awful solemn; and, dear mamma, why, you're as pale as a ghost.'

"Well, I saw we were in for it, and so I just let right out. I said, 'Girls, mother and I have talked it over, night after night, and we have concluded that we ought to tell you about our circumstances. The fact is, not to be mealy-mouthed about it, we are all on the brink of ruin. I am head over heels in debt, and can't see any way of getting out. Your mother and I are nearly worn out; we can't last much longer. And now, we both feel that we ought to have a plain talk with you.'

"Fanny went into regular hysterics. My wife said, 'Don't, father, don't!' Fanny then began to cry and sob, and declared she shouldn't sleep a minute all night, she was sure she shouldn't sleep a minute.

"Mattie declared she had always lived like a beggar, never had a sixpence to buy anything like other girls, and she wished she had never, never been born.

"Angie, who is always good and loving, said she was very sorry for us. She always was a dear child. She didn't care what the the other girls said, for her part, she was real sorry for us, and what was more, she hoped that business would soon be first-rate again, so that we could all have plenty of money. That child has always been a real comfort to us. She wished we could have another war, it made money so plenty. I tell you she is a sharp one.

"Well, the whole thing ended just about as my wife said it would; it really didn't do any good, but, you see, I was in hopes the girls might help us to think of some way of cutting down. Of course I don't blame them, for, you know, they can't help it.

"Now, my dear friend, what can you say? I feel as if my hands were slipping, as if I were letting go of everything. What shall I do? If you can think of anything, do tell me, for God's sake."

I replied: "My friend, I comprehend your difficulty; I believe I understand it in all its bearings, and I am confident I can help you out.

"Send for your daughters to come home, at once. When they arrive, call another family council. Say to them, 'My dear children, I sent for you for imperative reasons. I am worn out, in debt, wretchedly unhappy, disgraced.--I can't live in this way any longer. You alone can save me. I ask you to abandon, at once, the life you are leading, and help your mother and myself to bear these burdens. I ask you to go with me to-morrow morning to the store, let me discharge both of the clerks, and you become my clerks. My daughters, if you will do this, we shall all be independent and happy. Believe me when I tell you, that these tortures are killing me. While you are all asleep in your beds, your mother and I are grieving and often weeping over the impending ruin. My children, will you save us? Your large acquaintance, your education, your manners, your devotion to our interests, will turn the current in the right direction.'

"Possibly," I said, "they may hesitate; but I don't believe it. In any event, it is the right thing to do. If it should turn out that they draw back, then stand up like an honest, christian man, and declare, 'I will not live another day such a life of fraud; I will not ask the jobbers to trust me with another penny's worth; I will no longer obtain goods under false pretences. If worse comes to worst, you, my daughters, must do what thousands of young women have done before you,--go out into the world and earn your own bread.'

"My friend, I have given you the plan, act at once. Your girls will join you with a whole heart, and, within a year, they will be ten- fold more happy, and you can live an honest, manly life."

HOW IT TERMINATED.

Of course you all wish to know how it came out. The reason for my telling you this story, is, that I was made very happy yesterday, on dropping in at my friend's store, to see, that he had three new clerks, and, after a warn hand-shaking, I congratulated them, from the bottom of my heart, on having gone into business. At this moment the father called me to the rear of the store, where he wished to consult me about a new window; but all he had to say, was, that I must not drop a word of my acquaintance with the history of certain changes.

"All right, my good friend;" but the caution was quite unnecessary. Of course the public must understand that it was of their own brave hearts, that they have gone into this thing.

The father dropped in last evening to tell me all about it. He wrung my hand, laughed, cried, and, in fact, almost went into some of Fanny's hysterics.

"Oh!" said he, "it's all right. I can see the light. And you don't know how happy we all are. The girls spend their time in singing about the house, and asking my forgiveness. It seems to me that we never knew each other before. Oh! I can see the light now, I can see the light! Give me one year, and I can shout victory!

"But you ought to have been concealed where you could have overheard our council. It lasted till near morning, and the first half of it was stormy enough. Fanny declared she would die first. Mattie said she would put on an old dress, and go round begging cold victuals. Angie proposed that they should go into the attic, and give their rooms up to boarders, and have it understood that they had just taken a few friends for company. But, before we retired, we were all of one mind; we all saw that everything but the store was likely to prove a weak, temporary dodge.

"It is just as you told me,--that their life of indolence and selfish indulgence had brought every mean trait to the surface; but that when the depths were stirred I should find they were true women. Yes, thank God, they are true women, as brave girls as ever lived. I can't tell you how happy we all are. They kissed us on coming to the breakfast table this morning for the first time in their lives. We are entering a new life. They already begin to wonder how they could have lived such a life of idleness and good- for-nothingness.

I can't thank you enough. When the girls are quite settled in their new life, I will tell them all about it, and they will invite you down to spend an evening, and then they will thank you themselves."

"Save yourself that trouble," I replied. "The fact is, the idea is not original with me; half the men in town feel just as I do about this fashionable idleness among fashionable women. In thousands of families it involves a system of studied, mean pretence, fraud, and final ruin.

"Besides, we all see that, under its baneful influence, women sadly deteriorate.

"Without a regular occupation, no person, male or female, can preserve a sound mind in a sound body."

IDLENESS IS FASHIONABLE.

Nothing, perhaps, is more fashionable than idleness. We all agree, in theory, at least, that the meaning of life is found in that little word--use; that the happiness of life is found in--work; that to be idle is to be miserable.

Here, however, we must make a distinction. This law is supposed to apply only to men. Men must have an occupation. If a man is without one, we at once begin to suspect he must have some evil designs upon society. The law adds to the punishment, if the culprit has "no visible means of support." That alone is a strong fact against him.

Not only the law, but public sentiment demands that every man shall do something.

"He is an idler," disgraces a man almost beyond any other statement.

Now let us turn to the other side of the house. In America we have a million young women without the slightest pretence of occupation. They spend a portion of their time in visiting. Miss Blanche goes to New York, in the winter, to spend three months with her very dear friend, Miss Nellie, who, in turn, comes to spend three months with Miss Blanche in the summer. This sort of exchange has become an immense system. Blanche and Nellie, with this arrangement, work off six months of the year, and, adding one or two other little affairs of a similar kind, they fill up the residue of the time with the dressmaker, piano practice, the theatre, working sickly-looking pink dogs in worsted, lying late in the morning, dressing three times a day, and reading a few novels. A million young women of the better (?) classes, in America, are training themselves for the future by these methods.

A single year of such life would half ruin a young man. His mind would become unsteady, his will weak and vacillating, his body soft and delicate. Add a "glove-fitting corset" to his wardrobe, and in a few years he would be utterly unfit for husband, father or citizen.

Can any one give us a physiological or metaphysical reason why girls should not suffer the same deterioration? Would you like direct proof that they do? Listen to the conversation of young women,-- educated young ladies!--Beaux, bows, engagements, lovely, Charley, bonnets, Gus, parties, splendid fellow, ribbons, trails, engaged, etc., etc., till midnight.

Watch them as they walk past this window. Does that look like the earnest pursuit of any object in life? If so, they certainly won't catch it. Look at their bare arms,--candle-dips, No. 8.

No "right" of women is so precious, so vital to their welfare, present and future, as the right to work.

Even if a girl had no other object in life than to get a husband, no investment would pay like an occupation. It would give her independence and dignity. Margaret Fuller says:--

"That the hand may be given with dignity, she must be able to stand alone."

Nothing disgusts young men like the undisguised eagerness with which their advances are met. Is a young man a "catch?" send him to Saratoga and watch a few days. The girls do not get down on their knees at his feet, and implore him to take pity on them and marry them, but they do everything else that can be conceived of.

In order that women may marry generally, and without sacrificing themselves, that their hearts may determine their choice; to the end that marriage may be true marriage, and not a contract for board, women must not be compelled to choose between marriage and starvation.

Of course you will say that men despise working-women, that they pass them by on the other side, and seek ladies; by which you mean such girls as have no regular occupation. For a consideration of this point, the reader is referred to the article, "A Short Sermon about Matrimony."

WORK IS FOR THE POOR.

We all know that happiness comes of occupation; and the work must not be irregular and occasional, and such as we have to look up for exercise, but it must be regular; and, to produce the best results, it must not be optional, but imperative.

What an ingenious device of the spirit of caste to represent that work is a badge of the low class. How he cheats the possessors of wealth out of all happiness by this mean lie.

A man, or, if you please, a woman, comes into possession of wealth. With this there come the picture gallery, the beautiful grounds, the perfect house,--everything to gratify her taste, every external good; but caste whispers in her ear, that rich people must not work,--work is a badge of poverty.

Caught with this trick, she soon has no palate for the delicious fruits, no eye for beauty, no relish for the thousand sweet and beautiful things which cluster about her; and, ere long, she would fain change places with the jolly Irishwoman who sweats over her wash-tub.

WORK FOR RICH GIRLS.

You understand all this, and you want to work; but the difficulty is to find something to do. Housekeeping, with its thousand and one duties, offers a useful and pleasant field; but I will suppose that you have already been too much in the house, and greatly need to go out into the air and sunshine.

Now, dear girls, let me suggest something for you, something you will like, and in which you will be, after a little, very happy. Go to bed to-night early, say at half-past eight o'clock, and rise to- morrow morning at six o'clock. I will suppose that you reside in a large town, or a city. Go at once to the suburbs, and you will find the abodes of poverty. March boldly up to one of them, and say:---

"Good morning; how de do, folkses? Thought I'd just come out and see how the the morning air tasted!"

If you are in right down earnest, it won't take you five minutes to establish yourself in the confidence of Bridget O'Flaherty. And if your voice and manner are of just the right sort, there will follow such a wondrous disclosure of family secrets! You will be told all about Michael's stone-bruise, and Patrick's sore toe; probably the boys will be hauled out of bed to show you. But I must leave the secrets to your imagination, or, what is better, to an actual trial.

You find that the mother herself needs a new dress that she may attend mass, and you make a note of it. The little girl needs a dress, and a pair of shoes. The next morning you carry a bundle with your own hands, and leave it with the promise that you will come again in a few days.

Put together all the soft, polite things that your fashionable friends have ever said of you, and as the zephyr to the tornado, so would they all be compared to the gratitude, the admiration, the "God bless her," the "dear swate angel," the very worship which that household would pour out upon you during the few days before the next visit; and when you do go again, the shanty has been thoroughly cleaned and white-washed, the children's feet have been soaked and scrubbed, so that the actual skin has been brought into view; and everything has become wonderfully smart. Tell them of the heart pleasure which all this change gives you, and then speak warmly of the great advantage of such cleanliness, of ventilation, and of such other matters as you see they are ignorant of.

And now you mustn't blame them for casting surreptitious glances at your covered basket; they can't help it, poor things. They try not to look that way, but their imaginations are very busy with the contents of that basket. At length you open it, and taking out a bowl, you say:--

"Mrs. O'Flaherty, I am really troubled about Katie's being so thin. Here is some Scotch oat-meal, and if you will try her with some oat- meal porridge, I am sure it will do her good. If you think, after a little, that it's doing her good, I will bring you more of it.

But oh, how the youngsters long to see what else there is in that basket. After a moment, you put your hand in, and begin to take out things.

"Now, Mrs. O'Flaherty, you won't blame me, will you? I just brought down a few little things; they are of no great value, but I thought you might as well use them, as to have them lie idle. Here are a few pairs of woolen stockings which I have mended all nicely for you. And here is a lot of collars and handkerchiefs which, perhaps, you may make some use of; if so, I am sure you are welcome to them."

"And now, Katie, I have brought a picture for you. I saw it in a shop window yesterday, and thought you might like it. There, do you know what that is?"

"Why, yes mum; that's a picture of the Blessed Virgin! Be's you a Catholic, mum?"

"No, Katie, I am not a Catholic; but I can't see any harm in a picture of the dear Mother of Christ."

"Oh, I thank you mum, I thank you with all my heart."

"And now, Katie, can't you get a frame for this?"

"Oh yes, mum, I can get a frame; I will get a frame in some way."

When you go again, a week later, what a flutter in the neighborhood! Eyes, eyes everywhere. All the neighboring shanties are alive to see that "blessed, swate angel."

As you approach the O'Flaherty's, they are all out, looking wondrously smart, and the old man, for the first time, is without his pipe. Your remark about tobacco seems to be working. Katie is the first to reach you, and she holds up in her hands the picture, in a nice little gilt frame.

But how can I describe your reception? Talk of Jenny Lind at Castle Garden,--that was a fashionable splurge. Talk of the reception of a returning congressman,--that gives the Mayor and Aldermen a chance to ride in barouches, make speeches, and dine at the expense of the corporation. Your reception in Michael O'Flaherty's yard is more hearty, grateful and earnest, than any of the fashionable welcomes. It comes from their very hearts, and would be just as warm if they knew you had come to bid them a final farewell.

Suppose some rich old curmudgeon had given them a few dollars, with which they had purchased the things you have given them. Would they rush out to welcome him? would they clean up the cabin? would the children's eyes sparkle with gratitude and love? No, oh no! It is not the mended stockings, the bowl of oat-meal, or the picture which has so touched them, but it is the gentle, loving spirit in which you have visited them. The poor and lowly are strangely and wonderfully susceptible to such treatment.

A bright woman, residing in a small city in the state of New York, who was a true follower of Christ, for, like him, she went about doing good, happened to go into an Irish neighborhood where the measles were raging, during October. She showed herself an angel of mercy, though her health was so delicate that she could do nothing more than to ride over in her carriage, and distribute gruel, soup, and good counsel.

After the election in November, it came to be known that about fifteen Irish voters, from the neighborhood where Mrs. M---- had acted the good Samaritan, had put in Republican votes, whereat the Democratic managers of the ward were exceeding wroth. The delinquents were visited and labored with.

"What made you go and vote for that--nigger candidate?"

At first they refused to divulge. But, at length, it came out that the candidate's wife, Mrs. M--, had helped their families through the measles. And although their Mrs. M----- was not, in fact, the wife of the candidate, was not even acquainted with him, it was enough for those grateful Irishmen that the name was the same.

A TRUE LOVE STORY.

For years I have advised idle young ladies, who were longing for something to do, to look up poor, unhappy families, and minister to their hungry bodies and hungry hearts. I could give you a great many interesting cases, but one is such a pleasant little love story, I must tell it to you. With the exception of the names, the story is a true one.

Twenty years ago I was practising my profession in a western city. Among my patients was a Miss Dinsmore, a lady of nearly thirty years. Her case was what she called the dumps. I thought it indigestion and general debility. After two weeks, she began to ride out again, and seemed to be doing well enough, when one day she astonished me by exclaiming, "Oh! I wish I was dead!" After some hesitation, she told me that she was perfectly disgusted with life, etc., etc.

I advised her to go out a mile on Marble Street and look up a poor widow woman, a patient of mine, and see if she could not do something to make her comfortable. She couldn't think of it; she had troubles enough of her own; but, after a little urging, she consented to ride that way in the morning, and see if she could do anything. Before the next noon she was at my office with a most pitiful story about "that poor sufferer." I rode out with her at once, and found that Mrs. Ramsey needed some beef-soup and some flannels. Miss Dinsmore volunteered to bring them within an hour. My poor Mrs. Ramsey had pretty good times after that.

I soon had about ten poor patients in Miss Dinsmore's hands. Her sympathy and devotion were often more curative than my doctor- stuffs. At length, she gave me carte blanche to send any poor, sick ones, who needed help; and, from having been a slave to a round of fashionable dissipations, she soon became the most devoted friend of the sick and suffering. To those who have studied the causes of bad health among the devotees of fashion, I need not say that Miss Dinsmore soon became healthy and very happy.

Charles Finlay, a young man of twenty-five years, came to our city, from Philadelphia, to establish a large manufacturing business. He was immediately successful, and quickly won his way to the confidence of our business men. Possessed of noble person, fine culture, and singularly sweet manners, he was soon regarded as the greatest "catch" in town, and innumerable caps were accordingly set for him.

While trying an agricultural machine, one of his hands was seriously hurt, and he sent for me. It was my first personal acquaintance with him, though I had long known him by reputation. After amputating one finger, I contrived to save the residue of his hand. Our daily intercourse continued for several weeks, and we became very good friends. Among other subjects, we discussed matrimony.

I said, one evening, "Finlay, why don't you get a wife?"

"Well, my friend," said he, "that's a long story. I will tell you all about that, sometime."

At my next visit he said:--

"Doctor, speaking of matrimony, did you know that I had purchased the Temple estate on Bernard Street?"

"No; and then you have concluded to establish a home of your own. And who is the happy woman? for most sincerely I do regard her as happy in such an union."

"Ah, my friend, you are getting on too fast. I have no definite purpose in regard to matrimony. Mrs. Oliver, on hearing that I had purchased a house, sought me out directly, and exclaimed, 'Now you have a cage, of course you must have a bird to put into it.' I wonder if she thinks me silly enough to marry one of her daughters? Why, I should infinitely prefer one of those show-figures in the shop windows. They look full as well, have about as much heart, and then they won't get sick. I don't want a bird for my cage. That's just what fashionable wives are,--pretty birds, kept in beautiful cages. I don't want, and I won't have anything of the kind. What I want is a true wife, a real, substantial woman, a companion, an adviser, a friend, one whose voice is not a mere echo of mine, but who has a distinct individuality, with judgment, opinions and will of her own. Of course I know that most fashionable ladies are better than they seem, that this contemptible disguise which they wear,-- this falsehood which they repeat in the hair, the skin, the shape and form of each and every part of the body, is not deliberate falsehood, but the result of a thoughtless compliance with fashion; but it is very difficult for me to separate the woman from the lie. And then their voices! how utterly affected! no matter what the natural voice may be, every one learns exactly the same ridiculous intonation."

Here I interrupted him with:--

"Hold on, my friend, hold on! I really can't stand this any longer. You greatly underrate fashionable ladies. They seem to you silly, false and unworthy; but many of them are not a hundredth part as false and silly as their dress and conversation. Many of these ladies who now seem so preposterous and absurd, will, when married, and fairly settled down, cast off this burlesque, and become sober, solid women."

"But, as they all dress and talk exactly alike, how am I to tell which is which and who is who?"