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CIS-ATLANTIC BORIOBOOLA-GHA.
Never mind Peepy, Mrs. Jellyby! Let the child cry, — let
him fall down stairs, and break his nose. What are a thousand
Peepies now present, to the mighty schemes of our modern
Borioboola-Gha, which will affect the destinies of myriads of
Peepies yet to come? Can you fritter away your attention on
one man, and his little troop of children, when that new lawgiver
— that Moses — that Stephen Pearl Andrews — has told us,
woman's chief duty is to be “true to herself, and not true to any
man”? Thanks, Mr. Andrews! We, little girl that we are,
did n't know our duty before. We 've found out, now. Never
mind if there were tears in his eyes, when he whispered, “I can't
live, if you change!” We know our duty now, and it 's not
much matter what he suffers in so good a cause.
And you, Mrs. Jellyby, — you, with the exalted scope of your
intellect, — surely, you cannot linger for an instant over darning-needles
and pin-cushions!
You must see it 's an affair of small moment whether Peepy's
stockings are darned, or Mr. Jellyby's coat out at the elbows,
compared with the mighty, the stupendous interest of persuading
a half-million intelligent women to cut twelve inches from their
dresses at the bottom, and add on a dickey and black scarf at
the top!
Then you have other incentives to exertion, of, if possible, still
more stu-pid — I meant to say, stu-pen-dous importance.
O, will not the ghosts of our grandmothers come out from
among the wraiths of spinning-wheels and home-made linen, and
smile their encouragement upon the marshalled ranks of their
grand-daughters, the brave defenders of Women's rights?
Press on — the time may soon come when we, down-trodden and
oppressed, held in the fearful thraldom of so many centuries, —
a slavery to which the bondage of Uncle Tom was as nothing,
and the myriad links of the Lilliputians weak as a melted snow-wreath,
— when we, American women of the nineteenth century,
may go forth, leaving home and firesides in charge of our worse
and weaker halves, marshalling the bright-eyed ranks of our
emancipated women, carrying the election with a rush, disposing
of cabinet appointments as freely as cast-off dresses, and
going home, at last, to make a further display of our magnanimity,
in our utter disregard of such minor inconveniences as unswept
rooms, unkempen hair, scalded children, muddy coffee, and the
burnt sides of very dry toast.
O, let us rejoice in our exalted destiny — we, the regenerators
of the world, the saviors of our nation! Don't breathe
it, for worlds, Mrs. Jellyby; but, if you can stoop to be
guilty of such a masculine vice as curiosity, I 'll tell you what
I thought, before I was awakened to my duty, as with the clang
of a trumpet, by the bold words and high thoughts of Mr. Andrews,
Miss Kelley, and other patriarchs and patriarchesses, who
lead the van in our glorious battle for the right.
Don't whisper to them what I say, please, dear Mrs. Jellyby,
I am so anxious to obtain under the first female President!
You know I am reformed now; but I did use to think woman's
noblest sphere was home, — her dearest right, the right to
make bright flowers of home and heart spring up and blossom in
some dear one's path.
I used to think it was so blest a thing, that round those whom
God has made so sensitive the seven-fold walls of home and love
were hedged, — that the cold cares of the outer world could not
come nigh us, and we could only catch such faint glimpses of out-door
care and turmoil as lingered in the shade on some dear
brow, which our lips loved to kiss away. It seemed to fill our
heart with blessings, our eyes with thankful tears, that dear
hands had built this sanctuary for our tenderer lives, and, amid
all the cares of life, turned hopeful back to us for strength and
cheer! I must confess, too, that I have not always boasted a
soul above such light discomforts as burnt toast and muddy
coffee, to say nothing of tearful faces and ragged coats.
Nay, in our day-dreams, we even used to picture the day when
we should have a home; we fancied the bright fire, the cosey
little table with its hissing urn, the easy-chair, the slippers, and
the fond, fond welcome for one for whom busy, loving hands had
retouched all. There came tears to our eyes, at that kiss upon
our brow, at that voice whispering, “It gives me strength to toil,
sweet wife, when I can turn at night to you and home!” Pah!
the tears have come back again at the very thought, Mrs. Jellyby.
Lend me your handkerchief; — there, the dream is passed
now. Remember the appointment, and don't, for worlds, expose
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