Our Girls. Dio Lewis
only is it true that, in extreme cases of physical exhaustion, the mind gives way with the body, but those keen, exquisite sensibilities of the soul become weak and blunt. No physician of large experience will fail to recal instances of extreme hemorrhagic exhaustion, in which all sense of modesty disappears.
Assuming that the highest possible health of the body is represented by 100, and the lowest possible by the figure 1, and assuming, what no physiologist or metaphysician will question, that the head and heart keep step with the body, we shall not hesitate long in determining the state of the mind and soul of the fashionable, languid, nervous lady whom we meet in America at every turn, and who ranges from 10 to 50 on our scale.
It is but natural that she should be occupied with trimmings, and feel no interest in the great social and moral movements of the day.
Caeteris paribus, a young woman whose physical health is represented by 80 on our scale, has twice as much feminine delicacy and character as another whose health is represented by 40. If this is not a logical deduction from the laws of physiology and metaphysics, I know of nothing that is. While, as already suggested, every discriminating physician is constantly called upon to listen to the harmony between the body and the soul.
The notion that delicacy of the body indicates delicacy of the body indicates delicacy of the mind and heart, contributes more to the fashion of delicacy than all other influences.
Miss Leonora, observing that Bridget O'Flaherty, the scrub-girl, who is ignorant and coarse, has a large waist and a powerful chest, and that Miss Seraphina Flamingo, who is a perfect angel, has a fragile, delicate form, draws the inference that a woman with a strong body is ignorant and coarse, while a sylphlike form signifies the spirituel.
Besides this, a strong, muscular body is associated with work, with a servant; while Miss Leonora is not long in discovering that the mistresses—the ladies—are pale and sickly.
Don't you see now how it is? To have a strong and muscular body is to be suspected of work, of service; while a frail, delicate personnel is a proof of position, of ladyhood.
Go through the town and observe the women. Are any of the fashionable ladies strong and muscular? Not one! Are any of them able to perform hard work? Not one! But there are women who do hard work, very hard work. They are not ladies, they are servants! The ladies are delicate. The servants are strong. Don't you see what a plain case it is? Miss Leonora desires, above all things, to be a lady, and to be always, and everywhere, and immediately recognized as a lady. How clear it is that the one, unmistakable, conclusive proof is, that she should look and move like a lady. If she looks strong, and moves with a will, she will be mistaken for a worker, for a servant. If she looks delicate, and moves languidly, it will be seen at once that she does not belong to the working class.
It is true that many strong, muscular women are coarse and ignorant; they have given their lives to hard work, and have been denied all opportunities to cultivate their minds and manners. To compare such with the petted, pampered daughters of social and intellectual opportunity, and then to treat the strong body of the one as the source of the coarseness and ignorance within, and, in the other case, to treat the weak, delicate body as the source of the fine culture, is to reason like an idiot.
In order to arrive at anything like a fair illustration of the influence of health upon the mind and temper, we must visit a family in which there are daughters in sparkling health, and others who are languid and delicate.
We visited such a family, in a neighboring state, three summers since, and shall never forget our observations and experiences. The oldest daughter was delicate. The youngest two were likewise sensitive and delicate. But there were two girls who were in fine health.
When the stage stopped at the gate, the girls, who were expecting us, came out on the piazza, and the healthy ones came rushing down to the gate, and threw their arms around one of us, nearly smothering that one with kisses, (I shall not tell you whether it was my wife, or myself,) while they shook hands most cordially with the other one. They took hold of our hands and fairly danced us up the walk. On reaching the piazza, we were very cordially and languidly welcomed by the other girls.
During our stay, the well girls ran over constantly. They devised
and executed scores of little plans for our amusement, while the
Misses Languid were the recipients of attentions from us all. The
Misses Vigorous ran over and flooded us all, while the Misses
Languid absorbed from us all.
Never have I more fully realized the common saying, that "sickness is selfish." The Misses Vigorous had enough for themselves and all the rest of us. The Misses Languid had nothing to spare, and were constant borrowers and beggars. Do you imagine the well girls were less lovely, less beautiful in heart and soul, than the delicate ones?
Or, if you prefer, do you think a young lady who leaves the city in June for the mountains, pale, nervous, unhappy, hardly able to take care of herself, unable to even think of anything but her own wretchedness, do you think her more lovely than when, returning in October, she comes bounding in, all radiant with joy, and full of sympathy and helpfulness?
FASHIONABLE SUFFERINGS.
So determined is the esprit du corps of the fashionables, that ambitious young ladies secretly pride themselves upon the attainment of womanly weaknesses.
There are certain "female weaknesses" which one would think young ladies might hesitate to mention; but so strong is this secret pride in the signs of ladyhood, that many fashionable young ladies go over the details with real pleasure.
I once heard a conversation between an invalid aunt and four young ladies. The young ladies were all unmarried, and the oldest not above twenty-three. The aunt was a successful competitor in the race for number and intensity of sufferings, and embraced every opportunity to make a tabular statement. Her spine was the favorite theme. The burning, the pain, the sharp and indescribable dartings and excruciating tortures were something fearful to hear. But the girls constantly interrupted her with saying, "That is just the way I feel;" and, "I have exactly that pain;" and, "precisely, I have had that pain for months."
The aunt replied, "Now, girls, don't tell me that. It isn't possible for you to have such afflictions at your age." But they declared, with sparkling eyes, that every one of the sufferings she had described—every one of them—they enjoyed in the most dreadful way. The aunt enjoyed another class of affections, upon which she lingered with real gusto. I do not feel at liberty to go into particulars; but here again the young ladies were enough for her. They declared, without flinching, that every one of her sufferings, they had, and what was more, they had certain horrible variations which they described, and which, in fact, I thought rather outdid the poor aunt. Aunt spoke of her headache in the most brilliant style; but here the girls were not to be beaten. In fact, it was neck and neck to the end.
I have heard conversations of another sort which are pertinent in this discussion. A strong country woman, accustomed to work in the garden, and to take long walks, mentions to a group of fashionable young ladies, that she has just walked six miles. "Wonderful! dreadful! is it possible? Why, I couldn't walk six miles to save my life." Perhaps the country aunt says, "I finished a large washing before leaving, and hung the clothes upon the line." Miss Araminta exclaims, "I never washed anything in my life. Why, how is it done? and how dreadful it looks to see all sorts of clothes hanging out in a yard."
The common affectation of ignorance of all useful work is another illustration. A young lady sometimes knows how to make certain rare and delicate cake, but she never knows how to make bread; she knows how to make pink dogs in worsted, but not how to make a shirt. She knows how to crochet, but not how to make garments for herself or her brothers; and thus on through the whole list. She knows nothing whatever of useful work, in which the body and heart may be brought into earnest, womanly play.
My dear girls, I could show you in this city a sight,