Unattributed.
Originally published in Harper's Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.16 #93 (Feb 1858).
There is scarcely a book, humorous or poetic, satirical or romantic, in the language, that has not some allusions to the tongue of woman. That "little member"—as it is commonly called with respectful gravity, as one speaks of a terrible and potent though invisible agency—has commanded the attention of the world so entirely, so many good jokes, so many poor ones, have been made over it that there seems little left to say on the subject. But as long as the language endures there will be written and read Lives of Washington and Napoleon—stories about Love are as interesting today as they were when Romeo and Juliet first "did" the balcony scene, and will be as long as time lasts. To say all in a curt way, there are some subjects which are inexhaustible, and of these (without intending a joke) is woman's talk.
That women can talk, and do talk well, is as true, and as generously acknowledged by their natural enemies, the opposite sex, as that they sometimes talk foolishly and too much. The charm of woman's conversation is well remembered and immortalized by many a wit and memoir-writer. Some philosophers, who have weighed the important subject with deliberation and care, have decided that it was more fascinating than beauty, this power of attractive conversation; but have, unfortunately for the theory, generally married very handsome women who talked very foolishly. However, the philosopher and his theory should never be called upon to answer for the weakness of the man.
Women can talk well, there is no doubt, but do they?
In the first place, what do they talk much about?
Firstly, DRESS.
Secondly, EACH OTHER.
Thirdly, SERVANTS.
Now the first, rightly considered, is a very pretty subject. The mind can scarcely paint a lovelier picture than that of a room full of pretty girls, all charmingly dressed, talking of colors and costume; wondering whether an ivy wreath running over white muslin would be becoming, and pausing to remember how beautiful the clematis looked, last summer, running over the white trellis up in the country; or grouping the red poppies together to loop up the yellow crape, remembering the while how the corn-fields "waved in the wind," suggestive of yellow crape and poppies!
It reminds one of Diana and her nymphs, of all that is classic and beautiful—and this sweet power of dress can not be overrated; but it also reminds us that this talk is generally so vapid—so wanting in all that is fanciful, in the best sense of that word—so false in taste—that we would almost repudiate the subject; and while we would beg that dress might always be handsome and appropriate, we would almost ask that it might never again be spoken of.
For dress is not now chosen for its becomingness, but for its display; and in talking of it, women forget that it is dress which is subordinate to the woman. Woman has become subordinate to dress. To hear beautiful, well-educated, charming women spend entire mornings and evenings in wondering why Mrs. Macwhirter wears real point over blue, while Mrs. Macstinger wears Brussels over yellow, is a most painful waste of the taste, the fancy, and the wit which does undoubtedly belong to the speakers if they would but speak what they do know.
But the subject ascends from the simply foolish and idle into the dangerous, when we approach the second head of our discourse—Each other! The hand is palsied with its inability to grasp this part of its work. What do not ladies say about each other? Men dare not, however much they hate each other, talk freely of the vices, fancied or real, of their fellows. The law lays a potent finger on their lips, but none on the mouth of woman.
It is too unfortunately true that our lives in the present day offer but few objects of competition to woman, and at the same time woman is as ambitious as man. She has all the desire to conquer worlds, but no worlds to conquer. After being educated as well, if not better than most men, she enters the world and finds nothing to strive for but the attention of gentlemen, pre-eminence in dress and style, and the dangerous distinction of being much talked about. These are her worldly prizes: for these she must strive, for these she must exert her talents, her charms, and all of these efforts are degrading.
For we do not count the probability of her falling in love, wisely and well, marrying the man most suited to her, as one which is so common as to be other than an exception to the rule; for even in this happy country, where every one marries (it is supposed) his or her unbiased choice, the thirst for distinction and pre-eminence is so intense that worldly marriages are almost as common as in the older countries. But for the sake of the argument we will take the fortunate exception, and show how even then woman is exposed to the temptations of envy and detraction.
She loves and is beloved—so far she is safe; but her day must be spent (taking the average) in contact with her servants, in small and uninteresting duties which give her mind no food, no occupation. If she has ever in mind that she is keeping in order a machine which, if allowed to get rusty, will creak horribly and disarrange a vast edifice—if she can remember that if she leaves this pin unset, or that wheel unturned, the consequence will be fearful, she may go on with a semblance of content to the end, and, remembering Milton's glorious line,
"They also serve who only stand and wait,"
may look with calmness on the sacrifice of powers which she knows are "too good for the place," and add to her other virtues the sublimest of all, cheerful patience; but if she is less great than this (which frequently happens), she is annoyed and fretful, she must have some amusement, she finds a sort of relief in dress and company, and alas, in talk; and it is vexatious to "see some women succeeding, you don't know how," and the tongue once loosed it is a difficult steed to rein in, and hence scandal and its horrors so acrid and intense that the poor subject may well say,
"So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,
Farewell remorse; all good to me is lost:
Evil, be thou my good."
What meannesses have not women committed under the influence of that most belittling passion, "a desire to succeed in society!" What detraction and even falsehood is not pressed into the service! and yet, remove this temptation and place this same woman in a position where she is called on to succor distress, and she mounts again to her original high position! She will not shrink from the night-watches by the sick-bed. She will not forget the poor—she still prays; but would that she could remember to hold her tongue!
So long as society is organized as it now is, particularly in our new and energetic country, these passions will be aroused. Beauty, talent, success will always be followed by envy and detraction as by shadows.
But somewhat of the fell malignity of passions can be softened by simply not expressing what one feels. An idea spoken is a much stronger thing than an idea thought. The hatreds that we tell of are much harder plants to weed out than the hatreds which, in silence and in sorrow, we endeavor to free ourselves from. In this very city of ours thousand of instances daily occur where, if one or two words had been left unspoken, the ill feeling would have died away; but the words were spoken, and their "echo is endless!"
One lady, feeling a mortal aversion to another lady, goes to the house of a friend on some idle pretense, and introduces the subject of the general bad nature of Lady No. 2. Fortunately the friend is a true one, and is not influenced, and stops the scandal by causing Lady No. 2 to clear herself. But those little words of Lady No. 1 resound far and wide, and affect whole families; dissensions grow up apace, and instead of an ill feeling between two people, there comes ill feelings between two hundred. Now if Lady No. 1 had staid at home that morning, and had not said a word, the ill feeling might have died a natural death; some future day she and No. 2 might have been friends; but now a broad gulf lies between them, and nothing but time and the influence of a higher Power can bring them together.
Servants! Servants!
"If you knew the trouble I have had with Bridget!"
The most "ilegant pisantry in the world" have to answer for a great deal. If they have done nothing more, they have lowered the tone of conversation in our ladies. We suppose, if we could enter all the handsome, well-lighted dining-rooms of our prosperous city this evening, we should find nine-tenths of the women telling their poor tired husbands of the shortcomings of Catherine, and Mary, and Lucy, and Margaret, while he would rather hear almost any thing else, even of the unpaid bills. One very neat, methodical housekeeper once took her husband up into the fourth story of her house, and showed him a table which had not been dusted. "There," said she; "can you imagine a deeper grade of vice than that Margaret is guilty of? I have told her to dust that table every day since she has been here."
"My dear," said the husband, solemnly, "I have to-day been cheated out of five thousand dollars, I have had a forgery brought to my attention, two murderers were brought into Court before my face. I looked at them with horror, but any thing like the guilt of Margaret remains for me yet to see!"
The solemnity of these remarks, we have reason to believe, checked the volubility of one lady for some time.
We all have very noble sentiments about making home happy, no doubt; we all wish to make the "fireside," and so forth, attractive, and perhaps we succeed; but then again perhaps we might succeed better; at any rate, it would not make the fire on the domestic altar any less bright if we weeded our conversation of these three topics, particularly the latter.
Women can talk well and wittily of the events of the day, of music, of all the arts in fact—most women have a gift that way, and can describe a picture, a play, a public speaker, better than men; and it being their peculiar and proud province to make the world more agreeable to man, how can they throw away the immense privilege? Man is the king of this world; he should have a royal consort.
One may say that a good temper would be the cure of all the evils herein described. True enough, if one were never annoyed by a dilatory dress-maker, or an unbecoming dress, or no dresses at all, or ruffled by a slanderous report, or worn out with poor servants—if these ills of life found all serene and composed, one should be simply perfect, and nothing more need be said or written; but we have not attained to that dull level of perfection. To be those "faultless monsters whom the world ne'er saw" would be worse than to mount the perpetual hobbies of dress, parties, scandal, servants; but greatest virtues being faults overcome, we can improve very greatly without running much risk of becoming perfect.
Women, when together, do not talk much of love, except in quiet parlors in the country. There little groups, or more often two, speculate on the great subject. The sentimental woman is rapidly disappearing from the face of the earth. The busy life of cities, the wonderful exertions our women have to make to attain even the poor prizes which the world offers them, precludes sentiment. Perhaps that is well. The Rosa-Matilda school was not a good one, but it might be worse; and some women of unoccupied minds and hearts have found a worse in the novels of Balzac and his contemporaries. But we have little to fear from this; a few may feel the vitiating influence, but the many are too busy and too pure. The individual who always
—"Finds some work
For idle hands to do,"
according to Dr. Watts, would seem to find his occupation gone in this country.
We have simply skimmed the surface of society, and have quoted the style of talk of many women. Far be it from our intention to say that no women talk better. The image of many a beloved mother, many a good wife, many an attractive and most admirable person, rises up to silence such an assertion. But we believe it not unfair to say that the conversation which is cultivated in fashionable circles, and even in the more exclusive home circles, is, among women, flat, foolish, and most unprofitable. Its chief spice is abuse, and that is a very poor spice to use. Still, as we before said,
"Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls must dive below."
Straws sometimes show which way the wind blows, however; and there is no surer way of becoming envious, flippant, and undevout than to talk as if we were.
There is, in a library in Cincinnati, a statue of Silence, with finger on lip. The effect of the statue is said to be electrical. Every one who looks at it immediately stops talking. If we could have one in our parlors how admirable the effect would be! To be in the full tide of furious talk, to look up; and see this marble finger perpetually raised!
"Come, then, expressive Silence—!"
We all know some people who say more by saying nothing at all than all the rest of the world achieve by talking perpetually. Let us then cultivate, as one step toward reformation, the "great talent of silence;" and, as another step, let us discard the three most fascinating subjects to woman, and the three most detestable ones to man.
We have not touched at all the possibility of making these subjects interesting and instructive. Perhaps there exists that Circe from whose lips even the evil doings of servants may come clothed in golden utterances; but she is indeed a Circe, and to be avoided for her unfortunate sisters, for they would only contract her faults without her fascination, and that result we have all seen and felt.
Nor can the remedy be so readily pointed out as the disease. But that we leave, with much confidence, to the discretion of the fair speakers. Our women find out very readily what is becoming in all other senses of the word. Let them find out, as undoubtedly they will, what is most so in conversation.