p. 502 | The Home Circle by London Truth

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, Cal. · Nov 8, 1883

The Home Circle.

By London Truth

FASHIONABLE GIRL'S SOLILOQUY.

THEY tell me my face is fair, That my form is full of grace, And yet I am doing my best—or worst— To spoil this form and face. Ah, well do our censors say That woman is wofully weak, For we hung the chains that gall us so, And refuse our escape to seek.

I could scream with the pain, and I do, When Parker my waist so pinches; But fashion decrees that it must be At the most but sixteen inches. And it's lace! lace! lace! Till I gasp for each breath I take, And often long in the torture keen That the stay-lace would but break.

'Tis the same from top to toe— My boots my feet pinch in; My Jersey, fashion's latest fad, Clings close to me like a skin. And it's tug! tug! tug! When that garment they try to doff; Why, the caricature can't be too strong That tries to "take it off."

My hands are forced into gloves A size, at least, too small; My dress so clutches me around the knees, That I fear every step to fall. I am nowhere free; my arms By tight-cut sleeves are clipp'd, My neck is spanned by a golden band, And by stiff, starch'd linen nipp'd.

But why do I dwell on this? Worse secrets I have to tell, If secrets you can esteem the tricks Which the world knows all too well; The rouge, the chalk, and the paste! The hare's foot and the dye! The washes, the pencils, the cosmetiques! Which Fashion's votaries try.

False! false! false! And the list is one to shame! But it's not the fashion now to blush When these toilet aids we name. There's our hair, well, that is false, To a greater extent or less; And the lover who steals a lock ne'er knows Whose hair he may chance to possess.

And our faces! oh! who shall tell The labor which they involve? The washes we boil, the paste we mix, The unguents that we dissolve? Paint, and powder, and patch, Patch, and powder, and paint, Till the heart is sick and the fingers tired, And one's very spirit faint.

Paint! paint! paint! Till the "roses" will stand the light. And paint, paint, paint In a style that is fit for night; While the eyes are deftly lined, And lips with colors traced, And one's alabaster brow and bust In enamel are duly encased!

Oh, what would I give to be The free, fresh girl of yore, To cut my corset strings, And to powder and paint no more! Oh, but for one short day, To feel as I used to feel, Ere cruel Fashion bound me tight In her bands of bone and steel!

Oh, men with sisters dear! Oh, men with sweethearts and wives! 'Tis to gain your smiles, remember this, We are wearing out our lives. Remember, and interfere, Have pity, and come to our aid, And 'gainst our tyrants merciless Lead us on a new crusade.

—London Truth.