The Immolation | AdventAI

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Dec 5, 1878

The Immolation.

"Do not run, my daughter, but walk with dignity, for you know ladies never skip and jump," were the words of one of fashion's votaries, as she was tripping on her way to a fashionable millinery establishment, in company with her little daughter. Bessie was a sprightly, active child, too much so for the precise mother. The effect of this and similar injunctions was, as we shall see, to ruin her health and fit her for an untimely grave.

Listen! she is now eight years of age. There are roses on her cheek—the flush of health blooms there. But let us follow them to the fashionable shop, to select a hat for the daughter.

"Ah! here is one which will become your young lady well," said the milliner, as she placed one upon the young girl's head.

"Does she not look beautiful?" said the doting mother, as she surveyed her daughter with an evident air of pleasure; "but what is the price of this beauty of a bonnet?"

"Only ten dollars, ma'am."

The "love of a hat" was purchased, and the shoppers proceeded on their way.

Next they entered a shoe store, where a pair of Parisian slippers were purchased. What though the soles were not thicker than paper, and the wearer must suffer with damp feet as soon as they touch the ground, they were the real French article, and this was a rare purchase!

The mother and daughter returned home. A dress-maker was in attendance, ready to compress the lungs, and complete the slow murder which was already commenced. This was done by the aid of whalebones and stays, and all to give the poor girl a fine figure. When other children were "skipping 'neath sunny skies," breathing heaven's pure air, Bessie was not permitted to take such healthful exercise.

The fashionable mansion is brilliantly lighted, for there is to be a splendid party, and Bessie Bentley is to make her first public entree in the fashionable world. The mother sought the dressing-room of the daughter, in order that no part of the young girl's toilet might be left incomplete.

"What, Bessie not ready yet; the guests are all assembled!" said the mother, as she entered the room where her young, hopeful daughter had thrown herself upon a sofa, to gather strength for the coming night of revelry and mirth.

"Emma could not clasp my dress, so I have laid it aside; and appear in one of my old ones I will not."

"Try it again, and I will assist you," said Mrs. B.

After many long moments in which the breath of her daughter was suspended, the dress was clasped, and by the mother pronounced a perfect fit.

"But, Bessie, how pale you look! We must remedy that."

The fresh rouge was applied to the pallid cheeks, and they once more assumed a healthy glow. And then, although the thermometer was at zero, there was no covering for the arms and neck.

Bessie had danced until she had become so flushed and heated that she sought the cold, damp, night air, regardless of the injury to health and constitution, which would be the result of this careless exposure. Soon the company were found around the supper table, which was spread with the most delicate and costly viands. There, at that late hour, they ate, and they drank. Just before the morning light, the gay party separated. With an aching head, Bessie sought her pillow. Visions of fancy floated before her mind, and she could not sleep. At a late hour in the day she rose and entered the breakfast room.

The rouge was not on her cheeks now, and they were deadly pale. . . Two months from that night, Bessie Bentley was a cold corpse. She was murdered. The murderer was her own mother! But, ah, this was not all! The mind, too, had been poisoned! and the fatal draught was administered by the same mother who had destroyed the mortal life. She had taught her young daughter to believe that the present was all she lived for. She had told her not to think of death. It would be many years before the grim monster would visit her, and she must live while she lived, for the present.

Her purpose was accomplished. But, ah! how bitterly did the mother regret the course she had pursued, when in the deep agony of dissolving nature, her daughter groaned and cried, "I have no hope of heaven!" The lone mother shed many bitter tears; for, strange to say, she loved her daughter. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and I thought, as I beheld each heaving gush of agony, as it burst from her very soul, does that blind and infatuated parent realize that she has murdered her idolized child! Will not the mothers of our land be responsible for many lives which are daily being sacrificed on fashion's altar?

The foregoing is but a solitary case. There are many others. Mother! daughter! be admonished in time, lest a similar fate and similar reflections await thee.—Advocate and Guardian.