A GREAT deal is being said lately about the simple life, but I fear that it will take even more than the efforts of our respected President at the White House to make it really and practically popular. Madam Style is so fond of her fine clothes, and Mr. Dissipation is so determined to eat late suppers and to turn night into day; while Madam Folly still delights to shock sensible people with her unreasoning extravagance, that the task of reforming the people is bound to be a hard one.
A friend was telling me yesterday of a lady who cried all day Christmas because her husband had presented her with a pair of slippers which she did not consider fine enough; and of another, who for a similar reason rudely threw the present her husband had just handed her across the room into the corner.
"O, how unkind! Why that was downright cruel!" exclaims Mrs. Elegance, who, altho she has her faults, is a very tender-hearted little woman.
But look here, Mrs. Elegance; don't you remember encouraging John to buy that expensive suite of furniture, when you knew he could ill afford to do so? He did it, of course, to please you, tho it went against his better judgment. But he has felt obliged to put in another extra hour of hard work every day since then, because he did it. Then there are the children's school dresses. Really the old gowns would have done nicely with only a little alteration, but they were somewhat out of style—as last summer's dresses are bound to be—and so—
"Now you are touching a tender point," declares Mrs. Elegance; "I think my little girls are as good as anybody's, and I am determined they shall be well dressed, even if—"
Even if your poor, over-worked husband has to foot the bills, which grow larger and larger every season. He needs a vacation badly, but he does not dare to take one. The first thing you know, Mrs. Elegance, your tired husband will take a long vacation from which he will never return. This rushing, hurrying, strenuous life he is leading, this continual reaching and stretching and grasping after the ever elusive dollar, with which to satisfy the growing demands of his wife and children, this busy, restless life, can not be kept up very much longer. Now pray don't cry, but just listen to reason. Why not get Minnie a serviceable gingham for school, instead of that flimsy, expensive silk mull? Why do you buy for your little girls costly bracelets, and then—folly of follies—allow them to wear these to school, like grown-up ladies dressed for an evening reception?
I can not tell you how sensible people look upon such folly. And even if these vanities cost no more than you are well able to pay, still I assure you that in the end you would find to your sorrow that the false training you are giving your girls will be the most expensive thing in the world. Already do you not see that they are losing their childish modesty and simplicity? You think not? —Allow me, and I will convince you.
Just step here, Mrs. Elegance, and watch your little daughters coming down the street. School is just dismissed, and they are walking home with their mates. "Walking," did I say? I ought to have said "mincing," like the foolish daughters of Zion that we read about. They do not "make a tinkling with their feet," but O how the bangles and buckles and bracelets and chains and rings and pins and beads and what not do shimmer and sparkle and "tinkle"!
These little old women of yours walk very sedately and seem to feel their vast importance. When you were a little girl, Mrs. Elegance, you used to trot along the winding path, with your little bare feet brushing the dew from the grass, happy and thankful if your mother allowed you a new calico or gingham once or twice a year. If you wanted to climb a tree, or go racing after a butterfly you did it; but your poor little fashion-fettered daughters know better than to attempt such a thing. The limbs on the tree would tear and ruin the fancy dress of little Miss Elegance.
Now step a little nearer and listen to the conversation of your small girls, and remember that they are yet wearing short dresses, and have barely entered their "teens," and that they are returning from school, where they are supposed to learn something more than folly. Listen:
"O Elizabeth! mama has bought me just the sweetest silk gown for Jennie's party; it's too lovely for anything! There are to be four ruffles on the skirt, and I'm to have three yards of ribbon for the sash, and a love of a bow for my hair,—a perfectly immense one you know,—and O Elizabeth! father thinks I'm pretty young for gentlemen company, but mother doesn't object, and Mr. Jack Smith,—he's fifteen, you see, and his father's just awfully rich,—he's going to take me. Now if I can only coax papa to buy me a new bracelet and chain, I'll be perfectly happy. It's awfully expensive of course, but look here, Elizabeth, if we're ever going to marry rich—"
And then these old little girls passed on, and Mrs. Elegance and I failed to hear the remainder of this edifying conversation. I turned to steal a glance at my companion.
I don't wonder you blush, Mrs. Elegance, but this revelation has come none too soon. But how it must pain you to realize that all this silly folly is but the result of your own training.
Now take my advice; please do. Have a good, long talk with your husband and get his cooperation—he will be only too delighted, poor man. Tell him you have resolved to quit your life of fashion and folly. Then call your daughters and have an understanding with them. Confess to them that you have been a foolish mother. A confession will be good for them and for you, too. Turn square about; and it may be, Mrs. Elegance, that it is not yet too late to undo some of the mischief of the past, and to make sensible little girls out of these twaddling fashion-plates of yours.