A HALF-HUMOROUS, half-pathetic epistle has been sent to me by a woman, who explains in it her particular perplexity.Such letters are the windfalls of our profession! For what is more attractive than to have a woman take you for her lay confessor, to whom she comes for advice in trouble? opening her innocent heart for your inspection!
My correspondent complains that her days are not sufficiently long, nor is her strength great enough, for the thousand and one duties and obligations imposed upon her."If," she says, "a woman has friends and a small place in the world - and who has not in these days? - she must golf or 'bike' or skate a bit, of a morning; then she is apt to lunch out, or have a friend or two in, to that meal.
After luncheon there is sure to be a 'class' of some kind that she has foolishly joined, or a charity meeting, matinee, or reception;but above all, there are her 'duty' calls.She must be home at five to make tea, that she has promised her men friends, and they will not leave until it is time for her to dress for dinner, 'out'
or at home, with often the opera, a supper, or a ball to follow.
It is quite impossible," she adds, "under these circumstances to apply one's self to anything serious, to read a book or even open a periodical.The most one can accomplish is a glance at a paper."Indeed, it would require an exceptional constitution to carry out the above programme, not to mention the attention that a woman must (however reluctantly) give to her house and her family.Where are the quiet hours to be found for self-culture, the perusal of a favorite author, or, perhaps, a little timid "writing" on her own account? Nor does this treadmill round fill a few months only of her life.With slight variations of scene and costume, it continues through the year.