If we are so fortunate as to obtain, by any stratagem, admission to
hall or anteroom, in the mansions of our fair friends, our olfactories
are regaled with a fragrance which we instinctively associate with
tailors' shops, and which, I am informed, does in fact arise from the
contact of woollen substances with hot flat-irons. As we advance, our
ears are greeted by the resounding clash of scissors. Entering upon
the field of action, our eyes are dazzled by a thousand fragments of
rich and brilliant hues, and our personal safety endangered by swiftly
flying needles and unsuspected pins. Gossip is at an end, for the
thread must be continually bitten off. Dancing is child's play, a
folly of the past. The piano is converted into a table, or an
ironing-board. No games can be suggested but Thread-my-needle, and
Thimble-rig. No books are at hand but Harper, with the fashion-plate
at the end; the newspapers of the day are cut into uncouth shapes; and
conversation (when conducted in English) hangs the unsuccessful
Bloomer reform upon the gibbet of ridicule.
Now, if we would prevent utter disunion in society, something like a
compromise must be effected, and to the ladies belongs the laboring
oar. I use a metaphor which implies that they must do something they
are little accustomed to do; they must make some concession.
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