One evening, in a greenroom chatter, the word “religious” had in some way been applied to me, and a certain actress of “small parts,” whose life had been of the bitterness of gall, suddenly broke out with:  “What—­what’s that? religious—­you?  Well, I guess not!  Why, you’ve more spirits in a minute than the rest of us have in a week, and you are as full of capers as a puppy.  I guess I know religion when I see it.  It makes children loathe the Bible by forcing them to learn a hundred of its verses for punishment.  It pulls down the shades on Sundays, eats cold meat and pickles, locks up bookcase and piano, and discharges the girl for walking with her beau.  Oh, no! my dear, you’re not religious.”

Poor abused word; no wonder it terrifies people.

How many thousand women, I wonder, are kept from church by their inability to dress up to the standard of extravagance raised by those who are more wealthy than thoughtful.  Even if the poor woman plucks up her courage and enters the church, the magnificence of her fortunate sisters distracts her attention from the service, and fills her with longing, too often with envy, and surely with humiliation.

Some years ago a party of ultra-high churchwomen decided to wear only black during Lent.  One of these ladies condescended to know me, and in speaking of the matter, she said:  “Oh, I think this black garb is more than a fad, it really operates for good.  It is so appropriate, you know, and—­and a constant reminder of that first great fast—­the origin of Lent; and as I walk about in trailing black, I know I look devout, and that makes me feel devout, and so I pray often, and you’re always the better for praying, even if your dress is at the bottom of it—­and, oh, well, I feel that I am in the picture, when I wear black during Lent.”

But the important thing is that before the Lenten season was half over, female New York was walking the streets in gentle, black-robed dignity, and evidently enjoying the keeping of Lent because, to use a theatrical expression, “it knew it looked the part.”

So much influence do these petted, beloved daughters of the rich exercise over the many, that I have often wished that, for the sake of the poorer women, the wealthy ones would set a fashion of extreme simplicity of costume for church-going.  Every female thing has an inalienable right to make herself as lovely as possible; and these graceful, clever women of fashion would know as well how to make simplicity charming as does the grande dame of France, who is never more grande dame than when, in plain little bonnet, simple gown, and a bit of a fichu, she attends her church.

These bright butterflies have all the long week to flutter their magnificence in.  Their lunches, dinners, teas, dances, games, yachts, links, race-courses—­everyone gives occasion for glorious display.  Will they not, then, be sweetly demure on Sunday for the sake of the “picture,” spare their sisters the agony of craving for like beautiful apparel? for God has made them so, and they can’t help wanting to be lovely, too.