FEATHERSES

One of the most amusing letters ever quoted in any book is that given in Curzon’s “Monasteries of the Levant,” as the production of a Turkish sultana who had just learned English.  It is as follows:—­

    NOTE FROM ADILE SULTANA, THE BETROTHED OF ABBAS PASHA, TO HER
    ARMENIAN COMMISSIONER.

    CONSTANTINOPLE, 1844.

MY NOBLE FRIEND:—­Here are the featherses sent my soul, my noble friend, are there no other featherses leaved in the shop besides these featherses? and these featherses remains, and these featherses are ukly.  They are very dear, who buyses dheses?  And my noble friend, we want a noat from yourself; those you brought last tim, those you sees were very beautiful; we had searched; my soul, I want featherses again, of those featherses.  In Kalada there is plenty of feather.  Whatever bees, I only want beautiful featherses; I want featherses of every desolation to-morrow.

    (Signed) YOU KNOW WHO.

The first steps in culture do not, then, it seems, remove from the feminine soul the love of pretty things.  Nor do the later steps wholly extinguish it; for did not Grace Greenwood hear the learned Mary Somerville conferring with the wise Harriet Martineau as to whether a certain dress should be dyed to match a certain shawl?  Well! why not?  Because women learn the use of the quill, are they to ignore “featherses “?  Because they learn science, must they unlearn the arts, and, above all, the art of being beautiful?  If men have lost it, they have reason to regret the loss.  Let women hold to it, while yet within their reach.

Mrs. Rachel Rowland of New Bedford, much prized and trusted as a public speaker among Friends, and a model of taste and quiet beauty in costume, delighted the young girls at a Newport Yearly Meeting, a few years since, by boldly declaring that she thought God meant women to make the world beautiful, as much as flowers and butterflies, and that there was no sin in tasteful dress, but only in devoting to it too much money or too much time.  It is a blessed doctrine.  The utmost extremes of dress, the love of colors, of fabrics, of jewels, of “featherses,” are, after all, but an effort after the beautiful.  The reason why the beautiful is not always the result is because so many women are ignorant or merely imitative.  They have no sense of fitness:  the short wear what belongs to the tall, and brunettes sacrifice their natural beauty to look like blondes.  Or they have no adaptation; and even an emancipated woman may show a disregard for appropriateness, as where a fine lady sweeps the streets, or a fair orator the platform, with a silken or velvet train which accords only with a carpet as luxurious as itself.  What is inappropriate is never beautiful.  What is merely in the fashion is never beautiful.  But who does not know some woman whose taste and training are so perfect that fashion becomes to her a means of grace instead of a despot, and the worst excrescence that can be prescribed—­a chignon, a hoop, a panier—­is softened into something so becoming that even the Parisian bondage seems but a chain of roses?