A hundred and thirty years later, Sir Ralph Verney, an exiled royalist, sent his young wife back to England to petition Parliament for the restoration of his sequestrated estates.  Lady Verney’s path was beset by difficulties and dangers.  She had few friends and many enemies, little money and cruel cares.  She was, it is needless to state, pregnant when she left France, and paused in her work long enough to bear her husband “a lusty boy”; after which Sir Ralph writes that he fears she is neglecting her guitar, and urges her to practise some new music before she returns to the Continent.

Such pages of history make tonic reading for comfortable ladies who, in their comfortable homes, are bidden by their comfortable doctors to avoid the strain of anything and everything which makes the game of life worth living.  It is our wont to think of our great-great-great-grandmothers as spending their days in undisturbed tranquillity.  We take imaginary naps in their quiet rooms, envying the serenity of an existence unvexed by telegrams, telephones, clubs, lectures, committee-meetings, suffrage demonstrations, and societies for harrying our neighbours.  How sweet and still those spacious rooms must have been!  What was the remote tinkling of a harp, compared to pianolas, and phonographs, and all the infernal contrivances of science for producing and perpetuating noise?  What was a fear of ghosts compared to a knowledge of germs?  What was repeated child-bearing, or occasional smallpox, compared to the “over-pressure” upon “delicate organisms,” which is making the fortunes of doctors to-day?

So we argue.  Yet in good truth our ancestors had their share of pressure, and more than their share of ill-health.  The stomach was the same ungrateful and rebellious organ then that it is now.  Nature was the same strict accountant then that she is now, and balanced her debit and credit columns with the same relentless accuracy.  The “liver” of the last century has become, we are told, the “nerves” of to-day; which transmigration should be a bond of sympathy between the new woman and that unchangeable article, man.  We have warmer spirits and a higher vitality than our home-keeping great-grandmothers ever had.  We are seldom hysterical, and we never faint.  If we are gay, our gayeties involve less exposure and fatigue.  If we are serious-minded, our attitude towards our own errors is one of unaffected leniency.  That active, lively, all-embracing assurance of eternal damnation, which was part of John Wesley’s vigorous creed, might have broken down the nervous system of a mollusk.  The modern nurse, jealously guarding her patient from all but the neutralities of life, may be pleased to know that when Wesley made his memorable voyage to Savannah, a young woman on board the ship gave birth to her first child; and Wesley’s journal is full of deep concern, because the other women about her failed to improve the occasion by exhorting the poor tormented creature “to fear Him who is able to inflict sharper pains than these.”