ls, and with
enough of natural tact to keep the writer from getting far beyond her
depth, although she does talk of "Goethe's Mignion" and "Miss
Werner,"--whoever these personages may be,--and of "the substantial fame
achieved by the unknown author of 'Rutledge.'" It is written in the
prevalent American newspaper-style,--a style which is apt to be graphic,
piquant, and dashing, accompanied by a flavor, slight or more than
slight, of flippancy and slang,--a style such as reaches high-tide in
certain "popular" native authors, male and female, and in ebbing strands
us on "Jennie June."

Of course, writing from the windows of Mrs. Todgers, "Jennie" manifests
the usual superfluous anxiety of her kind not to be called
strong-minded. She is prettily indignant at the thought of female
physicians: there is nothing improper in having diseases, but to cure
them would be indelicacy indeed. Girls out of work, who wish for places
in shops, are only "patriotic young ladies who desire to fill all the
lucrative situations at present occupied by young men." She would even
banish Bridget from the kitchen and substitute unlimited Patricks, which
will interest housekeepers as being the only conceivable remedy worse
than the disease. Of course, a female lecturer is an abomination:
"Jennie" proves, first, that a "strong-minded woman" must be either
unmarried or unhappy in marriage, and then turns, with rather illogical
wrath, upon Lucy Stone and Antoinette Brown, for being too domestic to
make speeches since their marriage. To follow the court phraseology,
"This reminds us of a little anecdote." When the fashion of long,
flowing wigs was just vanishing in Boston, somebody wore one from that
town down to Salem, where they were entirely extinct. All the
street-boys ran after him all the morning, to ask him why he wore a wig.
He, wishing to avoid offence, left it in the house at dinner-time; and
was pursued all the afternoon by the same boys, with the inquiry why he
did _not_ wear a wig. These eloquent women find it equally hard to
please their little critic by silence or by speech. The simple truth
probably is, that they hold precisely the same views which they always
held, and will live to trouble her yet, when the epoch of the nursery is
over. The majority of women's-rights advocates have always been wives
and mothers, and, for aught we know, excellent ones, since that dear,
motherly old Quakeress, Lucretia Mott, first broached the matter; an