The Woman of to-Morrow by Helen M. Winslow

The charge is made against American women, and it is too true, that we lack repose of manner. How can we show that in our manner which we lack in our natures? And how can we possess repose of the soul when we never allow ourselves a minute to catch up with ourselves, to commune with the silent forces of nature, to inhale the strength and calmness and courage that we might exhale again in the fragrance which we call, in the rare instances when we behold it in others, repose of manner? Life for the most of us is an insane scramble to catch up with things-and not half the time do we know or care whether they are things worth catching up with; nor are we satisfied if we succeed for a moment in reaching them. Once in a while the futility of the chase comes over us in a brief gleam of reason, but others around us are hurrying through life after the unattainable, and we forget and scramble on, too, in unconscious emulation of the old Scotch saying, "The de'il take the hindmost."

If our whole existence is made up of excitement-no matter whether we term it that or disguise it under the name of endless activity, how shall we establish that serenity of soul without which the real nature cannot expand, nor the reality of noble womanhood become the guiding principle of life? Those feverish mentalities who demand front seats at the great pageant of life with a constant change of scenes, do not know true serenity. They are infected with the malaria of inefficiency and crave excitement as an ague patient craves a quieting draft. They miss the delight of relaxation and have no conception of the joys of quiet leisure. Self-communion is unknown to them and they are utter strangers to themselves. They are in a whirl that sucks them ever onward and downward. Serenity is an unknown word to them and they know it not, either at home or abroad; while to be alone with their own thoughts is a discomfort they cannot endure.