But the little boys kick your shins, and the little girls offer to slap your face! There is an immense literature entirely addressed to them, in which the kicking of shins and the slapping of faces is much recommended.As a woman of fifty, I protest.I insist on being judged by my peers.It's too late, however, for several millions of little feet are actively engaged in stamping out conversation, and I don't see how they can long fail to keep it under.The future is theirs; maturity will evidently be at an increasing discount.Longfellow wrote a charming little poem called "The Children's Hour," but he ought to have called it "The Children's Century." And by children, of course, I don't mean simple infants; I mean everything of less than twenty.The social importance of the young American increases steadily up to that age, and then it suddenly stops.The young girls, of course, are more important than the lads; but the lads are very important too.I am struck with the way they are known and talked about; they are little celebrities; they have reputations and pretentions; they are taken very seriously.As for the young girls, as I said just now, there are too many.You will say, perhaps, that I am jealous of them, with my fifty years and my red face.I don't think so, because Idon't suffer; my red face doesn't frighten people away, and I always find plenty of talkers.The young girls themselves, I believe, like me very much; and as for me, I delight in the young girls.They are often very pretty; not so pretty as people say in the magazines, but pretty enough.The magazines rather overdo that; they make a mistake.I have seen no great beauties, but the level of prettiness is high, and occasionally one sees a woman completely handsome.(As a general thing, a pretty person here means a person with a pretty face.The figure is rarely mentioned, though there are several good ones.) The level of prettiness is high, but the level of conversation is low; that's one of the signs of its being a young ladies' country.There are a good many things young ladies can't talk about; but think of all the things they can, when they are as clever as most of these.Perhaps one ought to content one's self with that measure, but it's difficult if one has lived for a while by a larger one.This one is decidedly narrow; I stretch it sometimes till it cracks.Then it is that they call me coarse, which I undoubtedly am, thank Heaven! People's talk is of course much more chatiee over here than in Europe; I am struck with that wherever I go.There are certain things that are never said at all, certain allusions that are never made.There are no light stories, no propos risques.I don't know exactly what people talk about, for the supply of scandal is small, and it's poor in quality.They don't seem, however, to lack topics.The young girls are always there; they keep the gates of conversation; very little passes that is not innocent.I find we do very well without wickedness; and, for myself, as I take my ease, I don't miss my liberties.You remember what I thought of the tone of your table in Florence, and how surprised you were when I asked you why you allowed such things.
