Louisa May Alcott

            One of the trials of woman-kind is the fear of being an old maid.  To escape this dreadful doom, young girls rush into matrimony with a recklessness which astonishes the beholder; never pausing to remember that the loss of   liberty, happiness, and self-respect is poorly repaid by the barren honor of being called “Mrs.” instead of “Miss.”

            Fortunately, this foolish prejudice is fast disappearing, conquered by the success of a certain class belonging to the sisterhood.  This class is composed of superior women who, from various causes, remain single, and devote themselves to some earnest work; espousing philanthropy, art, literature, music, medicine, or whatever task, taste, necessity, or chance suggests, and remaining as faithful to and as happy in their choice as married women with husbands and homes.  It being my good fortune to know several such, I venture to offer a little sketch of them to those of my young countrywomen who, from choice or necessity, stand along, seeking to find the happiness which is the right of all.

            Here is L., a rich man’s daughter; pretty, accomplished, sensible, and good.  She tried fashionable life and found that it did not satisfy her.  No  lover was happy enough to make a response in her heart, and at twenty-three she looked about her for something to occupy and interest her.  She was attracted towards the study of medicine; became absorbed in it; went alone to Paris and London; studied faithfully; received her diploma, and, having practiced successfully for a time, was appointed the resident physician of a city hospital.  Here, doing a truly womanly work she finds no time for ennui, unhappiness or the vague longing for something to fill her heart and life, which leads so many women to take refuge in frivolous or dangerous amusements and pursuits.  She never talks of her mission or rights, but beautifully fulfils the one and quietly assumes the others.  Few criticize or condemn her course, and none questions her success.  Respected and beloved by all who know her, she finds genuine satisfaction in her work, and is the busiest, happiest, most successful woman I know.

            Next comes M., a brilliant, talented girl, full of energy, ambition, and notable aspirations.  Poor, yet attractive, through natural gifts and graces, to her came the great temptation of such a girl’s life—a rich lover; an excellent young man, but her inferior in all respects.  She felt this, and so did he, but hoping that love would make them equals, he urged his suit.

            “If I loved him,” she said, “my way would be plain, and I should not hesitate a minute.  But I do not; I’ve tried, and I am sure I never can feel toward him as I should.  It is a great temptation, for I long to cultivate my talent to help my family, to see the world, and enjoy life, and all this may be done if I said ‘Yes.’ People tell me that I am foolish to reject this good fortune; that it is my duty to accept it; that I should get on very well without love, and talk as if it were a business transaction.  It is hard to say ‘No’; but I must, for in marriage I want to look up, not down.  I cannot make it seem right to take this offer, and I must let go, for I dare not sell my liberty.”

            She made her choice, turned away from the pleasant future laid before her, and took up her load again.  With her one talent in her hand, she faced poverty, cheerfully teaching music, year after year; hoping always, complaining never, and finding herself a stronger, happier woman for that act: A richer woman also; for, though the husband was lost a true friend was gained—since the lover, with respect added to his love, said manfully, “She is right; God bless her!”

            S. is poor, plain, ungifted, and ordinary in all things but one—a cheerful, helpful spirit, that loves its neighbor better than itself, and cannot rest till it has proved its sincerity.  Few, so placed, would have lived forty hard, dull years without becoming either sharp and sour, or bitter and blue.  But S. is as sweet and sunny as a child; and, to those who know her, the personification of content.  The only talent she possesses is that of loving every helpless, suffering, forlorn and outcast creature whom she meets.  Finding her round of home duties too small for her benevolence, she became one of the home missionaries, whose reports are never read, whose salaries are never paid of earth.  Poverty-stricken homes, sick-beds, sinful souls, and sorrowing hearts attract her as pleasure attracts other women, and she faithfully ministers to such, unknown and unrewarded.

            “I never had a lover, and I never can have you know. I’m so plain,” she says, with a smile that is pathetic in its humility, its unconscious wistfulness.

            She is mistaken here; for there are many to whom that plain face is beautiful, that  helpful hand very dear. Her lovers are not of the romantic sort; but old women, little children, erring men, and forlorn girls give her an affection as endearing and sincere as any husband could have done.  Few will know her worth here, but, in the long hereafter, I am sure S. will be blest with eternal beauty, happiness, and love.

            A. is a woman of a strongly individual type, who in the course of an unusually varied experience has seen so much of what a wise man has called “the tragedy of modern married life,” that she is afraid to try it.  Knowing that for one of a peculiar nature like herself such an experiment would be doubly hazardous, she has obeyed instinct and become a chronic old maid.  Filial and fraternal love must satisfy her, and grateful that such ties are possible, she lives for them and is content.  Literature is a fond and faithful spouse, and the little family that has sprung up around her, though perhaps unloving and uninteresting to others is a profitable source of satisfaction to her maternal heart.  After a somewhat tempestuous voyage, she is glad to find herself in a quiet haven whence she can look back upon her vanished youth and feel that though the blossom of time of life is past, a little fruit remains to ripen in the early autumn coming on.  Not lonely,  for parents, brother and sisters,, friends and babies keep her heart full and warm; not idle, for necessity, stern, yet kindly teacher, has taught her worth of work; not unhappy, for love and labor, like good angels, walk at either hand, and the divine Friend fills the world with strength and beauty for the soul and eyes that have learned to see it thankfully.

            My sisters, don’t be afraid of the words, “old maid,” for it is in your power to make this a term of honor, not reproach.  It is not necessary to be a sour, spiteful spinster, with nothing to do but brew tea, talk scandal and tend a pocket-handkerchief.  No, the world is full of work, needing all the heads, hearts, and hands we can bring to it.  Never was there so splendid an opportunity for women to enjoy their liberty and prove that they deserve it by using it wisely.  If love comes as it should come, accept it in God’s name and be worthy of His best blessing.  If it never comes, then in God’s name reject the shadow of it, for that can never satisfy a hungry heart.  Do not be ashamed to own the truth—do not be daunted by the fear of ridicule and loneliness, nor saddened by the loss of a woman’s tenderest ties.  Be true to yourselves; cherish whatever talent you possess, and in using it faithfully for the good of others you will most assuredly find happiness for yourself, and make of life no failure, but a beautiful success.