their
ambitions, for a Southern girl without a man was like a
pushwainling without wheels. Southern boys, superintended parent
and patron alike, must be polished at all points and trained
correctly lest they flag in those battles for which they were now
in the very preparation, whether against the enemy agents of this
country or in behalf of Southern ideals, of which the girls at
Quinsy College, and like schools, were the most charming
synecdoche, and while there was a generous plenty—an epidemic, in
fact—of prep schools and Presbyterian colleges all over Virginia,
anti-intellectual rest homes which taught overadvantaged quidnuncs
how to wear rep ties and smile, the closest parallel to the female
academy, juxtaposing chivalry with charm, was the military
academy.
Virginia is famous for its many military academies.
All, in point of fact, are one. It is at best a technique mine of
Prussian fanaticism, an encampment of stibnite-colored barracks and
halls sticking up dolefully in the middle of acres of castrate
lawns, and, as advertised, usually in the rearward pages of
national magazines—always showing either a little chevalier midway
over a baffle or some lost, disappointed boy, too old for his age,
staring out in parade dress—it is invariably named something like
Stirrup-and-Halter Hall or St. Bugle’s Academy or Furlongville and
run by a man called Colonel Forksplit, a vole-eyed martinet with a
back straight as a Hepplewhite chair and a mouthful of sententious
stories, all lies, about Stonewall Jackson’s boyhood. His
charges—you can always see them standing alone, glum, in the
Washington, D.C. bus terminals after holidays—must adhere to the
regimental uniform which is nothing more than a bit of jerry jingle
stolen from the Yeomen of the Guard. But uniforms have plenty of
buttons, and Southern girls, whose adoration for uniforms must be
listed, after
amour-propre
, as the most pronounced
regional hobble against the First Commandment,
always
hold
you by the button when they speak to you.
Were Quinsy girls, then, familiarized with all the
social graces, schooled to realize that by a failure of either
fashion or forthputfulness it might very well cost them an M.R.S.
degree?
The handbook, encouraging power without aggression,
covered all contingencies. The caveats were long and
letter-perfect. They were never to dip sippets, lap stamps, or chew
gum, and upon the occasion of being invited to dine out to wear
dotted Swiss, eat little, and remember that one variety of meat and
one kind of vegetable was the maximum. At least one half of the
fare, a sop of grace to gluttony, must be left in the plate. They
were told that game bones must never be lifted to the mouth nor
strenuously attacked, scraped, or twirled. They were always to use
palliatives when giving opinions of consequence and yet, at the
same time, encouraged to shape the gentlemen callers who were
over-saucy with them, or who had small respect in their talk, such
an answer that they may well understand they were offended with
them, not so sharply, however, that the escort be irrevocably
turned away. They were asked not to crake or boast, not to use any
fond sauciness or presumption but, if dancing, say, to dance well
without over-nimble footings or too busy tricks—and it was advised
they neither reverse in waltzing nor dip.
Curtseying was encouraged, as long as every girl
remembered that there have been many women who have owed their ruin
to an awkward attempt at such. She was counseled against shingling
the hair, sipping audibly, effecting a need in public for toilet
facilities, and always, in instance without number, to take heed
that she give none the occasion to make ill report of her,
whereupon, for example, if she went riding, she must never ride
astride, whoop untowardly, or button the third button of the
hacking jacket. The carriage of a young lady must, at all times, be
respectful without meanness, easy without familiarity,
ambitions, for a Southern girl without a man was like a
pushwainling without wheels. Southern boys, superintended parent
and patron alike, must be polished at all points and trained
correctly lest they flag in those battles for which they were now
in the very preparation, whether against the enemy agents of this
country or in behalf of Southern ideals, of which the girls at
Quinsy College, and like schools, were the most charming
synecdoche, and while there was a generous plenty—an epidemic, in
fact—of prep schools and Presbyterian colleges all over Virginia,
anti-intellectual rest homes which taught overadvantaged quidnuncs
how to wear rep ties and smile, the closest parallel to the female
academy, juxtaposing chivalry with charm, was the military
academy.
Virginia is famous for its many military academies.
All, in point of fact, are one. It is at best a technique mine of
Prussian fanaticism, an encampment of stibnite-colored barracks and
halls sticking up dolefully in the middle of acres of castrate
lawns, and, as advertised, usually in the rearward pages of
national magazines—always showing either a little chevalier midway
over a baffle or some lost, disappointed boy, too old for his age,
staring out in parade dress—it is invariably named something like
Stirrup-and-Halter Hall or St. Bugle’s Academy or Furlongville and
run by a man called Colonel Forksplit, a vole-eyed martinet with a
back straight as a Hepplewhite chair and a mouthful of sententious
stories, all lies, about Stonewall Jackson’s boyhood. His
charges—you can always see them standing alone, glum, in the
Washington, D.C. bus terminals after holidays—must adhere to the
regimental uniform which is nothing more than a bit of jerry jingle
stolen from the Yeomen of the Guard. But uniforms have plenty of
buttons, and Southern girls, whose adoration for uniforms must be
listed, after
amour-propre
, as the most pronounced
regional hobble against the First Commandment,
always
hold
you by the button when they speak to you.
Were Quinsy girls, then, familiarized with all the
social graces, schooled to realize that by a failure of either
fashion or forthputfulness it might very well cost them an M.R.S.
degree?
The handbook, encouraging power without aggression,
covered all contingencies. The caveats were long and
letter-perfect. They were never to dip sippets, lap stamps, or chew
gum, and upon the occasion of being invited to dine out to wear
dotted Swiss, eat little, and remember that one variety of meat and
one kind of vegetable was the maximum. At least one half of the
fare, a sop of grace to gluttony, must be left in the plate. They
were told that game bones must never be lifted to the mouth nor
strenuously attacked, scraped, or twirled. They were always to use
palliatives when giving opinions of consequence and yet, at the
same time, encouraged to shape the gentlemen callers who were
over-saucy with them, or who had small respect in their talk, such
an answer that they may well understand they were offended with
them, not so sharply, however, that the escort be irrevocably
turned away. They were asked not to crake or boast, not to use any
fond sauciness or presumption but, if dancing, say, to dance well
without over-nimble footings or too busy tricks—and it was advised
they neither reverse in waltzing nor dip.
Curtseying was encouraged, as long as every girl
remembered that there have been many women who have owed their ruin
to an awkward attempt at such. She was counseled against shingling
the hair, sipping audibly, effecting a need in public for toilet
facilities, and always, in instance without number, to take heed
that she give none the occasion to make ill report of her,
whereupon, for example, if she went riding, she must never ride
astride, whoop untowardly, or button the third button of the
hacking jacket. The carriage of a young lady must, at all times, be
respectful without meanness, easy without familiarity,
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