By squeezing your waist into an unnaturally small circumference, you compress your lives into the small compass of a few short years—you don’t give the bellowses in your bosoms a chance to blow and keep bright the flames of existence—the warm glow of health soon leaves your cheek, or flashes by fits and starts, like the half choked gas-burner—your eyes in a short time cease to sparkle with joy and love—your roses of beauty quickly fade and fall—you look as dull and worn out as sunlight strained through the windows of a Catholic cathedral. Now, my interesting young creaturesses, what do you gain by all your self-squeezing?