Chinese puzzles, which are infinitely amusing; and all the great
family of the sphinx known as puzzles--are of infinite service to the
retired, quiet, lonely people for whom the active business of life
is at an end. The guessing of arithmetical puzzles, the solution of
enigmas, and the solution of a paradox--these amuse many an evening.
We may give one of these old things as an example. It is called “The
Blind Abbot and his Monks,” and is played with counters. Arrange eight
external cells of a square so that there may always be nine in each
row, though the whole number may vary from eighteen to thirty-six.
A convent in which there were nine cells was occupied by a blind abbot
and twenty-four monks, the abbot lodging in the center cell, and the
monks in the side cells, three in each, giving a row of nine persons on
each side of the building. The abbot, suspecting the fidelity of his
brethren, often went out at night and counted them, and when he found
nine in each row the old man counted his beads, said an Ave! and went
to bed contented. The monks, taking advantage of his failing sight,
contrived to deceive him, so that four could go out nightly, yet leave
nine in a row. How did they do it?
The next night, emboldened by success, the monks returned with four
visitors and then arranged them nine in a row. The next night they
brought in four more belated brethren, and again arranged them nine
in a row; and again four more. Finally, when the twelve clandestine
brothers had departed, and six monks with them, the remainder deceived
the abbot again by presenting a row of nine. Try it with the counters,
and see how they so abused the privileges of a conventual seclusion.
Then try quibbles--“How can I get wine out of a bottle if I have no
corkscrew, and must not break the glass or make any hole in it or the
cork?”
The telling of a good story well should be encouraged. The _raconteur_
can be the most delightful of all household blessings. A mother who
can tell a story well by the nursery fire is a potent force; and
the one who will light up the winter evening by telling stories of
adventures--the simplest every-day ones in the street--the little
journey, even the round of shopping, becomes very much of a treasure.
Some ladies commit to memory the stories of Hans Christian Andersen;
Grimm, the fairy-story maker; Charles Kingsley’s short stories,
Ouida’s “A Dog of Flanders,” or the poems of Dr. Holmes, or some
other benefactor of mankind, and tell these stories and poems in a
sort of unpremeditated way by the library-table. This is a charming
accomplishment. Some people have the gift of improvising, and will
tell a very good bit of ghost story in a very gruesome manner for the
entertainment of those who enjoy the night side of nature.
But this talent should never be abused. The man who in cold blood
fires off a long poetical quotation at a dinner, or makes a speech
in defiance of the goose-flesh which is creeping down his neighbors’
backs, is a traitor to honor and religion, and he deserves the death of
a Nihilist. It is only when these extempore talents can be used without
alarming people that they are useful or endurable.
We might make our Christmas holidays a little more gay in this country.
We might read and study up all the old English and the German customs,
beyond the mistletoe, the tree, and the rather faded legend of Santa
Claus. There are worlds of legendary lore which would help us to make
this time-honored festival even more lively and gay and amusing than it
is. We have not yet reached the English jollity at Christmas.
The supper-table has, as an American home festival, rather fallen into
desuetude. We sup out, but rarely have that informal and delightful
meal which once wound up every evening devoted to Home Amusement.
Mrs. Elizabeth Montague, in her delightful letters, talks about the
“whisk and the quadrille parties with a light supper” which amused the
ladies of her day. We still have the “whisk,” but what has become of
lansquenet, quadrille, basset, and piquet, those pretty and courtly
games?
Playing-cards made their way through Arabia from India to Europe, where
they first arrived about the year 1370. They carried with them the
two arts, engraving and painting. They were the _avants coureurs_ of
engraving on wood and metal, and of printing.
Cards early began to be the luxuries of kings and queens, the necessity
of the gambler, and the consolation of those who innocently like games.
Piquet, a courtly game, was invented by Étienne Vignoles, called _La
Hire_, one of the most active soldiers of the reign of Charles VII.
This brave soldier was an accomplished chevalier, deeply imbued with a
reverence for the manners and customs of chivalry. Cards continued from
this time to follow the whim of the court and to assume the character
of the period through the regency of Marie de Medicis, in the time of
Anne of Austria and of Louis XIV. The Germans are the first people
who essayed to make a pack of cards assume the form of a scholastic
treatise. The king, queen, knight, and _knave_ tell of English manners,
customs, and nomenclature.
XIX.
THE PARLOR.
That is a poorly-furnished parlor, think some people, which has not a
chess-table in one corner, a whist-table in the middle, and a little
solitaire-table at the other end near the fire, for grandma. People who
are fond of games stock their table drawers with cribbage boards and
backgammon, cards of every variety, bézique counters and packs, and the
red and white champions of the hard-fought battlefield of chess.
Mrs. Frances Anne Kemble, one of the most gifted of women--whose
recollections would, one would think, be the most attractive book
which one could read--is devoted to card solitaire. Every evening she
describes herself as spending an hour or two over these combinations.
This is not to be confused with the game of peg solitaire.
Whist! Who shall pretend to describe its attractions? What a relief it
is to the tired man of business who has been fighting the world all
day, to the woman who has no longer any part in the gay and glittering
pageant of society! What pleasure in its regulated, shifting fortunes!
We all have seen that holding the cards--even the highest ones--does
not always win the game. We have noticed that with a poor hand somebody
wins fame, success, happiness. We feel the injustice of that long suit
which has baffled our best endeavors. Whist is a parody on life; we
play our own experience over again in its faithless kings and queens.
The knave is apt to trip us up on the green cloth as on the street. We
are simply playing the real over in shadow.
The great passion for gambling is no doubt behind even the game of
Boston, played for beans. We all like to accumulate, to believe that we
are Fortune’s favorite. What matter if it be only a few more beans than
one’s neighbor? The principle remains the same.
So long as cards do not lead to gambling, they are innocent enough.
Indeed, they are a priceless boon to eyes which can no longer see to
read; to those who must get rid of time; to those who are ill, weary,
or unfortunate. We always wonder at seeing the young take to them; it
seems as if they could do so much better; but the sight of a parlor,
warm, well lighted, with its games going on in every corner, is not
a disagreeable one. Especially should the young ladies of the family
look to this arrangement, and see that everything is comfortable for
papa’s game of whist, bézique, or cribbage. They do not know how great
a necessity it may be to him--what a relief, what a consolation!
As for Chess, the devotee of this heavy, remorseless game has no
further need of our help or sympathy. To any one who likes to puzzle
his brain over the fantastic skips of the Knight or the prodigious
descent of the Castle, we can offer no suggestions except that he may
be left undisturbed.
As for Music, one can hardly say anything which has not been said about
its transcendent powers in assisting at every Home Amusement. The
family circle which has learned three or four instruments, the brothers
who can sing part songs, are to be envied. They can never suffer from a
dull evening. Even the musical absurdities of Kindergarten choruses are
to be commended, and the German mimicry of all the instruments. What a
blessing to a family is the man who can sing comic songs, and who also
does not sing them too often!
It is well, where it can be done easily, to allow young boys to sing
in church choirs; to train their voices, and be with musical people;
to learn choruses, chants, etc. In that way Arthur Sullivan began,
that benefactor of his species, the author of “Pinafore.” What has
_not_ “Pinafore” done to help along the musical education of our young
people? How it has been sung in country towns! How church choirs have
taken it up! How popular, innocent, sweet it is!
Now, in our musical home training we may not make an Arthur Sullivan,
but we shall certainly add to the sum of innocent enjoyment; and it is
a delightful fact that if there are six or seven children in a family,
one of them is apt to have a good voice, one a talent for the piano,
and generally all can be taught to play and sing a little. Sometimes
there are rarely gifted, great musical organizations in all the sons
and daughters, which is a supreme blessing. For there is not only Home
Amusement in it, but a certainty of making a good living, if fortune
frowns and makes work necessary.
The only deep shadow to the musical picture is the necessity of
practicing, which is _not_ a Home Amusement; it is a home torture.
If only a person could learn to play or sing without those dreadful
first noises and those hideous shrieks! But, since these are not to
be avoided, some one in the family must have the tact to arrange them
well, and to have the hours of the various students so placed that
there need not be a perpetual tinkle-tinkle, or something worse.
The season of early spring and summer! Oh! what sounds come through the
first open casement! How dreadful is that _appoggiatura_! how fearful
that badly-played waltz! Is it possible that yon violinist will ever be
Maurice Dengrémont? And yet it is by these hard chromatic steps that
all have mounted the heavenly stairs of melody.
No young lady should sing in public--that is, before a party of
friends--until she can sing _well_. In these days, when amateur
cultivation has reached a high point, let everybody say to herself,
“Am I sufficiently advanced to give pleasure by my singing?” and let
her modestly abstain from singing if she finds that, after hearing her
once, her friends do not press her to sing again. There is, perhaps,
nothing so foolish as for a woman to persist in singing in her own
parlor when she is not a thoroughly good vocalist. No one can get away
from her there. They must suffer. Still, if birds _can_ sing, they
should sing. Nothing is more disagreeable than to have to urge a person
to sing. The possessor of a voice is always a very rare and much to
be envied person, and a certain amiability in singing becomes such a
person very much.
All young ladies who have been taught the piano should have some pieces
learned, and be able to play for the amusement of the home circle.
Especially should they be able to play for dancing. A few waltzes are
very convenient. They often help off a dull evening wonderfully. The
person who plays should be willing occasionally to be made use of. Are
we not all made use of at times? Is not the good talker in perpetual
request? The _raconteuse_--is she not begged to tell that story over
and over again? Does not the wit find himself invited out to dinner to
amuse the company? And are they not all, if amiable, glad to perform
their part? Surely the pianist should be as amiable!
Reading aloud is one of the most common of Home Amusements, and one
of the best. It is a pity, however, that our women, especially,
do not cultivate elocution a little, so that they may read aloud
intelligently. There is no prettier accomplishment. A lady at
a watering-place, who can read a poem or story well, is always
surrounded. The sweet voice, the correct accent, the air of
intelligence--all give the author a great help, and Longfellow never
wrote a prettier stanza than this:
“Then read from the favored volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The music of thy voice.”
But, when the favored volume and the poem have to be filtered through
a nasal accent and an uneducated drawl, we feel that the poet has
been vilified, and his gold and silver turns to dross. Every woman
especially should remember the fable of the girl whose lips dropped
pearls and diamonds, who was so much more agreeable as a friend and
acquaintance than that other damsel whose lips dropped toads and
vipers. The latter, evidently, had never taken lessons in elocution.
We have a certain national vice in pronunciation and in accent which we
ought to correct. A moment’s listening to the English accent will soon
teach us to pronounce with a more melodious finish. We need not hug
ourselves with any vainglorious national conceit. We do _not_ speak as
well as our English cousins.
XX.
THE KITCHEN.
We began at the garret, and we are now at the kitchen. So our readers
may learn that we are on the home-stretch, and shall be through very
soon. If we have wearied them, let them bear with us but a little
longer, and then, on our faithful steed, whom they shall find at the
kitchen door, they shall ride off and never be troubled with us any
more.
A model kitchen is every housekeeper’s delight. In these days of tiles
and modern improvement, what pretty things kitchens are!
The modern dairy, with its upright milk-pans, in which the cream
is marked off by a neat little thermometer; the fire-brick floor;
the exquisite range, with its polished _batterie de cuisine_; every
brilliant brass saucepan, seeming to say, “Come and cook in me”; every
porcelain-lined pan urging upon one the necessity of stewing nectarines
in white sugar; every bright can suggesting the word “conserve,” which
always makes the mouth water; every clatter of the skewers, saying,
“Dainty dishes, dainty dishes, come and make me! Come and make me!” All
this is quite fascinating to an amateur.
No pretty woman--did she but know it--is ever half so pretty as when
she is playing cook. The clean, white apron, the neat, short cambric
dress, the little cap, the fair bare arms--does the reader remember
Ruth Pinch and the beefsteak-pie? A lady should make the desserts in
summer sometimes. Such ice-cream, such glorified Charlotte Russe, such
cakes, such delicate apple-pies, such creams and jellies as fall from a
lady’s fingers--these are ambrosial food!
There is among certain women a great passion for the cleanly part of
household work. The love of a dairy has grown to be a favorite task
with many a duchess. In our country, where ladies are compelled to put
a hand, perhaps once too often, to the household work, owing to the
inefficiency of the servants, this is _not_ ordinarily considered the
most thoroughly amusing of Home Amusements. To cook a heavy dinner in
warm weather, to wash dishes afterward--this is sober prose, and by a
very dull author. But the poetry of house-work, the rose hue o’er our
russet cares--this can be classed as a Home Amusement.
In the early morning we can imagine a lady going into her neat kitchen
to prepare the desserts for the day, and finding it very agreeable. She
will set her well-flavored custard away in the ice-chest with a serene
knowledge of how good it will be at dinner, and place her compote of
pears securely on a high shelf, away from that ubiquitous visitor
the cat, who has in most families so remarkable and irrepressible
an appetite. She can take a turn at the milk-pan, and skim off the
cream herself if she pleases. It will be much thicker if she does.
It is a not unpleasant duty to steal into the kitchen ten minutes
before dinner, to see to it that the roast birds are garnished with
watercresses, that the vegetables are properly prepared, that the
silver dishes are without a smear. All this sort of attention makes
good servants, and very good dinners.
It is often one of the Home Amusements for a party of girls to try
their hand at clear-starching. Statira, indeed, does not like this; but
they should learn to flute their own ruffles. Who knows but they may
marry an army officer, and go to Nebraska?
All sorts of fine washing and ironing, all sorts of doing up of lace,
of renovating old silks, etc., may be made into Home Amusements,
if done cheerfully, and in the right spirit. The modern embroidery
requiring pressing, the many modern accomplishments of lace-making,
_appliqué_, etc., lead a young lady into the kitchen, and she can
derive a vast deal of amusement from this room, if she chooses.
One of the holiest of duties is to learn how to cook for the sick. This
requires a great deal of patient talent, and it is a sufficient reward
if we can see the beloved convalescent tasting our arrowroot and sago,
and good beef-tea and jelly, with approbation.
Among Home Amusements, how many reckon the jolly party assembled
to make the wedding-cake? Susan and Sarah shall stone the raisins,
Charlotte and Clara shall beat the eggs, Louisa shall slice the citron,
Matilda, who has a judicial mind, shall weigh! Then all shall stir, and
who shall be the one to get the ring?
The baking is momentous. Mamma had better be consulted here. And then
the great question of the icing! Oh! how anxious! The mince-pies
require another season of deep thought and much very stringent
stirring. The excellent brandy, the dash of orange curaçoa, must be
poured out by the lady, else why is it that ever after the mince-pie
seems to lack that inspiriting and hidden fire? We read that there is
many a slip between the cup and the lip!
The modern elegant devices by which strawberries, violets, and
orange-blossoms are candied in sugar, effect a Home Amusement for
dainty-fingered girls; and since the establishment in Boston of a
cooking club, at which each young lady is to contribute some article of
her own cooking, we see signs of a revival in all branches of the great
art of cookery which is most encouraging. It was a notable old maxim
among Puritan mothers that every wife should know how to make bread,
and, perhaps, it has not died out yet.
Looking at the subject broadly, every thoroughly accomplished woman
should know how to do everything, from making a soup up to a cup of
tea--the Alpha and the Omega of cookery.
In the matter of flavoring, the colored race have us at a great
disadvantage. Any old colored cook can distance her white “Missus”
here. This highly-gifted race seem to have a sixth sense on the subject
of flavors. The rich tropical nature breaks out in reminiscences of
orange-blossoms, pineapple, guava, cocoanut, and Mandarin orange.
Never can the descendants of the poor, half-starved, frozen exiles
of Plymouth Rock hope to achieve such custards and puddings as these
Ethiops turn out. And as to the juicyness of their fried oysters and
their inimitable terrapin, who has ever approached them? It is as if
a luxurious and tasteful, beneficent power had left us, when we were
given what we proudly call a “higher intelligence.” Who would not
exchange all the cold mathematical supremacy in which we glory for that
luscious gift of making pies and puddings _à ravir_?
XXI.
THE FAMILY HORSE, AND OTHER PETS.
Standing at the kitchen door, all ready for the most timorous to drive,
is the most important minister to the Home Amusements--the family
horse. He is a beast of burden, no doubt. There is but little Arab
steed left in him, if, indeed, there ever was much. He is a plodder,
a patient, much put-upon beast. The boys can harness him, the girls
can drive him. He is allowed to take out grandma--when she consents to
be driven, and isn’t afraid of the railroad train, and does not think
that it is going to rain. The baby, when he takes his first adventurous
journey down the village street, is put in state and in blankets behind
the family horse. No one is afraid of Blossom. No one likes to whip
him, because if he were whipped, what antics he might give way to!
Blossom is an exceedingly inappropriate name. Dried Leaf would be far
more descriptive. Still Blossom is adhered to, because the suggestion
that he was once young, and that really he is frisky, in his silent
way, is still a delightful legend in the family.
Blossom, who is an intelligent old beast, knows perfectly well how
utterly weak and imbecile the whole family are about him. So he will
never do anything but walk and trot very gently, because he knows
that no one dares to whip him. Once a young cousin, who had none of
the family reverence for Blossom, did give him a few cuts on his
exceedingly smooth, fat sides. Blossom had the presence of mind to
stand up on his hind legs, frightening mamma nearly to death; and she
mentioned, in Blossom’s hearing, that “he never was to be whipped
again, because he really had a great deal of fire in him, and would not
brook whip or spur!”
“I remember, dear,” she says, “your father says that he heard, when he
bought him, that he came of very proud stock.”
It has been noticed that when papa wishes to catch the train Blossom
can go as fast as anybody.
Blossom is a great pet, and he has that instinct of a good family
horse--he stops when anything is wrong. Once, when the harness broke,
Blossom, instead of running, stopped short, and saved the lives of
the whole family. He has a quick ear for a coming railway train, and
never has balked going up hill. The girls feed him with sugar, and take
their first ride on his dear, safe, hard old back. The boys have had
imaginary jousts with neighboring knights, urging him in the lists. He
has been put through all the sports of the middle ages, has Blossom,
and probably he distrusts the institution of chivalry. Still, he likes
the boys, and does all that a phlegmatic temperament and an indomitable
laziness will allow in the way of a spirited and impulsive charge.
There _are_ persons whom Blossom dislikes; one is the spinster sister,
Miss Caroline, who drives him with many a whirrup, and “get up,” and
“g’lang,” and has a nervous twitch to her hand, and a distrustful and
uncertain temper with the whip. Miss Caroline nags Blossom, as she has
nagged everything and everybody all her life, and Blossom resents her
absence of repose and confidence by starting wildly to right and left
as he goes down the village street, appearing to make for a distant
fence when she is endeavoring to guide his nose toward the gate of the
parsonage. Indeed, the village wit says that if he sees only the back
of the family carriage he can tell that Miss Caroline is driving, as he
watches that respected vehicle describing parabolas and angles as it
wobbles down the street.
When mamma drives, Blossom goes in a slow, stately, but dignified
manner, and, although he imposes upon her good-nature, and does not
put forth any mile-in-three-minutes style, yet he shows a due respect
for himself and her. When the girls drive him, he, feeling through
the reins a little of the ichor of their young blood, becomes almost
vivacious, and goes almost half as fast as he can go. When papa drives,
he feels a strong hand behind him, and actually gets there.
Every family should have as many animals as possible. Dogs of every
breed and variety--especially big ones, and good ones, like mastiffs
and Newfoundlands, and a few little ones to play with. Cats and
kittens, if they like them, rabbits, goats, pigeons, lambs, peacocks,
etc., and as much live-stock as can be accommodated about the place
should be there. These four-footed friends, especially dogs, are
indispensable in the country. What attachments one forms for them! How
dreary the hour when they die! Perhaps, then, we wish that they had
not been so intimate, so dear, so loving, so trustful. The walk, the
ramble, the quiet seat on the piazza--all, all must be endeared by the
silent friendship of the dogs.