"BUTTERED PARSNIPS."
I shall never forget the first time I heard the homely proverb, once
better known than now, "Fine words butter no parsnips."
A bitter-tongued old lady, with an eye like a hawk's, and a certain
suspicious turn of the head to this side and that which reminded one
of the same bird of prey, was discussing a new neighbor.
"I don't hold with meaching ways at any time and in anybody," said the
thin croak, made more husky by snuff, a pinch of which she held
between thumb and finger, the joined digits punctuating her
strictures. "And she's one of the fair-and-softy sort. A pleasant word
to this one, and a smile to that, and always recollecting who is sick,
and who is away from home, and ready to talk about what pleases you,
and not herself, and praising your biscuits and your bonnets and your
babies, and listening to you while you are talking as if there was
nobody else upon earth."
Like the octogenarian whose teeth gave out before his dry toast, she
"hadn't finished, but she stopped" there, being clean out of breath.
"But Mrs. A.!" I raised my girlish voice to reach the deaf ears. "I
think all that is beautiful. I only wish I could imitate her, and be
as popular and as much beloved."
"Humph!" inhaling the snuff spitefully. "She's too sweet to be
wholesome. Fair words butter no parsnips. Look out for a tongue that's
smooth on both sides. What does the Bible say of the hypocrite? 'The
words of his mouth were smoother than butter.' I'd rather have honest
vinegar!"
I stood too much in dread of her frankness to ask if sugar is never
honest, or to speculate audibly why she chose parsnips with their
length of fibre and peculiar cloying sweet, as types of daily living.
The adage seemed droll enough to me then, and it is odd even now that
I have become familiar with it in the talk of old-fashioned people.
Interpreting it as they do, I dispute it stoutly. Parsnips may be only
passable to most palates even when buttered. They would be intolerable
with vinegar. Furthermore,--before we drop the figure,--if anything
can butter them, it is fair words.
This business which we call living is not easy at the best. Our
parsnips are sometimes tough and stringy; sometimes insipid; often
withered by drought or frost-bitten. If served without sauce, they--to
quote our old-fashioned people again--"go against the stomach."
There is a pernicious fallacy to the effect that a rough tongue is an
honest one. There are quite as many unpleasant untruths told as there
are flattering falsehoods. Because a speech is kind it is not of
necessity a lie, nor does a remark gain in truth in direct ratio as it
loses its politeness. Often the blunt criticism is the outcome of a
savage instinct on the part of the perpetrator. In America, men and
women (always excepting Italians) do not carry poniards concealed in
their breasts, or swords at their sides. In lieu of these the tongue
is used to revenge an evil.
The Psalmist exclaims: "Let the righteous smite me; it shall be a
kindness; and let him reprove me; it shall be an excellent oil," but
the average representative of the nineteenth century will not echo his
sentiment. It may be that the "righteous" of that day had a more
agreeable way of offering reproof than have the modern saints. However
that may be, the "excellent oil" seems to have given place to
corrosive sublimate and carbolic acid--neither of which, applied in an
undiluted form, may be even remotely suspected of soothing an open
wound. True, they are fatal to bacteria, but at the same time they
madden the sufferer as would coals of living fire.
Even supposing one lays herself open to the charge of flattery, is it
not less of a fault than to merit the reputation for brutal
fault-finding? Who would not rather be a healer than a scarifier?
"Faithful may be the wounds of a friend" (and on this word "friend" I
lay special stress), but the converse is also true. Faithful are his
healings. Have you never had a whole day brightened by some seemingly
chance remark which warmed the cockles of your heart with a delicious
glow? It may have been that you were disappointed in some cherished
scheme--how much disappointed no one guessed and you were ashamed to
confess. It may have been that you were struggling to be brave and
cheerful under some trial, the weight of which you thought others
could not appreciate. The cheering word may only have been--"My dear,
how sweet you are looking to-day! You do my old eyes good." Or perhaps
an appreciative other-half has pressed your hand and whispered, "You
are the bravest little woman in the world!" Who does not remember how,
at such a time, the unexpected sympathy or encouragement brought the
quick tears to the eyes, and to the cheeks the flush which meant a
bound of joy from the heavy heart? If we could but remember that we
are told to "speak the truth in love!" In "love," recollect,--not in
temper. Do not be the accursed one by whom the offences come. They
will come. The Evil One will look out for that, but it is not worth
while for you to make his work too easy. Determine to train yourself
strictly to see the many excellent qualities possessed by your
associates, and you will be surprised to find that before long the
disagreeable traits will only appear as foils for the good. Cultivate
an eye for pleasant characteristics, and do not encourage people who
are prone to rough speech. Frown down the blunt expression of opinion
and it will cease to be considered praiseworthy frankness. The woman
of whom the Royal Preacher speaks, "in whose tongue was the law of
kindness," probably showed that kindness by being agreeable, or we may
be sure no human being of the masculine gender would have considered
her price far above rubies; nor add with such sublime confidence--"her
husband also, and he praises her."
One such woman never forgot to thank anyone for the slightest favor,
and I have seen a burly and phlegmatically sombre policeman smile with
unexpected pleasure at receiving the sweet-faced "thank you!" with
which she always acknowledged his pilotage over a crowded
street-crossing.
It is time that people comprehended that it is not their duty to be
disagreeably frank, when another's comfort is the price thereof. An
unkind sentence has the power of lodgment in the mind. It is like the
red "chigoe" which inserts his tiny head in the flesh and burrows
until he causes a throbbing fester. For instance, I have never
forgotten a speech which was addressed to me over twenty years ago. It
was just after we had built an unpretending, but thoroughly cozy
summer cottage, nestled in a grove of trees that threw long shadows
into a silvery lake. The man in question told me he never saw our
light at night from the other side of the pretty sheet of water that
it did not "remind him of a charcoal-burner's hut in the heart of a
wilderness." It would be of interest to ascertain why this needlessly
unkind remark was made. Since there were at least one or two pleasant
features in the landscape, why could he not call attention to them?
It is not necessary that we should flatter, but let us be lavishly
generous with what French cooks call _sauce agreable_, since parsnips
must be eaten. Some efforts in this line remind me of a story I
recently heard of a farmer who received at a New York restaurant the
customary small pat of butter with his Vienna roll. Imperiously
beckoning to a waiter, he commanded him to "wipe that grease spot off
that plate, and bring him some butter!"
Let us give more than the grease spot. Better go to the other extreme,
and drown our friend's neglected parsnips in fresh, pure
un-oleomargarined, and entirely sweet butter.