The preceding chapters describe established customs in home
entertaining. Such rules remain in force for the home conditions.
But who can live in this electric-motor age without noting the gradual
variation in "the ways of doing things"--changes that are directly
traceable to the influence of modern inventions? The trolley lines
have brought large areas within the city limits; the swift automobile
has reduced miles to furlongs. Town and country are intermingled as
never before, and each is sensibly modified by the other. By its very
name, the "Town and Country" club recognizes this new community of
interests. Its members, living even twenty miles away, outdo
Sheridan's ride, in arriving at the club on time for luncheon, golf, or
dinner.
Which brings to mind this fact: that to-day a large part of formal
entertaining in cities is no longer _at home_. Elaborate dinners,
teas, and luncheons are given at one's club, or at _cafes_, exclusive
"tea rooms," and in the elegantly appointed private dining-rooms now
provided by the best hotels. After-theatre suppers are almost
invariably taken at a fashionable restaurant--doubtless greatly to the
relief of both the hostess and her housemaids. While cooperative
housekeeping is still an undeveloped scheme, things seem to be trending
that way.
The multiplication of huge apartment houses (and diminutive apartments)
is the other prime factor in the case. While the hotel dinner may have
come into fashion first as the dire necessity of the "cliff dwellers,"
its convenience appeals to many householders who formerly would not
have dreamed of offering their guests the hospitality of a _cafe_.
Many conservative people still deplore the innovation; but fashion
approves, and the custom grows.
Entertaining at one's club is governed by the rules of that particular
club. When entertaining at tea rooms, or _cafes_, one has simply to
arrange with the superintendent or the head waiter, for tables or
private dining-room, for the date chosen; to choose the _menu_, and
order the decorations. This done, the entertainers and their friends
have but to appear at the stated hour and play their respective roles
with care-free grace. These dinners may be given by a bachelor, to a
mixed company, or to a bevy of the debutantes, with the co-operation of
a society matron or a married couple to chaperone the affair. This is
a very pleasant way for a bachelor to make return for the social
attentions showered on himself.
This way of entertaining may be lavishly expensive, but it is not
necessarily so; all things considered, it may not greatly exceed the
cost of similar entertaining at home. In this land of the free, any
one who will may give a tea room luncheon. But the semi-publicity of
these functions invites criticism; and people of moderate income
discreetly forbear attempting anything too ambitious for their obvious
means. Elegant simplicity is always good form.
The universal use of the telephone is another factor in the
modification of social customs. Among familiar friends, the little
chat over the 'phone largely takes the place of the informal call.
Also, invitations to any but strictly formal functions are now sent by
telephone, if agreeable to both parties; though it is still considered
better to adhere to the more respectful written form if there is any
doubt about the new way being acceptable to the party of the second
part. While I counsel conservatism in these changes, I am convinced
that the new dynasty of wire and wireless is destined to dominate us;
and as discovery continues and inventions multiply, the time is near
when _immediate communication_ will be had at long range; possibly
telepathy--who knows? Or, possibly tele-photography with it--why not?
Then, the slow, laborious writing of messages will be as much out of
date as the super-annuated stage-coach.
But--not yet; we are still in the process of evolution. It is still
safe to heed Pope's famous advice:
"Be not the first by whom the new is tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside."
"THE STRANGER THAT IS WITHIN THY GATES"
It is the duty of the host or hostess to give a polite and cheerful
welcome to the guest whom they have invited to cross their threshold.
During the time that she remains under their roof they have the
responsibility of making her comfortable, and as happy as possible. To
do this, attention to details is of the greatest consequence. It is
possible to give dinners, and _musicales_, and receptions for a guest,
and to introduce her to a choice circle of friends; to plan drives and
excursions for sight-seeing to points of interest; to bring out the
best preserves from the store-room, and put on the table all the
delicacies of the season; and yet something may be lacking. A subtle
expression of discomfort may at times cloud the face of the guest, and
greatly disturb the anxious hostess, who redoubles her efforts to think
of something else in the way of entertainment and diversion. If this
well-meaning hostess will accompany me to the guest-room while its
temporary occupant is reading on the "front porch," perhaps I can point
out to her some things that will give a clue to the mystery.
The guest-room is large and airy, and "well-furnished," as the phrase
goes, with a soft carpet prevailingly blue, and a prettily carved oaken
"set." The bed is covered with a lace counterpane over a blue silk
quilt, and downy pillows invite to slumber. Curtains of blue silk and
white lace are draped at the windows; cushions, tidies, sachets,
gim-cracks of every description load the bureau, and lie around in
profusion; a pretty rug of fluffy fur is spread before a comfortable
couch, and a rocking-chair and foot-stool are in the cozy window
recess. A small table with a vase of flowers upon it occupies one
space against the wall. The wash-stand bears the regulation "toilet
set," bowl and pitcher, soap-dish, etc., with the china jar set in the
corner. Plenty of damask towels hang on the rack, and the "splasher"
is a marvel of needlework. Well, is not this a pretty comfortable room?
It seems ungracious to answer nay; but truth compels me to say that it
proves to be a most _un_comfortable room, as managed. Since the guest
arrived, this three-quart pitcher has been filled each morning with
cold water. Beyond this, no offer of the aqueous element in any form
has been made. The guest, accustomed at home to an abundance of hot
water, and the luxury of a bath daily--or oftener, at will--has been
suffering the greatest privation rather than trouble her hostess with a
request for something which is so evidently not thought of in this
house. With soap that "chaps," and a stiff nail-brush she has
painfully scrubbed her cold knuckles to remove the grime which several
days of imperfect ablution has rendered almost immovable--except as the
skin comes with it. And as to her customary bath, she has substituted
so much of hasty sponging as chattering teeth will allow, finishing off
with a dry polish when prudence forbids further risk of a chill; and
she has completed her toilet with a sense of self-disgust, and a
dissatisfaction with her surroundings which makes her long for the day
set for the termination if this visit, which might have been so
pleasant, if she had been made physically comfortable. When she goes
home she will answer, to the kind inquiries of her mother: "Oh! yes; I
had a lovely time!--or that is, I should have had, if only I could have
had a _bath_!"
Whether it is that some people do not care for bathing, and therefore
do not realize its necessity to the comfort of other people; or whether
they have an idea that a "guest" is a being who, while in that _role_,
needs none of the ordinary comforts of every-day life; or, whatever the
reason may be, this failure to provide bath facilities is one of the
most common and flagrant neglects of hospitality.
When the guest-room has no private bath attached, and it is
impracticable to offer the use of the family bath-room, a small tub of
zinc or granite ware should be included in the furnishing of the
guest-room, together with a square of thin oil-cloth to spread on the
carpet. The guest should be informed that hot water is always in
readiness to be brought to her room whenever she requires it. In
country houses having no "modern conveniences," every kitchen stove may
have an ample boiler always filled with clean water, so that at all
times hot water may be available for bathing purposes. It is
unpardonable to live without at least this much provision for an
essential condition of civilized life--"the cleanliness that is next to
godliness."
In addition to the water supply, the guest-room should contain other
requisites for a comfortable toilet. Presumably, every guest who comes
for a several-days' stay brings with her the small articles she will
need; but oversights are frequent in hurried packing, and the resources
of the guest-room should be equal to any such emergency, even though
only a part of the provision is required in any one case. A neat,
close cabinet, with a closet beneath and shelves above, is a desirable
piece of furniture. In the closet the bath-tub can be stored, and
bath-brushes, "loofahs," and sponges can be hung up while the shelves
may hold a supply of toilet sundries; for example, a flask of bay rum,
and one of violet-water; a bottle of spirits of ammonia, a bottle of
alcohol, a spirit lamp and curling tongs, tooth-powder, rosewater, and
glycerine; a jar of fine cold-cream, hair-brush and combs, a
clothes-brush, a whisk broom, a reserve supply of soap--"Ivory" (if the
water is hard, this soap is superior for the bath) and fine castile,
and a delicately-scented soap of first quality. The cheap "scented"
abominations should not be inflicted on a guest.
The dressing-table should have a supply of pins in variety, including
hairpins; a work-box, containing needles and thread, a thimble,
scissors, tape, shoe-buttons, etc. A bottle of cologne and also of
some first-class "triple extract" should stand on the bureau.
With all this provided, one is not likely to lack any comfort for the
toilet; yet, with it all, the hostess should make her guest understand
that the motto is: "If you don't see what you want, ask for it." This
freedom will not be taken by a sensitive guest unless it is clearly
invited. The self-complacent way in which a hostess sometimes ushers a
guest into the "best room," and then leaves her to the mercy of what
she can find--or, rather, _cannot_ find--forestalls all requests for
additional supplies. In the midst of all the satin and lace flummery,
it is pathetic to suffer in silence for the lack of a little beggarly
hot water. And yet, such is the experience of many an "honored guest."
Beside the toilet comforts, there are other things that may well be
added to the equipment of the guest-room. One, in particular, is a
well-appointed little writing-desk, containing all the requisites for
letter-writing, including stamps. Perhaps the guest has brought these
things with her, more likely she has forgotten them, and it may be a
matter of great convenience to her to find this little desk awaiting
her. If there is a shelf above, a selection of standard and
entertaining books may be placed thereon. The Bible, a book of Common
Prayer, a hymnal, may be included; a copy of Shakespeare, a dictionary,
some clever and interesting book, like _Curious Questions_, and a
volume or two of sketches and essays, ranging in style from Emerson to
Jerome K. Jerome, may agreeably fill the mid-day hour of rest which the
guest takes in her room before dressing for the afternoon. The only
trouble is that the guest who is made so thoroughly comfortable may
forget to go home. At all events, she will no doubt hail with delight
a second invitation to come.
It may be objected that to keep the guest-room supplied to this extent
would involve a considerable expense; but that would depend on the
character of the guest. No well-bred woman would depend on these
"supplies" for the entire period of a long visit. They are there to
meet the emergency of a belated trunk, of something forgotten or
overlooked, or the delays in making necessary purchases after her
arrival. She will gratefully accept the cologne until her own flask is
unpacked, but she leaves the guest-room supply but little diminished
when she departs.
The hostess who has been embittered by seeing only a train of empty
bottles in the wake of a departing guest may naturally feel discouraged
about offering unlimited hospitality in the matter of druggists'
sundries. But it is merely that she has been unfortunate in her
guests. She should revise her visiting list. In entertaining the
right sort of people, she will have no such experience. She will be
fully rewarded for every care she bestows to make her house a home-like
resort, and she will find that the cost amounts to very little compared
with the large return it brings in the way of social appreciation, to
say nothing of the satisfaction afforded to her own benevolent
impulses. "It is more blessed to give than to receive," as the ideal
hostess can testify.
"MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME"
The responsibilities of a visit are not all on the shoulders of a
hostess. The guest has also a duty in the matter.
The phrase of welcome quoted above is variously interpreted, if we may
judge by the various ways in which the injunction is obeyed. To some
people, "make yourself at home" is a free permit to take possession of
everything on the premises; to cut the choicest roses in the garden, to
call for the carriage at capricious will, to consult no one's comfort
but their own, and to impose upon the polite forbearance of every one
else, regardless--in short, to behave as no one can behave at home for
any length of time without disrupting that home.
To _make one's self_ at home is to _adapt one's self_ to one's
environment. If things are different from what we are accustomed to,
we must try to accustom ourselves to _them_, and the mannerly guest
will strive to do this, not as a cross, but as a pleasure. She will
meet cordially the friends of her hostess who are introduced to her,
however little they attract her; she will cheerfully accompany the
family to their church, even though it be of a different faith from her
own; and she will listen respectfully to the sermon, and refrain from
ungracious criticism of the choir or the minister. She will take an
interest in any local happenings that are of vital interest to her
entertainers; she will show lively appreciation of everything done for
her entertainment, even though it may be but a commonplace and dull
affair, in her private judgment. She will measure her grateful duty to
them, not so much by the degree of pleasure which they actually give
her, as by the amount of effort which they obviously make. It is very
ungracious for a guest of wide social experience to be apathetic when
some unsophisticated little hostess offers what to her seems a novel
treat, but which to her worldly-wise guest is a threadbare device. No
matter if the device is threadbare; the spirit of kindness which
prompts the effort is immortal; and though we have seen "rainbow teas"
until we are weary of them, we will enter cheerfully into the spirit of
this one, because our little hostess in the innocence of her heart has
worked so hard to make it ready in our honor.
The guest should avoid giving extra trouble to the hostess, or to the
servants. She may offer assistance when circumstances warrant her
doing so, but must refrain from meddling with household matters when
her help is evidently not desired. She should entertain herself easily
when the hostess is otherwise busy, yet never seem to have any
absorbing occupation that would prevent her from being ready at once to
join the family in any project. If there are children in the house,
she should be cordial and affectionate with them, without gushing
insincerity or indiscreet petting, and she should not betray any
annoyance if they are noisy and occasionally troublesome--as the best
of children will be at times. She should aim to feel and act as though
the interests and pleasures of the family were her own, and not make
remarks that are tacit comparisons to their disadvantage. If there are
glaring faults in the domestic management, it is not her province to
correct them, except so far as a quiet example may be subtly
influential, as it will be, if at heart she makes herself a part of the
circle of sympathy. After her return to her own home, she should write
a letter to her hostess, expressing the pleasure which the memory of
her visit gives her, and gracefully thanking her friend for all that
made the sojourn so restful and happy.
There is something singularly inspiring in the idea of "making one's
self at home," in the sense of finding the _value_ in every environment
which fate, or chance, or Providence may place us in. And when, as
welcome guests, we listen to this hearty greeting, we resolve that in
all ways consistent with our duty to our entertainers, and with all
grateful appreciation of their kindness to us, we will "make ourselves
at home."
"AS THE TWIG IS BENT"
Every one theoretically admits the importance of early training. It is
demonstrated in the animal and the vegetable kingdoms, wherever organic
life unfolds and grows; and that the human child is no exception is
promptly recognized in theory, however fatally practice ignores it.
Not that parents mean to ignore it; but there is a "happy-go-lucky"
impression that somehow "he will come out all right;" that "as he gets
older, his own good sense will assert itself," and so on. Happily,
this is partly true. A native good disposition and good sense saves
many a child from the ruin which an unwise course of training has done
its best to precipitate. The wonder is that they "turn out" as well as
they do. Perhaps Providence, in visiting its judgments, is lenient to
the young and inexperienced parents, themselves undisciplined; to the
helpless child, at the mercy of his blind guides.
There is too much negative, too little positive, in child-training; too
much querulous reiteration of "don't," too little intelligent teaching
how to _do_. Little children like to be "shown how;" they are
fascinated with the games and gifts of the kindergarten, which aims to
_teach something_, not to _repress everything_. Children are delighted
to learn little polite phrases; to make a bow; to hold a fork daintily;
to offer little courtesies, and to receive a smiling approbation. They
would rather do things prettily than not. They are _not "contrary,"_
exceptional cases of hereditary ugliness aside. They are apt pupils,
whether their tutor be a philosopher or a fool. And if a faulty
example be a child's most constant and influential teacher, what wonder
that the lessons, well-learned, are put in practice? And just then, if
you listen, you will hear some one issue the emphatic but vacuous
command, "Don't!" And the baby _doesn't_, for the space of a few
seconds; after which, unable to get any new suggestions out of the
idea-less instructions given him, he proceeds to do the same thing
over, only to be again commanded to desist, a spanking for
"disobedience" this time varying the monotony of the universal
prohibition.
The profane poll-parrot is not a more startling witness to the
character of its surroundings than the "terrible infant," whose rude
snatchings, pert contradictions, and glib slang phrases are sure to be
most effectively "shown off" in the presence of visitors. It is of
little use to affect grieved surprise, or stern reprobation, when one's
children are merely exhibiting their daily discipline. Most parents
feel keenly the embarrassment of having the infant misbehave so
inopportunely, and they are apt to offer a tacit apology and a vague
self-defense by sharply reprimanding the child in words that are meant
to give the visitor the idea that they--the parents--never _heard_ or
_saw_ such conduct before, and are now frozen with amazement. The
nonchalant or incredulous or impish way in which the children receive
these reproofs only confirms the suspicion that such scenes have been
frequent, and the discipline attending them has been inconsequent.
One parent I have heard acknowledge the truth of the matter. An
elderly clergyman was his guest, and the four-year-old daughter of the
house was entertaining the "grandpa" with a toy puzzle, which he
fumbled with in vain, unable to put it together or to take it apart.
Impatient at last, the little girl hastily snatched it from his hand
with a childish growl of contempt, and proceeded to show him the trick,
saying, with an airy mingling of criticism and condescension, "By Jove!
your name is Dennis; _you_ are not in it!" The old gentleman paused,
instinctively prepared to hear the usual "Why, daughter! papa is
_astonished_ to hear his little girl," etc, etc., after the fashion of
the parental hypocrite. But this candid young father met the dignified
eyes squarely, and said promptly, "I'm sorry, Doctor, but there's no
use denying it; she is just giving _me_ away." He had the sense to
recognize his own teaching, the honesty to admit it. Whether he has
the discretion to reform his methods remains to be seen.
For right here is another point: that people think it is "cute" for a
_little_ child to say and do things that in a child a few years older
would be most unattractively rude. But they must reflect that this
same cute little child will soon be a few years older, and will carry
into that riper age the fixed habits that are forming now; and it will
not be so easy a task to transform the child's manners as it is to
dress him in a larger suit of clothes.
A choice rose was grafted upon a wild, thorny stock, and planted beside
a veranda trellis. The owner watched it carefully for a year or so,
cutting down the rank shoots of the wild stock as they sprang
aggressively from the root, allowing the grafted branch to grow in full
luxuriance, bearing carmine clusters that filled the garden with spicy
odor. The next spring an ignorant gardener pruned away the branches,
cutting down the slenderest and leaving what to his unpracticed eye
were the most desirable, because the thriftiest, shoots; and when the
time of blossoms came, nothing appeared but the ragged petals of the
wild thorn.
So, in "the rosebud garden of girls"--or boys. If the choice graft of
cultured manners (for it _is_ a graft on the sturdy but wayward stock
of human nature) is left to be choked out by the rank, wild growth of
impulse, or if by some flagrant error in example and discipline it is
practically cut down at the main branch, what can the careless trainer
expect? He may weep to find no velvet-petaled rose when he comes to
look for it; but he has no right to blame the rose-bush, nor can he, at
this late day, hide the tact of his blundering pruning by righteously
affirming that he is "perfectly astonished." His neighbors, who have
quietly noted the methods pursued in his kindergarten, are not in the
least surprised.
Another resource for escaping blame is that of explaining that the
children "learn these things at school." Presumably they do not mean
from the teachers. It is "from the other children," who seem to be a
most injurious class of society. It is their influence which makes
_our_ children so rude and so ungrammatical; and, strangely enough,
though these other children never dine with our children, so subtle and
far-reaching is their baleful influence that our children's defective
manners at the table are directly traceable to the same evil source.
Granted, a measure of truth in the charge; for large mirthfulness and
large imitation lead children to do things "just for fun," which all
the time they know better than to persist in. But, as a fact,
demonstrated by observation, a very small percentage of the children
who are habituated to correct behavior at home are ever seriously
affected by outside influences. A superficial effect may show in
little things; but such lapses of speech or manner are transient, and
in no degree control the development of the child when his home
training is irreproachable. On the other hand, the efforts of an
untiring teacher, laboring five hours a day to teach correct language
and enunciation, may be of little permanent value, when the remaining
hours of the day are spent in a home where the English grammar hourly
meets a violent death.
And what is true of grammar is equally true of morals and manners. The
school and society may be measurably influential; but the home casts
the deciding vote. And when people note the manners--good or bad--of
your boys and girls, they do not ask, "What school do they attend?"
"What children do they associate with?" but, "_Whose children are
they?_"
Would you have them mannerly? Teach them; by precept, certainly; but
above all things, by example.