entrance of a servant bearing a heavily-laden tray of cups and
saucers, filled with tea and coffee, cream and sugar. This tray was
rested on a table; and the host, rising, requested Rev. Mr. ---- to
ask a blessing. He did it, and the youngsters, eying the cake, wished
it had been shorter. So did the girl in charge of the tray. "Blessing"
at last over, the tea and coffee were distributed. The matrons
charging their initiatory fledglings "not to spill over," often wisely
pouring a spoonful of coffee or tea, from the cup into the saucer, to
prevent the former from any china-gymnastics unfavorable to the best
gown or carpet. The men turned their toes in till they met; spread
their red silk handkerchiefs over their bony knees, and on that risky,
improvised, graceful lap, placed the hot cup of tea, with an awful
sense of responsibility, which interfered with the half-finished
account of the last "revival." Then came a tray of thinly-sliced bread
and butter, delicate and tempting; rich cake, guiltless of hartshorn
or soda, with delicate sandwiches, and tiny tarts.
This ceremony gone through, the young people crawled from the maternal
wing, and laughed and talked in corners, as freely and hilariously as
if they were not "children of damnation," destined to eternal torment
if they did not indorse the creed of their forefathers. Their elders,
with satisfied stomachs, and cheerful voices and faces, seemed to have
merged the awful "hell," too, for the time being; and nobody would
have supposed them capable of bringing children into the world, to be
scared through it with a claw-footed devil constantly at their backs.
As the evening went on, the buzz and noise increased. The youngsters
giggled and pushed about, keeping jealous watch the while, for the
nine o'clock tray of goodies, which was to delight their eyes and
feast their palates. This tray contained the biggest oranges and
apples, the freshest cluster-raisins, and almonds, hickory nuts,
three-cornered nuts, filberts and grapes. After this came a tray of
preserved quinces, or plums, or peaches, with little pitchers of
_real_ cream. Then, to wind up, little cunning glasses filled with
lemonade, made of _lemons_.
_Now_ the youngsters had plenty to do. So absorbed were they, cracking
nuts and jokes, that when the minister, seizing the back of a chair in
the middle of the room, said, "Let us pray," the difficulty of cutting
a laugh off short in the middle, and disposing of their plates,
presented itself in such an hysterical manner, that a pinch of the
ear, or a shake of the shoulders, had to be resorted to, to bring
things to a spiritual focus. After prayers came speedy cloakings,
shawlings, and kind farewells and greetings; and by _ten_, or shortly
after, the hour at which modern parties _begin_, visitors and visited
were all tucked comfortably between the sheets.
_Now._ Nobody can give a party that does not involve the expenditure
of hundreds of dollars. Dinner, or evening party, it is all the same.
The hostess muddles her brain about "devilled fowl," "frozen
puddings," "meringue" things, of every shape--floral pyramids, for
which she has _my_ forgiveness, for fashion never had a more
pardonable sin than this. She must have dozens of hired silver, and
chairs, and hired waiters, and the mantua-maker must be driven wild
for dress trimmings, and the interior of the house must be thrown off
of the family track for days, before and after. And the good man of it
must have a dozen kinds of wines, and as many kinds of cigars; and
there must be more "courses," if it is a dinner, than you could count;
and you must sit tedious hours, while these are trotted on and trotted
off, by skilled skirmishers; and what with the necessity of all this
restaurant-business, and the stupidity that comes of over-feeding, one
might as well leave his brains at home when he goes into modern
"society." Not to speak of the host and hostess, whose attempts at
conversation are fettered, and spasmodic in consequence; for, have as
many servants as you may, mistakes _will_ happen, _crushing_ mistakes,
such as a dish located east instead of west, or wine wrongly placed,
or the wrong wine rightly placed, or a dish tardy, that should be
speedy; all of which momentous things, to the scholastic mind of the
host, or the intelligent brain of the hostess, being sufficient to
make them forget that "the chief end of man" was not to cultivate his
stomach. Now, if one must needs lure one's friends with a vulgar bill
of fare, like a hotel, in order to ensure their presence; if one must
think of the subject days beforehand, in one shape and another, and be
bored, and worried, and badgered with these material things; if
_bellies_, to speak politely, are to domineer over _brains_ this way,
then I say that "society," at such a price, isn't worth having. For
one, I had rather go back to the weak lemonade and strong prayers of
our forefathers.
* * * * *
Then, as to the dress of women. If there is one phrase more
universally misapplied than another, it is the phrase "well-dressed."
The first thing to be considered in this connection, is _fitness_. A
superb and costly silk, resting upon the questionable straw in the
bottom of an omnibus, excites only pity for the bad taste of the
luckless wearer. A pair of tight-fitting, light kid gloves, on female
fingers, on a day when the windows are crusted with frost, strikes us
as an uncalled-for martyrdom under the circumstances; also a pair of
high-heeled new boots, with polished soles, constantly threatening the
wearer with a humiliating downfall, and necessitating slow and careful
locomotion, on icy pavements, in company with a very pink nose. Bows
of ribbon, jewelled combs and head-pins at breakfast, either at a
hotel table or at home, do not convey to me an idea of _fitness_;
also, white or pink parasols for promenade or shopping excursions,
whether the remainder of the dress is in keeping or not, and more
often it is the latter. A rich velvet outer garment over a common
dress; a handsome set of furs with a soiled bonnet; diamond earrings
with shabby gloves; gold watch and trinkets, and a silk dress
ornamented with grease pots; sloppy, muddy pavements and pink silk
hose--all these strike the beholder as incongruous.
There are women who are slow to understand these things. The season,
the atmosphere and the hour of the day have no bearing at all upon
their decisions as to costume. A woman with restricted means, and
unable to indulge in changes of apparel, instead of selecting fabrics
or trimmings which will not invite attention to this fact, will often
select such a stunning, glaring outfit, that the truth she would
conceal, is patent to every beholder; an inexpensive dress, provided
it be whole, clean, well-fitting and harmonious in its accessories,
conveys the idea of being "well-dressed" quite as emphatically as a
toilette five times more costly. But what is the use of talking? One
woman shall go into her room, and, without study or thought,
instinctively harmonize her whole attire, so that the most fastidious
critic shall find no fault with her selection. Another shall put on
the same things, and then neutralize the whole by some flaring,
incongruous, idiotic "last touch" which she imagines her crowning
success. She can't do it! and, what is worse, she can't be persuaded
that she can't do it.
After all, what does it matter? growls some believer in "Watts on the
Mind;" what does it matter what a woman _wears_? It is a free country.
So it is; and yet I am glad the trees and the grass in it are green,
not red. I am glad that the beautiful snow is not black. I am glad
that every flower is not yellow, and that the sky is not a pea-green.
Woman is by nature a neat and tidy creature; grace and beauty she
strives for, be it ever so dimly. All that intelligently helps to
this, I affirm to be a means of grace. It would not be amiss to
inquire how much moral pollution and loss of self-respect among the
women in our tenement houses is consequent upon their inability, amid
such miserable surroundings, to appear in anything but their unwomanly
rags. If a woman has a husband who is indifferent whether her hair is
smoothed once a day or once a year, still let her, for her children's
sake, strive to look as attractive as she can. "My mother is not so
pretty as yours," said one child to another. The keen little eyes had
noted the rumpled hair, the untidy wrapper, the slipshod shoe, which
were considered good enough for the nursery, unless company was
expected. Sickness excepted, this is wrong and unnecessary. Nothing
that tends to make home bright is a matter of inconsequence, and this
least of all. How many young mothers, sitting in their nurseries, love
to recall the pleasant picture of _their_ mother in hers. The neat
dress--the shining hair, the beaming face. So let your children
remember you. Be not pretty and tidy, _only_ when company comes.
Then there is the school question, which is never long out of my mind.
The papers are full of "school advertisements," of every kind, "_Which
is the best?_" ask the bewildered parents as they look over the
thousand-and-one Prospectus-es and read the formidable list of
"branches" taught in each, between the hours of nine and three, for
each day, Sundays excepted. They look at their little daughter. "It is
time, they say, that she learned something;" and that is true; but
they do not consider that is not yet time for her to learn
_everything_; and that in the attempt she will probably break down
before the experiment is half made. They do not consider, in their
anxiety, that she should be educated with the railroad speed so
unhappily prevalent; that to keep a growing child in school from nine
till three is simply torture; and to add to that lessons out of
school, an offence, which should come under the head of "Cruelty to
Animals," and punished accordingly by the city authorities; who, in
their zeal to decide upon the most humane manner in which to kill
calves and sheep, seem quite to overlook the slow process by which the
children of New York are daily murdered. That "everybody does so;"
that "all schools" keep these absurd hours; that "teachers want the
afternoons to themselves,"--seem to me puerile reasons, when I meet
each day, at three o'clock, the great army of children, bearing in
their bent shoulders, narrow chests and pale faces, the unmistakable
marks of this overstrain of the brain, at a critical age. And when I
see, in addition, the piles of books under their arms, effectually to
prevent the only alleviation of so grave a mistake, in the out-door
exercise that their cramped limbs, and tired brains so loudly call
for, after school hours, I have no words to express my sorrow and
disgust of our present school system.
It is not teachers, but _parents_, who are to right this matter. The
former but echo the wishes of the latter. If parents think physical
education a matter of no consequence, why should teachers love those
children better than the parents themselves? If parents are so anxious
for the cramming process, which is filling our church-yards so fast,
why should teachers, who "must live," interfere? Now and then, one
more humane, less self-seeking, than the majority, will venture to
suggest that the pupil has already quite as much mental strain as is
safe for its tender years; but when the reply is in the form of a
request from the parent that "another branch will not make much
difference," what encouragement has the teacher to continue to oppose
such stupidity? Not long since, I heard of a mother who was boasting
to a friend of the smartness and precocity of her little daughter of
seven years, "who attended school from nine till three each day, and
studied most of the intervening time; and was so fond of her books
_that all night, in her sleep, she was saying over her geography
lessons and doing her sums in arithmetic_." Comment on such folly is
unnecessary. I throw out these few hints, hoping that one mother, at
least, may pause long enough to give so important a subject a
moment's thought. That she may ask, whether it would not be wise
occasionally to visit the school-room where her child spends so much
of its time; and examine the state of ventilation in the apartment,
and see if the desk, at which the child sits so long, is so contrived
that it might have been handed down from the days of the Inquisition,
as a model instrument of torture. I will venture to say, that her
husband takes far better care, and expends more pains-taking thought,
with his favorite horse, if he has one, than she ever has on the
physical well-being of her child. What _right_, I ask, has she to
bring children into the world, who is too indolent, or too
thoughtless, or too pleasure-loving to guide their steps safely,
happily, and above all, _healthily_ through it?
* * * * *
There is another topic on which I wish to speak to women. I hope to
live to see the time when they will consider it a _disgrace_ to be
sick. When women, and men too, with flat chests and stooping
shoulders, will creep round the back way, like other violators of
known laws. Those who _inherit_ sickly constitutions have my sincerest
pity. I only request one favor of them, that they cease perpetuating
themselves till they are physically on a sound basis. But a woman who
laces so tightly that she breathes only by a rare accident; who
vibrates constantly between the confectioner's shop and the dentist's
office; who has ball-robes and jewels in plenty, but who owns neither
an umbrella, nor a water-proof cloak, nor a pair of thick boots; who
lies in bed till noon, never exercises, and complains of "total want
of appetite," save for pastry and pickles, is simply a disgusting
nuisance. Sentiment is all very nice; but, were I a man, I would
beware of a woman who "couldn't eat." Why don't she take care of
herself? Why don't she take a nice little bit of beefsteak with her
breakfast, and a nice _walk_--not _ride_--after it? Why don't she stop
munching sweet stuff between meals? Why don't she go to bed at a
decent time, and lead a clean, healthy life? The doctors and
confectioners have ridden in their carriages long enough; let the
butchers and shoemakers take a turn at it. A man or woman who "can't
eat" is never sound on any question. It is waste breath to converse
with them. They take hold of everything by the wrong handle. Of course
it makes them very angry to whisper pityingly, "dyspepsia," when they
advance some distorted opinion; but I always do it. They are not going
to muddle my brain with their theories, because their internal works
are in a state of physical disorganization. Let them go into a Lunatic
Asylum and be properly treated till they can learn how they are put
together, and how to manage themselves sensibly.
How I _rejoice_ in a man or woman with a chest; who can look the sun
in the eye, and step off as if they had not wooden legs. It is a rare
sight. If a woman now has an errand round the corner, she must have a
carriage to go there; and the men, more dead than alive, so lethargic
are they with constant smoking, creep into cars and omnibuses, and
curl up in a corner, dreading nothing so much as a little wholesome
exertion. The more "tired" they are, the more diligently they smoke,
like the women who drink perpetual _tea_ "to keep them up."
Keep them up! Heavens! I am fifty-five, and I feel half the time as if
I were just made. To be sure I was born in Maine, where the timber and
the human race last; but I do not eat pastry, nor candy, nor
ice-cream. I do not drink tea! I walk, not ride. I own stout
boots--pretty ones, too! I have a water-proof cloak, and no diamonds.
I like a nice bit of beefsteak and a glass of ale, and anybody else
who wants it may eat pap. I go to bed at ten, and get up at six. I
dash out in the rain, because it feels good on my face. I don't care
for my clothes, but I _will_ be well; and after I am buried, I warn
you, don't let any fresh air or sunlight down on my coffin, if you
don't want me to get up.
_NOTES UPON PREACHERS AND PREACHING._
I can imagine nothing more disheartening to a clergyman, than to go to
church, with an excellent sermon in his coat-pocket, and find an
audience of twenty-five people. I was one of twenty-five, the other
night, who can bear witness, that having turned out, in a pelting
rain, to evening service, the clergyman preached to us with as much
eloquence, good sense and zeal as if his audience numbered twenty-five
hundred. You may ask why shouldn't he? If he believes _one_ soul is
more value than all the world, why shouldn't he? Merely because there
is as much human nature in a clergyman as in anybody else. Merely
because he is, like other people, affected by outward influences; and
a row of empty seats might well have a depressing physical effect,
notwithstanding his "belief."
When I go to church I want to carry something back with me wherewithal
to fight the devil through the week. I don't want the ancestry of
Jeroboam and Ezekiel, and Keranhappuck raked up and commented on; or
any other fossil dodge, to cover up the speaker's barrenness of head
or heart. I want something for _to-day_--for over-burdened men and
women in this year of our Lord 1869. Something _live_; something that
has some bearing on our daily work; something that recognizes the
seething elements about us, and their bearings on the questions of
conscience and duty we are all hourly called on to settle. I want a
minister who won't forever take refuge in "the Ark," for fear of
saying something that conservatism will hum! and ha! over.
One day I heard this remark, coming out of church where that style of
sermon was preached: "Well--what has all that to do with _me_?" Now
that's just it. It expresses my idea better than a whole library
could. What has that to do with me? _Me_ individually--bothered,
perplexed, sore-hearted, weary _me_, hungry for soul-comfort. I think
this is the trouble; ministers live too much in their libraries. If
they would set fire to them, and study human nature more, the world
would be the gainer. They need to get out of the old time-crusted
groove. To stir round a bit, and see something besides Jeroboam; to
know the tragedies that are going on in the lives of their
parishioners, and find out the alleviations and the remedy. We have
got to live on earth a while before we "get to heaven." It might be as
well to consider that occasionally. It is quite as important to show
us how to live here as how to get there.
I don't believe in a person's eyes being so fixed on heaven, that he
goes blundering over everybody's corns on the way there. If that's his
Christianity, the sooner he gets tripped up the better. _I_ saw "a
Christian" the other day. It was a workingman, who, noticing across
the street a little girl of seven years, trying to lift with her
little cold fingers a bundle, and poise it on her head, put down his
box of tools, went across the street and lifted it up for her, and
with a cheery "there now, my dear," went smiling on his way.
* * * * *
Oh, if clergymen would only study their fellow men more. If they would
less often try to unravel some double-twisted theological knot, which,
if pulled out straight, would never carry one drop of balm to a
suffering fellow-being, or teach him how to bear bravely and patiently
the trials, under which soul and body are ready to faint. If, looking
into some yearning face before them on a Sunday, they would preach
only to its wistful asking for spiritual help, in words easy to be
understood--in heart-tones not to be mistaken--how different would
Sundays seem, to many _women_, at least, whose heart-aches, and
unshared burdens, none but their Maker knows. "Heavy laden!" Let our
clergymen never forget that phrase in their abstruse examination of
text and context. Let them not forget that as Lazarus watched for the
falling crumbs from Dives' table, so some poor harassed soul before
them may be sitting with expectant ear, for the hopeful words, that
shall give courage to shoulder again the weary burden. I sometimes
wonder, were I a clergyman, _could_ I preach in this way to nodding
plumes, and flashing jewels, and rustling silks? Would not my very
soul be paralyzed within me, as theirs seems to be? And then I wish
that _nobody_ could own a velvet cushioned pew in church; that the
doors of all churches were open to every man and woman, in whatsoever
garb they might chance to wear in passing, and _not_ parcelled and
divided off for the reception of certain classes, and the exclusion
(for it amounts to that) of those who most need spiritual help and
teaching. You tell me that there are places provided for such people.
So there are cars for colored people to ride in. _My_ Christianity, if
I have any, builds up no such walls of separation. How often have I
seen a face loitering at a church threshold, listening to the swelling
notes of the organ, and longing to go in, were it not for the wide
social gulf between itself and those who assembled--I will not say
worshipped--there, and I know if that clergyman, inside that church,
spoke as his Master spake when on earth, that he would soon preach to
empty walls. They _want_ husks; they pay handsomely for husks, and
they get them, I say in my vexation, as the door swings on its hinges
in some poor creature's face, and he wanders forth to struggle unaided
as best he may with a poor man's temptations. Our Roman Catholic
brethren are wiser. Their creed is not my creed, save this part of it:
"That the rich and the poor meet here together, and the Lord is the
Maker of them all." I often go there to see it. I am glad when the
poor servant drops on her knees in the aisle, and makes the sign of
the cross, that nobody bids her rise, to make way for a silken robe
that may be waiting behind her. I am glad the mother of many little
children may drop in for a brief moment, before the altar, to
recognize her spiritual needs, and then pass out to the cares she may
not longer lose sight of. I do not believe as they do, but it gladdens
my heart all the same, that one man is as good as his neighbor at
least _there_--before God. I breathe freer at the thought. I can sit
in a corner and watch them pass in and out, and rejoice that every
one, how humble soever, _feels_ that he or she _is_ that church, just
as much as the richest foreigner from the cathedrals of the old world,
whom they may jostle in passing out. Said one poor girl to me--"I
don't care what happens to me, or how hard I work through the week, if
I can get away to my Sunday morning mass." She was a woman to be sure,
and women, high and low, have more spirituality than men. _They_ can't
do without their church--sometimes, I am sorry to say, not even with
it; for, as the same servant solemnly and truthfully remarked to me,
"Even then the devil is sometimes too strong for 'em!"
* * * * *