conjures up certain pleasant country Sundays of long ago. Ah! that walk
through the shady sweet-briar roads, full of perfume, and song, and
dew, to the village church, in whose ample shed were tied Dobbins of
every shape and color, switching the flies with their long tails, and
neighing friendly acquaintance with each other. Oh! the wide open
windows of the church, guiltless of painted apostles and dropsical
cherubs, where the breeze played through, bringing with it the sweet
odor of clover and honeysuckle and new-mown hay, and the drowsy hum of
happy insect life, and now and then a little bird, who sang his little
song _without pay_, and flitted out again. Oh! the good old snow-haired
patriarchs--who _didn't_ dye their hair or whiskers--leaning on their
sticks, followed by chubby little grandchildren, whose cheeks rivalled
the reddest apples in their orchards. Then the farmers' wives, with
belts they could breathe under, with ample chests and sunny glances of
content at Susan, and Nancy, and Tommy, in their best Sunday clothes.
Then the good old-fashioned singing, with which nobody found fault,
though a crack-voiced old deacon did join in, because he was too happy
to keep silent about "Jordan." Then the hand-shaking after service, and
the hearty good-will to "the minister and his folks." Then the
adjournment to the grove near by, to pass the intermission till the
afternoon service, and the selection of the sweetest and shadiest spot
to unpack the lunch baskets. The shifting light through the branches,
upon the pretty heads of the country girls, with their fresh cheeks and
shining hair and blue ribbons. And after doughnuts and cheese and
apple-pie, were shared and eaten, the ramble after wild-flowers round
the roots of the mossy old trees, or the selection of the prettiest
oak leaves to make wreaths for pretty heads, and the shy looks of
admiration of the rustic beaux as they were severally adjusted. Then
the little group under the trees, singing psalm tunes, as the matrons
wandered over to the grave-yard to read for the hundredth time the
little word "Anna," or "Joseph," or "Samuel," inscribed on some
headstone, from which they pulled away the intrusive grass or clover,
plucking a little leaf as they left, and hiding it in their ample,
motherly bosoms.
All this came to me as I sat in that hot, stifled, painted-window,
fashionable church, listening to the dull monotone about the Hittites,
from which I reaped nothing but irritation; and I wished I was a
school-girl again, back in that lovely village in New Hampshire, where
Sundays were not opening days for millinery; where people went to
church because they _loved_ it, and not because it was "respectable"
to be seen there once a day; where heaven's light was not excluded for
any dim taper of man's lighting, and one could sing though he had not
performed during the week at the opera; and the doxology rang out as
only farmers' lungs can make it. I am glad I had this school-girl
experience of lovely, balmy, country Sundays, though it spoils me for
the formal, city Sunday. Every summer, when I go to the country, I
hunt up some old church like this, which all the winter I have longed
for. Though, truth to tell, what with city boarders who infest them,
with their perfume and point-lace, and rustling silks, my country
church is getting more difficult every year to find. How it spoils it
all, when some grand city dame comes sailing in, with her astounding
millinery devices, to profane my simple country church and astonish
its simple worshippers! My dear madam, for _my_ sake, please this
summer "_say_ your prayers" on the piazza of the grand hotel,
afflicted by yourself and your seven mammoth travelling trunks.
* * * * *
I strayed into a strange church not long since, chose my seat, and sat
down. Sextons are polite; but they have a way of marching one up,
through a long aisle, under the very shadow of the pulpit, and under
the noses of an expectant congregation, when unfortunately I have a
fancy for a quiet, out of the way corner. The church was plain and
neat, and nicely dressed, with its shining bunches of holly, and its
stars, and its green wreathed-pillars. The temperature of the place
was pleasant, and the bright lights, and the sweet tones of the organ,
were all promotive of serenity and cheerfulness. The congregation
dropped in, in groups and families, and took their places. They were
not fashionable people; evidently they were workers on week-days. The
men and the women, and even the children, had that look, in spite of
their Sunday clothes. So much the more glad was I that they had such a
bright, cheerful church to come to. By and by the minister came in.
Now, thought I, God grant his sermon be cheerful too; for these are
people who lead no holiday lives, and all the more need a lift out of
it on Sunday. The burden of the first hymn he chose was "death's cold
arms;" read in a tone studiedly corresponding to its cheerful
sentiment. A wail from the organ preceded the singing, whose dolor
affected me like a toss-out into a snow-drift. Then the minister rose.
His first salutation was "My _dying_ friends." Then he proceeded to
inform them that the old year was dying. That there it lay, with its
great hands crossed over its mighty heart, and the sepulchre yawning
for its last pulsation. Then he reminded them that very likely many of
those present would be in that very condition before the close of the
new year. Then he told the young folks a frightful story about a dying
young man whose friends sent for him (the speaker.) A young man who
_hadn't_ joined the church. When he got there, he said, "reason had
deserted its throne;" which was his way of saying that the young man
was crazy, and his way of inferring that it was a judgment on him for
not "having joined the church." Then he said, that though they waited
and waited for his reason to come back, his soul fled away without,
and the inference was that _it fled to hell_. He didn't recognize any
charitable possibility that much _might_ have passed between that
young man's soul and its Maker, though _not_ expressed either to
friends or pastor, which might savor of _heaven_ instead of _hell_,
and that--although he had not joined the church;--not a clue was left
for the faintest hope for any of his friends that might happen to be
present, that this young man's soul was not eternally dammed.
What right, indeed, _had_ the Almighty to know more of one of his
congregation than he himself? What right had He to pardon a fleeting
soul, with no shriving from its pastoral keeper? I say this in no
spirit of irreverence. But, oh! why _will_ clergymen persist in
_scaring_ people to heaven? Why darken lives heavily laden with toil,
discouragement, and care through the six days of the week, by adding
to its depressing weight on Sunday? Has "Come unto me ye heavy laden"
no place in their Bible? Is "God is Love" blotted from out its pages?
Is the human heart--especially the _youthful_ heart--untouchable by
any appeal save the cowardly one of fear? Would those young people,
when out of leading-strings, _continue_ to look upon life through the
charnel-house spectacles of this spiritual teacher? Would there come
no dreadful rebound to those young men and young women, from this
perpetual gloom? These were questions I there asked myself; wisely, or
unwisely, you shall be the judge.
"Like as a father pitieth his children," I talismanically murmured to
myself, as I left the church, with the last dolorous hymn ringing in
my ear--
"When cold in death I lie."
* * * * *
How great the change in the temporal condition of the Minister of Old
and Modern Times. The half-fed, ill-paid, scantily-clothed,
over-worked, discouraged "minister" of the olden time is--where is he?
The "minister," before whose pen and paper came the troubled faces of
wife and children; who dreaded the knock of a parishioner, lest it
should involve the diminution of a "salary" which a common day-laborer
might well refuse for its pitiful inadequacy; the minister whose body
was expected to be so Siamesed to his soul, that the "heavenly manna"
would answer equally the demands of both. The minister who must plant
and hoe his own potatoes, but always in a black coat and white
neckcloth. The minister whose children must come up miniature saints,
while all their father's spare time was spent in driving his
parishioners' children safe to heaven. The minister who, when he was
disabled for farther service, was turned out like an old horse to
browse on thistles by the road-side;--_that_ minister, to the credit
of humanity be it said, is among the things that were. Instead--nobody
is astonished at, or finds fault with, paragraphs in the papers
announcing that the Rev. Rufus Rusk was presented by the board of
trustees, in the name of many friends of his congregation, with a
costly autograph album; upon every page of which was found a $10
greenback, amounting in all to $1,000; and that afterward he was
invited to partake of an elegant collation. Or--that the Rev. Silas
Sands received from his church and congregation securities to the
amount of $10,000, as a testimonial of their esteem for his faithful
services for many years. Or, that the Rev. Henry Cook had a gift of a
commodious and pleasant residence from his church; or, that his
health seeming to require a voyage to Europe, the necessary funds were
promptly and cheerfully placed in his hands by his affectionate
people.
The community do not faint away at these announcements, as far as I
can find out. They seem to have come to the unanimous conclusion that
the "minister," like other laborers, is "worthy of his hire." For one,
I could wish this knowledge had come sooner; for I bethink me, in my
day, of the good men and true, who have staggered to their graves
without a sympathizing word, or the slightest token of recognition for
services under which soul and body were fainting; and whose bitterest
death-pang was the thought that their children, too young to help
themselves, must, after all this serfdom, be the recipients of a
grudging charity.
The presence of a clergyman is not now the signal for small children
to be seized with mortal terror; he no longer sits like a night-mare
on the panting chest of merriment. He is merry _himself_. The more
Christianity he has the more cheerful he is, and _ought to be_. He
talks upon other things than the ten commandments. He joins in
innocent games and amusements. If he has an opinion, he dares express
it, though it _may_ differ from that of some "prominent man." He can
fish and shoot, and drive and row, and take a milk punch, like other
free agents without damaging his clerical robe or his usefulness. He
can have beautiful things to make his home attractive, without being
accused of "worldliness." He can wear a nicely fitting coat, or boot,
or hat, without peril to anybody's salvation. He can give a good
dinner, or go to one. He can go to the circus. He can attend the
opera. He can own and drive a fast horse. His stomach consequently
does not, as of yore, cling to his miserable backbone; nor are his
cheeks cavernous; since he draws a free breath, and sneezes when he
see fit, like the laymen. Every day I thank God that the clergyman's
millennium has begun. That his wife looks no longer like a piece of
worn-out old fur, nor his children like spring chickens. That
congregations now feel a pride in their minister, and an honest shame
when he really needs anything which _they_ have, and _he_ has not.
That they no longer hurt his self-respect by their manner of
"_giving_" what he has _earned_ a thousand times over. In short, "the
minister" is no longer a cringing creature, creeping close to the
wall, lest he offend by the mere fact of his existence; but a
brisk-stepping, square-shouldered, broad-chested, round human being,
whom it is pleasant to look at and comforting to listen to, since his
theology is no longer as pinched as his larder.
* * * * *
As to "the minister's wife" of the olden time, where is _she_? The
ubiquitous "minister's wife," who must make and mend, and bake and
brew, and churn, and have children, and nurse and educate them, and
receive calls at all hours, with a sweet smile on her face, and thank
everybody for reminding her of what they consider her short-comings;
who must attend funerals, and weddings, and births, and social
prayer-meetings, and "neighborhood-meetings," and "maternal meetings;"
and contribute calico aprons for the Fejee Islanders, and sew flannel
nightcaps for the Choctaw infants, and cut and make her husband's
trousers; and call as often on Mrs. Deacon Smith, and stay as long to
the minute, as she did on Mrs. Deacon Jones; and who must call a
parish meeting to sit on her new bonnet, if so be that the old one was
pronounced by all the Grundys unfit for farther service. The
minister's wife, who was hunted through the weeks and months and
years, by a carping, stingy parish, till she looked like a worn-out
old piece of fur; behold her now!
For one, _I_ like to see her pretty bonnet, _I_ like to see her
children shouting in the sunshine, all the same as if their "Pa"
wasn't a minister. I like her daughters to play on the piano, and her
boys to kick round independently and generally like the boys of other
men. I like to see them live in a comfortable house, hung with
pictures and filled with pretty things. I like their table to have
nice cups and saucers, and table-cloths and napkins, and good things
to eat on it. I am glad the minister's wife can stay at home when she
feels like it; and not be trotted out with the toothache of a wet day
to see if there is not danger of Squire Smith's baby sneezing because
the wind is east; under penalty of her husband's dismissal from his
pastoral charge. It does me good to see modern ministers' spouses
hold up their heads and face the daylight like other men's wives,
instead of creeping round on all fours, apologizing for their
existence, and inviting cuffs from people who, born without souls,
consequently can have no call for "a minister."
_BRIDGET AS SHE WAS, AND BRIDGET AS SHE IS._
A square, solid form, innocent of corsets; a thick, dark
"stuff"-dress, raised high above ankles which are shaped for use;
stout leather shoes; hands red and gloveless; a bonnet of obsolete
shape and trimmings; a face round as the moon, from which the rich red
blood, made of potatoes and pure air, seems ready to burst; great,
honest eyes, always downcast when addressed by those whom the old
country styles "superiors." Such is Bridget when she first steps from
the deck of the good ship "Maria," at Castle Garden.
Bridget goes to a "place." The pert house-maid titters when she
appears, square and wholesome, like a human cow. Bridget's ears catch
the word "greenhorn," and "she might as well be a grandmother as to be
only seventeen." Bridget looks furtively at the smart, though cheap
dress of the chambermaid, with its inevitable flimsy ruffled skirt and
tinsel buttons, and then at her despised "best dress," which she has
been wont to keep so tidy for Sundays and holidays. She looks at the
thin, paper-soled gaiters of the critical housemaid, and then at her
stout, dew-defying brogans. She looks at her own thick masses of hair,
fastened up with only one idea--to keep it out of the way--and then
at the housemaid's elaborate parlor-imitation of puff and braid and
curl. The view subdues her. She is for the first time ashamed of her
own thick natural tresses. She looks at her peony-red cheeks, and
contrasts them with the sickly but "genteel" pallor of the
housemaid's, and gradually it dawns upon her why they whispered
"greenhorn" when she stepped into the kitchen that first day. But the
housemaid, overpowering as she is to Bridget, suffers a total eclipse
when the lady of the house sweeps past, in full dress. Bridget
looks--marvels, adores, and vows to imitate. _That_ hair! _Those_
jewels! _That_ long, trailing silk skirt and embroidered petticoat!
_Did_ anybody _ever_? _Could_ Bridget in any way herself reach such
perfection? She blushes to think that only last night in her
home-sickness she actually longed to milk once more the old red cow in
the cherished barn-yard. How ridiculous! She doubts whether that
sumptuous lady ever saw a cow. The idea that she--Bridget--had been
contented all her life to have only cows look at her! By the way--why
should that curly-headed grocer-boy talk so much to the housemaid,
when he brings parcels, and never to her? A light dawns on her dormant
brain. She will fix her hair the way to catch grocer-boys. She too
will have a ruffled skirt to drag through the gutter, though she may
never own any underclothes. She will have some brass ear-rings and
bracelets and things, and some paper-soled boots, with her very first
wages; and as to her bonnet, it is true, she can afford only one for
market and for "mass;" for rain and shine; for heat and for cold; but
by St. Patrick, it shall be a fourteen-dollar "dress-hat," anyhow,
though she may never own a pair of India-rubbers, or a flannel
petticoat, or a pocket-handkerchief, or an umbrella. Just as if this
wasn't a "free country?" Just as if that spiteful housemaid was going
to have all the grocer-boys to herself? Bridget will see about that!
Her eyes are a pretty blue; and as to her hair, it is at least her
own; yes, ma'am; no "rats" will be necessary for _her_; that will save
something.
And so the brogans, and the dark "stuff"-dress, and the thick
stockings, and shawl, come to grief; and in two months' time flash is
written all over Bridget, from the crown of her showy hat to the tips
of her crucified toes, squeezed into narrow, paper-soled, fashionable,
high-heeled gaiters. And as to her "superiors," gracious goodness!
America is not Ireland, nor England either, I'd have you to know. You
had better just mention that word in Bridget's hearing now, and see
what will come of it!
* * * * *
Stealing is a rough, out-and-out word, generally most obnoxious to
those, who are in the daily and hourly practice of it. Now domestics
too often consider that everything that drops upon the carpet is their
personal property, from a common pin to a pair of diamond ear-rings.
"_I found it on the floor_," is considered by them sufficient excuse
when detected in any felonious appropriation.
Now the laws of gravitation being fixed, this view of the case is
rather startling to mistresses; particularly as childish fingers will
pull at belts till buckles and clasps drop off; at chains till
trinkets are dissevered; at hair till ornamental combs or head pins
tumble out; at fingers till rings slip off on sofas or chairs.
When dropped, "has Bridget seen them?" _No!_ though she may have swept
the room ten minutes after. _No!_--though you are sure of having them
on when you came into that room, and of not having them on when you
left. No!--Bridget confronts you sturdily--No! You bite your lips and
pocket the loss, with the pleasant recollection that the missing
article was a gift from some dear, perhaps dead friend. Once in a
while, to be sure, you may be fortunate enough, by making a sudden and
successful foray among her goods and chattels, to seize the lost
treasure; but as a general rule, you may as well turn your thoughts
upon some less irritating subject. According to Bridget's code, it is
not "stealing," constantly to use your thread, needles, spools, silk,
tape, thimble and scissors, unlimitedly, to make or mend her own
clothes. Is it not just so much saved from her pocket, toward the
purchase of a brass breast-pin, or a flashy dress-bonnet?
India-rubbers and umbrellas, too, being merely useful articles, she
cannot be expected to provide them for her own use; therefore yours,
one after another, travel off in new and unknown directions, until
you are quite weary of providing substitutes. Occasionally, your
spangled opera-fan spends an evening out, where you yourself never had
the felicity of an introduction; or--your gloves take a short journey,
and return as travellers are apt to do, in rather a soiled and
dilapidated condition. As to cologne and perfumes of all kinds, pomade
and hair-pins, they disappear like dew before the rising sun. "_Where
all the pins go_" is also no longer a mystery. Of course "real ladies"
never notice these little thefts; but accept them in the light of
Bridget's perquisites, only too thankful if she leaves to them the
private and unshared use of their head-brush and tooth-brush. To sum
up the whole thing, there would seem to be only two ways at present of
getting along with servants. One is to be deaf, dumb and blind to
everything that is out of the way; or else to live in a state of
perpetual warfare with their general shortcomings. A man's ultimatum
is, "just step into an Intelligence Office and get another." Alas!
what this "getting another" implies, with all its initiatory
vexations, is known only to the _mistress_ of the house. To make the
moon-struck _master_ of it comprehend that his wife cannot at once,
upon the entrance of a bran new Bridget, dismiss dull care, would take
more breath than most mothers of young and rising families are able to
spare.
* * * * *
Then again, if there is anything calculated to "rile" the mistress of
a family, it is this common rejoinder of domestics to any attempt to
regulate the household work. "When I lived with Mrs. Smith I did thus
and so." Will they _never_ be made to understand, be they English,
Irish, German, or Yankee, that Mrs. Smith's way of managing _her_
family affairs can have no possible connection with Mrs. Jones's plans
for the same. That, on the contrary, Mrs. Jones does not care a
d----ime what hour of the day Mrs Smith breakfasts, dines, or sups;
what days she goes out, or stays in; or in what manner she has her
washing, clear-starching and cooking done. In short, that it is not
only totally irrelevant to the subject to mention her, but a nuisance
and an irritation. _Can_ Betty, or Sally, or Bridget ever comprehend
that, when they engaged to work for Mrs. Jones, they were not engaged
to work according to Mrs. Smith's programme, or their own, or that of
any mistress who has ever existed since Eve, who, blessed be her name,
lived on grapes and things that involved no servants. And can any
phrenologist inform us whether a kitchen-bump exists, which, if
patiently manipulated for a series of months, might in time convey the
idea, that while roast-beef, done to leather, may be palatable to Mrs.
Smith, rare beef may be equally palatable to Mrs. Jones? Also, if by
any elaborate and painstaking process of instruction, Sally, or
Bridget, or Betty might be taught, that the hours for meals in
different families may be allowed to vary, according to the different
tastes and occupations of each, and that without endangering the
Constitution of the United States. In short, that it is about time
that the kitchen-traditions, with which domestics usually swathe
themselves round, like so many mummies, were abolished; and every
family-tub be allowed quietly to repose on its own independent bottom.
We often wonder how Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith would fancy it, should Tom
Tiddler, their clerk, answer their orders by informing them
gratuitously of the manner in which the firm of Jenkins & Co.
conducted their mercantile business; and how they would stand being
harrowed within an inch of their lives while busily taking an account
of stock, by any such irrelevant nonsense.
Also: I would respectfully submit whether the petty, every-day
irritations over which Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith smoke themselves stupid,
or explode in naughty words, should not, in the case of Mrs. Jones and
Mrs. Smith, be allowed some other escape-valve than that of the
"Woman's Guide Book's"--_sweet smile_.
* * * * *
The other day, in running my eye over a daily paper, I read this
advertisement: "A _genteel_ girl wishes a situation as chambermaid."
Now if there is one word in the English language that I hate more than
another, it is the word _genteel_. No matter where, or how, or to
whom, or by whom it is applied, my very soul sickens at it. It is the
universal and never-failing indorser of every sham ever foisted upon
disgusted human nature. From the "genteel" cabbage-scented
boarding-house, where tobacco emasculated young men "feed," and
mindless, be-flounced, cheap jewel-ried married and unmarried women
smile sweetly on them, to the seventh-rate dry-goods store in some
obscure street, whose clerk sells only the most "genteel" goods at a
shilling per yard; to the "genteel" school-girl who, owning one greasy
silk dress, imagines that she understands her geography better in that
attire than in a quiet, clean, modest "de laine;" to the "genteel"
shop-girl who, pitiably destitute of comfortable underclothes, yet
always owns a "dress hat," and swings about the last showy fashion in
trimming, on some cheap fabric; to the "genteel" cook who goes to
market with her hair dressed as near as may be like her mistress,
fastening it up with a brassy imitation of her gold comb; to the
"genteel" seminary for young ladies, who ride to school in a carriage
with liveried servants, their papa having formerly been one himself.