“Felicia Hemans was an American, born ‘down East’ somewhere; I think in
the same section Nora Perry hails from,” was the startling announcement
uttered in my hearing, by a “sweet girl graduate” of so short time ago
as June, 1892.
“Pardon contradiction,” I called from my end of the library, “but
Felicia Hemans was an Englishwoman, and her birthplace was Liverpool.”
The surprise the above incident created caused my own thought to revert
to the honored and beloved poets who have so lately left us, as well as
to the mighty revered army, from Chaucer down, who have more or less an
abiding-place in our hearts.
And then followed another thought,—would it not be a wise use of time
for some of us to study the lives and works of these poets, the minor
as well as the more prominent ones, and so save ourselves from similar
ludicrous blunders as the one above given?
And particularly do I appeal to the young girls just out; but even
the busy schoolgirl would have the opportunity if she would only
systematically arrange her work. Afternoon classes might be formed, or
evening ones if preferred; the latter would have the advantages, as
then the big brothers might come. Simple refreshments, too, would not
jar on harmony, but rather tend to sociability. These could be provided
by the hostess, for the girls should take turns in having the class
meet at each house. It would also be found to be a benefit to have a
president and secretary for such a class, or, if an old person could be
gotten, popular and wise enough to take charge, that would prove still
more satisfactory.
It is quite the fashion now to be a member of a dancing class, why not
be a member of a poets’ class, and so take care of your head as well as
your heels? Indeed, classes are the “order of the day,” for language,
music, riding, cooking, wood-carving, needlework, indeed everything,
and the young girls or boys who may read this sketch certainly want to
be into things as well as their fellows.
In these hours with the poets, take a different poet for each time
the class meets. Before the close of one meeting decide on who will
be the next one taken up. For example, will it be Keats, Saxe, Bayard
Taylor, or Jean Ingelow? That settled, name who will be the one to
give a biographical sketch of the poet. This may be in the form of an
original paper, or read directly from an encyclopedia. Also name two or
more members to read or recite poems from the poet under consideration.
Discussion and criticism should be freely allowed, and unanswerable
questions should be always answered at the next meeting before entering
on the new poet. It would save time to have the hostess answer the
questions left from the week before, as she could have numerous books
at hand, and of necessity would be present.
Do not say this is too difficult a task. Nothing is too difficult for
those who try.
And do not think such study and hours are unnecessary. If you do, find
out how many of your classmates can at once answer whom Ben Jonson
adopted as his poetical son? He was a pastoral lyrist, and left behind
him thirteen hundred poems. He was a bachelor, though he lived to be
eighty-four years of age. He was born at Cheapside, London, in 1591,
and died in 1674, at Dean Prior, which living was presented to him, for
at times he was very poor. His name was Robert Herrick.
Or does my reader know that Thomas Gray was a close student of Dryden,
or that the author of the first important body of English sonnets
was the romantic hero, Sir Philip Sidney, and that he died when but
thirty-two years of age, having been conspicuous at the court of
Elizabeth, was a soldier of great promise, a leading statesman, and has
a prominent place in history?
“THANK YOU!”
“I sent her a basket of fruit for Christmas. The basket was of the
finest Chinese straw, and decorated with handsome pale green satin
ribbon; and the fruit, Bartlett pears, mandarins, and white grapes; but
she has not acknowledged it by either verbal or written thanks.”
“Perhaps she never received it,” was the reply.
“I know that she did, for my daughter called one day and recognized the
basket, which stood on the table in the hall through which she passed.”
“Well, but you know she is a very busy woman.”
“That is no excuse. People may be ever so busy, but they should not
forget decent courtesy. Indeed, my experience has been that the
busy people are, oftener than otherwise, the most polite people. My
theory is, they do not allow themselves to rust in any direction;
duty should be done, and is done. If an individual cannot take time
to thank a friend for a Christmas gift, next year that friend may not
take time to give one. I am sure it is not the question of time; it
is the question of knowledge or carelessness. There are people who
really don’t know enough to be polite; and others know, but are too
indifferent to take the trouble, forgetting that their conduct reflects
most disagreeably upon themselves. One would think a kind heart might
dictate, if common-sense did not. But I suppose some people have
neither common-sense nor kindness of heart.”
Overhearing the above conversation, the listener was reminded of a
similar instance lately experienced in her own life. A letter had
been written, which had honorably adjusted a money complication that
concerned the gentleman to whom she wrote and a society which he
represented, but did not concern or reflect upon the writer in the
smallest degree excepting for the goodwill she bore her friend, and
yet for this same letter she did not receive one word of thanks—not
even the acknowledgment of its ever having been received. That it _was_
received was later proved by a printed report that it would have been
impossible to set in order without it.
The examples given are by no means rare and peculiar, but may be
duplicated over and over by every intelligent person. And in this age
of letters, when printed matter was never so reasonable, and when
teachers and schools may be really had “without money and without
price,” when lectures on all topics are inexpensively if not, indeed,
freely given, where is the excuse for knowledge not to be the power of
all? It would almost seem as if even those indifferently educated could
not help but have learned to say “thank you,” or to acknowledge by pen
or voice any accommodation, help, or present.
Blood is sure to tell, and with Emerson we say that “man is physically
as well as metaphysically a thing of shreds and patches, borrowed
unequally from good and bad ancestors.” To those of gentle blood,
rudeness would be impossible. If there are partial lapses of manner
with those looked upon as the refined, the question is asked, “Where
does she get that trait?” and possibly the answer may be, “Her
great-grandmother.” For thus are the sins visited upon the children
of even the third and fourth generations. The deportment of the real
gentleman or woman can never be unpleasantly criticised. They could not
be ungracious, no matter how hard they should try. If there is ever a
question about how far politeness should extend, err on the side of too
much rather than that of too little. Have too much manner rather than
not enough. Be too profuse in thanks rather than too scant and meagre.
When a gift has been received or a courtesy of any kind shown you, at
once acknowledge it, unless you are too ill so to do, or a positively
important matter prevents. If it is impossible to write to the one you
are indebted to that day, do it the next. But as it is so easy for most
of us to have good intentions, do not put off for to-morrow what should
be done to-day.
The note should not be long, but heartily and pleasantly worded. Some
people might reflect, “I would not tell a falsehood, and how can I say
I like a thing if I do not?” Or, as happened lately, two boxes of wild
flowers were sent me from California by two little boys, with a note in
one of the boxes containing the words, “Which flowers got to you best,
Pierre’s or mine?” and I was obliged to at once put both boxes in the
fire. Should I write of the sweetness of the blossoms and the purity
and beauty of their coloring? By no means. But I would not wound the
childish hearts by telling of the condition of the flowers at the time
they were received. Remember the thought that prompted the gift. Dwell
on that altogether if you will. Send a loving message to the donors,
and they will never dream you did not like their offering in the one
case or were obliged to burn it in the other.
After all, remembrance is the sweetest of all earthly gifts. When the
dear ones with whom we journey are no longer here, we will miss their
gentle ministry. May not any one of us then know the bitterness of
remorse, but rather let us hasten to send abundant, hearty thanks to
those who have taken time to think and care for us!