GINGER-SNAPS.
BY
FANNY FERN,
AUTHOR OF
"FERN LEAVES,"--"FOLLY AS IT FLIES," &c.
NEW YORK:
_Carleton, Publisher, Madison Square._
LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
MDCCCLXX.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
GEORGE W. CARLETON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
Stereotyped at the
WOMEN'S PRINTING HOUSE,
Corner Avenue A and Eighth Street,
New York.
CONTENTS.
Dinner-Parties
The Bride's New House
The Happy Lot of a Sexton
Literary Aspirants
What shall we do for the Little Children on Sunday?
My House in the Country
Why Wear Mourning?
"Delightful Men"
Choosing Presents
A Bid for an Editorship
A Sermon to Plymouth Pulpit
Female Clerks
Blue Monday
The Fly in the Ointment
Woman's Millennium
English Notions about Women
Rag-tag and Bob-tail Fashions
Some Hints to Editors
Help for the Helpful
Women on the Platform
Poverty and Independence
The History of the Late War
Two Kinds of Women
Sunday Morning
Justice for Clergymen
The Old Maid of the Period
The Nurse of the Period
A Look Backward
Varieties of Human Nature
"A Good Mistress always makes a Good Servant"
The Mother-Touch
Some Gossip about Myself
Hospitality
Woman and Her Watch
"My Doctor"
A Woman at a Lecture
Can't be Suited
Autograph-Hunters
The Etiquette of Hotel Piazzas
Old Stockbridge in Massachusetts
Sunday in the Village
Sick in the Village
Men and their Clothes
Notes from Plymouth Rock
No Beaux Anywhere
Daniel Webster's Home
A Trip to Richmond
The Coming Landlord
Out on the End of Cape Ann
Country Diet
From my Seat on the Rocks
Wishings and Longings
A Transition State
What Mary thought of John
Travel-Spoiled Americans
Life's Illusions
Jack Simpkins
Biding the Lord's Time
One Sort of Fool
The First Baby
PREFACE.
When I was a little girl, I used to play "make ginger-snaps;" and I
always tossed in all the ginger in the spice-box, be it more or less;
so if you find these rather biting, attribute it to the force of early
habits. Beside, they are not intended for a "square meal;" only to
nibble at, in the steamboat, or railroad-car, or under the trees in
the country; or when your dear, but tardy John, is keeping you
waiting, with your gloves buttoned, and your bonnet-strings tied; or,
best of all, when you are sitting in your rocking-chair, nursing that
dear little baby. I do not think the milk of human kindness is wanting
in these Ginger-Snaps, and I trust they are--_kneaded_.
FANNY FERN.
GINGER-SNAPS.
_DINNER-PARTIES._
To fasten as many drags as possible to the social machinery of to-day,
seems to be the first idea of hospitality, which, there is every
reason to fear, will gradually be smothered in the process.
Perhaps the lady who gives the dinner-party would really prefer a
plain dinner with her friend Mrs. Jones, than all the elaborate
dinners she is in the habit of giving and attending; but her husband
likes wines and French cookery, and would consider anything else a
poor compliment to a guest; and so there's an end.
And now, what are these fine dinners? Just this: a pleasant gleam of
silver and china; a lovely disposition of fruit and flowers; a great
deal of dress, or undress, on the part of the ladies; much
swallow-tail, and an exquisite bit of cravat and kid-glove, on the
part of the gentlemen. Brains--as the gods please; but always a
procession of dishes, marched on and marshalled off, for the requisite
number of tedious hours, during which you eat you know not what,
because you must be ready with your answer for your elbow neighbor, or
your _vis-a-vis_; during which, you taste much wine and nibble much
confectionery, and finish up with coffee; and under the combined
influence of all this you sink supinely into a soft chair or sofa, and
the "feed" is over.
Everybody there feels just as you do. Everybody would like to creep
into some quiet corner, and be let alone, till the process of
digestion has had a chance.
Instead--they throw a too transparent enthusiasm into the inquiry,
"How's your mother?" If the gods are kind, and there has been an
inroad of measles or fever, the narrator may possibly give you ten
minutes' reprieve from pumping up from beneath that dinner another
query about "the baby." But if he--or she, too--is laboring, like
yourself, with duck and quail, and paté and oyster, and wine and fruit
and bon-bons, then may a good Providence put it into the distracted
brain of the hostess to set some maiden a-foul of the piano!
Oh, but that is blessed! no matter what she plays, how hard she
thumps, or how loud she screeches. Blessed--to lean back, and fold
your kid gloves over your belt, and never move them till you applaud
the performance, of which you know, nor care, any more than who struck
Billy Patterson.
This over, you see a gentlemen coming towards you. You know by his
looks, he too is suffering the pangs of repletion. Good heavens! how
full of deceit is his smile, as he fastens on you, thinking _you_
will talk! Mistaken man! you smile too, and both together agree that
"the weather has been fine of late." This done, you look helplessly,
with the untold pain of dumb animals, in each other's faces, and then
glance furtively about to see if that piano-young-woman really means
to leave your anguish unassuaged. She does. Hum!--you make an errand
across the room to pick up a suppositious glove you dropped--and get
rid of the parasite.
At last!--relief--there is your husband. _How_ glad he is to see you!
It's really worth going to the dinner-party to witness that man's
affection for you at that moment. Now he can yawn behind his glove.
Now he takes a seat _so_ near, that no man or woman can interrupt his
lazy heaven. He even smiles at you from very gladness of heart, and in
thick utterance tells you, in order to keep you from going from his
side, that "he don't see but you look as well as any woman in the
room." You only needed that unwonted display of gallantry from the
hypocritical wretch, to rise immediately and leave him to his fate,
though you should, in doing it, rush madly on your own.
And this is "a dinner-party." For this men and women empty their
purses, and fill their decanters and wardrobes, and merge their brains
in their stomachs, and--are in the fashion!
Better is a leg of mutton and caper-sauce, and much lively talk,
whensoever and wheresoever a friend, with or without an invitation,
cares enough about you and yours with impromptu friendship to "drop
in." Best clothes, best dishes, best wine, best parlors!--what are
they, with rare exceptions, but extinguishers of wit and wisdom and
digestion and geniality. Who will inaugurate us a little common-sense?
Queen Victoria--how glad I am she had such a good, loving husband, to
compensate her for the misery of being a queen--tried her best to
abolish the custom, prevalent in England at dinner, of the gentlemen
remaining to guzzle wine after the ladies left. I am aware that guzzle
is an unladylike word; but, as no other fits in there, I shall use it.
Well--she succeeded only in shortening the guzzling period--not in
abolishing it; so those consistent men remained, to drink toasts to
"lovely women," whose backs they were so delighted to see retreating
through the door.
What of it? Why, simply this, that Queen Victoria did what she could
to civilize her own regal circle; and that she set a good precedent
for American women of to-day to follow. I fail to see why, when a
hostess has carefully watched the dishes and glasses come and go, at
her husband's dinner-party, to the obstruction of all rational
conversation, save by agonized spasms,--I fail to see why, when the
gentlemen guests have eaten to satiety, and conversation might be
supposed to be at last possible, why, at that precise, enjoyable
period, the lady of the house should be obliged to accompany the empty
plates to regions unknown and uncared for. This seems to me a
question well worthy of consideration in this year of our Lord, 1868.
It strikes me, rather an inglorious abdication for a woman of
intelligence, who may be supposed to understand and take an interest
in other things than the advance and retreat of salad, and ragouts,
oysters, and chicken. I call it a relic of barbarism, of which men of
intelligence should be ashamed. Then what advantage has the woman who
cultivates her mental powers, over the veriest fool? It is an insult
to her. But you say, all women are not thoughtful or intelligent. Very
true: and why should they be--save that they owe it to their own
self-respect--when gentlemen thus offer premiums for insipidity?--why
should they inform themselves upon any subjects but those of dressing
well and feeding well?
It is a satisfaction to know that there are gentlemen, who endorse the
other side of the question. There was lately a dinner given in New
York to a literary gentleman of distinction. One of the gentlemen
invited to attend it, said to his wife: "It is a shame that ladies
should not attend this dinner. _You_ ought to be there, and many other
ladies who are authors." Acting upon this impulse, he suggested to the
committee that ladies should be invited. The answer was: First--"It
would be so awkward for the ladies. Secondly--there were very few
literary ladies compared to the number of literary gentlemen." Now as
to the question of "awkwardness," the boot, I think, was on the other
foot; and if the ladies were awkward,--which was not a complimentary
supposition,--why should the gentlemen be to blame for it? And if
there were "few lady authoresses," why not ask the wives of the
_editors_ who were to be present?
No--this was not the reason.
What was it? _Tobacco_--yes, sir, tobacco! I don't add wine--but I
might. In short, these men would be obliged to conduct themselves as
gentlemen were ladies present; and they wanted a margin left for the
reverse. They preferred a bar-room atmosphere to the refining presence
of "lovely woman," about whom they wished to hiccup at a safe
distance.
Perhaps, in justice, I should add, that it was suggested that they
might perhaps see the animals feed from the "musicians' balcony," or
listen to the speeches "through the crack of a door," with the
servants, or in some such surreptitious and becoming and complimentary
manner, which a woman of spirit and intelligence would, of course, be
very likely to do.
To conclude, I trust those gentlemen who are in the habit of bemoaning
"the frivolity of our women, and their sad addictedness to long
milliner's bills," will reckon up the cost of cigars and wine at these
dinners, from which ladies are excluded; and while they are on the
anxious seat, on the economy question, ask themselves whether, putting
other reasons out of the question, the presence of ladies, on these
occasions, would not contribute greatly to _reduce their dinner
expenses_?
I lately read an article in a London paper, in which "the
woman-question" was treated in the following enlightened manner: The
writer avowed his dislike to the cultivation of woman's intellect;
since men had enough intellect, in their intercourse with each other;
and wanted only with woman that charming, childish prattle and
playfulness, which was so refreshing to the male creature, when he
needed relief and amusement!
The author of these advanced ideas didn't state whether he considered
these _childish_, _prattling_ women fit to be mothers and heads of
families; probably that was too puerile a question to consider in the
same breath with the amusement they might afford men by the total
absence of intelligence.
* * * * *
It is a wonder that Christians of different denominations do not see,
that while they are spending the precious hours contending for the
non-essentials, which are but as the fringe to the "wedding-garment,"
that souls are slipping past them into eternity, uncared-for and
unprepared. One is often painfully struck with this thought, in
reading, or hearing, the acrid disputes of mistaken, but well-meaning,
zealots.
_THE BRIDE'S NEW HOUSE._
Spick and span, thorough and fresh, from attic to cellar. Pretty
carpets and pictures, and glass, and silver, and china, and
upholstery, and a pretty bride for the mistress! Receptions over, she
looks about her. Hark! what's that? A mutiny down stairs! She didn't
foresee so speedy a grapple with Intelligence offices, even if any at
all. She remembers, 'tis true, that the coachman came one day to
announce to mamma that "the cook was stiff drunk," and the dinner
consequently in a state of indefinite postponement; and she remembers
that a new cook soon took her place; and she has a misty recollection
of a chamber-maid who left suddenly because she was requested not to
use the cologne, and then fill up the bottle with water; and she knows
another chamber-maid arrived before night, who had so tender a
conscience that she couldn't say the ladies were "out," when they were
in the bath, or in bed, and yet would appropriate handkerchiefs and
ribbons and gloves without even winking. Still, she never thought of
being bothered in this way, when _she_ was married. It was all to be a
rosy dream of love and quiet and comfort, and immunity from vulgar
frets. "Well, she goes down into her kitchen, and inquires into the
mutiny, and finds that the chamber-maid has called the cook a 'nasty
thing;' and both are standing in the middle of the kitchen-floor like
two cats on top of a fence, neither of which will give way for the
other, snarling, spitting, and growling, and making the fur fly at
intervals. She tries to pacify them, but they out-scream each other,
till her head cracks, defending themselves. She goes up to George,
with both hands over her ears, and asks him 'if it isn't dreadful?'"
He says, with an executive wave of his conjugal hand, "Send them both
off, and go to an Intelligence-office, my dear, and get others." _He_
thinks "going to an Intelligence-office," and breathing the
concentration of "marasmus" in a little den ten feet square, for an
hour, is to be the end of it. He don't take into account the
"character" that is to be hunted up at the last place Sally lived in,
up in Twenty-thousandth street, the mistress of which will keep his
little wife waiting an hour to dress, before she comes down; while
Sally is meantime airing her heels in the Intelligence-office, whither
the new bride is to return and report, affirmatively or the reverse.
If affirmatively, George supposes again that there's an end of it. Not
a bit. Now, Biddy is to be instructed an hour or two every day, where
to find spoons, forks, knives, towels, napkins, brooms, dusters, and
where and how to use them, and at the end of a week's education, she
will never once set a table without harrowing mistakes, even if, at
the end of that time, her opinion of some other servant in the house
does not necessitate her "finding another place;" or because, though
ignorant of all she professed thoroughly to understand when she came,
she objects to being "followed 'round".
'Tis true the little bride might dodge the Intelligence(?) offices and
"advertise," thus holding a servant's levee for several days in her
parlors and hunting "characters" at immense distances afterwards; or,
she might take a list of advertisements, and scour the city in
disagreeable localities, up pairs of stairs innumerable, to find the
advertisers "just engaged," if she prefer that. Either way, _the
grapple_ is to be met, in the person of cook, chambermaid, or
waitress, or all three, every few weeks; and all this, though the
little bride may ask no questions of the speedy disappearance of the
household stores, or how many people unknown to her are fed at all
hours out of them. Although she may prefer not to see that her damask
table-napkins are used for dish-towels, or that the mattresses are
never turned over when the beds are made, or that the broom never
invades the corners of any apartment, but merely takes a _swish_
through the centre. She may also be silent when she is told that a
closet has been cleaned and put in order, although to her certain
knowledge it has never been touched; for is not the virtuous and
indignant rejoinder always ready, "D'ye think I'd _lie_, mum?"
Now, what comfort is her pretty silver, half cleaned, and bruised and
scratched in the process? What consolation her pretty dishes, with
the handles knocked off? What pleasure her china nicked at the edges?
Which way soever she turns, waste, ignorance, and obstinacy stare her
in the face. And is her life to be all this? Yes, except an interval
now and then, when she lies with a little one on her arm, with a
doctor and a nurse between her and the "grapple;" and the vision, as
she gets better, of hunting up a nurse-maid, who, horror of horrors!
will be "always under her nose."
I do not say there are not exceptions to this gloomy picture, but they
are rare. Sometimes a godsend of an aunt, or housekeeper, stands
between the mistress of the house and all this "how not to do it." But
till Intelligence-offices have something besides the raw material to
offer on the one hand, or on the other, servants who insist upon
performing your work "as Mrs. Jones did," and who resent as an insult
the mildest intimation that you prefer your own way, and object
totally to your going over your house in every part once a day, to see
if things are right--while this state of things continues, the
mistress, be she young or old, must needs take refuge from this
grapple in hotel life, or spend her existence watching the arrival of
emigrant ships.
No man has any call to speak or write on this subject, since they know
nothing about it. One of them recently explained the present
wastefulness of servants to be caused "by the extravagant way of
living indulged in by their mistresses." Waiving the truth or
falsehood of the charge, I rise to inquire, whether the dishonesty
and fast-living of clerks, be not attributable to the fashionable
vices and lavish expenditures of their business employers. Having
aired this little question, I proceed to say, that the dissatisfaction
with regard to servants is undoubtedly every day greatly on the
increase. In most instances, their utter disqualifications for the
high wages they demand, are patent to every observing housekeeper. If
the lady of the house wishes her work properly and systematically
done, she must, in addition to paying such wages, do half the work
herself; or, which amounts to the same thing, oversee these
incompetent servants; who, at the end of even two months' teaching,
either cannot, or will not, learn to do it faithfully. They who slight
their work the most, are of course most unwilling to have the
supervision. Indeed these very servants will often say, "that having
done chamber-work, or cooking, for such a number of years in New York,
they don't need _any_ lady to instruct them how!" So that the mistress
has to choose between a constant and irritating war of words, or a
mismanaged household. To preserve one's patience or serenity, under
such household friction, or to get time for anything else, is a very
difficult task indeed. Now every _right-minded_ mistress of a
household desires, not only to have it well ordered, but to feel an
interest in the welfare of those women who serve her: she would be
glad, if they have a sorrow, to lighten it; if they are sick, to nurse
them kindly; and in every way to help them to feel, that she does not
look upon them as "beasts of burden," but as human beings.
I affirm that the present generation of servants neither care for nor
understand this. All they want is, to be "let severely alone." Not to
be "followed up," as they phrase it. If you hear the area-bell ringing
punctually every day when your meals are served, they expect the fact,
quite ignored by you, that some big nephew, or cousin, or lover, or
uncle, with a robust appetite, comes at those times for his bowl of
tea, or coffee, or a bit of meat, with some warm vegetables. They
will, if found out, lie about it, with an unblushing effrontery which
is perfectly astounding; or, if well up to New York area ways, will,
with arms akimbo, inquire, "Well, what's a cup of tay, or a sup of
coffee, or a bit of mate, now and thin, to rich folks?" and that
although this may and does happen every day, and two or three times a
day. As to cultivating any good understanding, or feeling, with such
unscrupulous servants, it is simply impossible. There is no foundation
in them for any such superstructure. Not long since, one such servant
was requested at a time of sickness in the family, "to step about the
house softly in the morning, as the patient had a sleepless night."
She stared defiantly at the person making this gentle request, and
inquired in a loud voice, "_if this wasn't a free country?_" Not long
after this she smashed a very pretty butter-dish; and when told that
it just cost five dollars, she loftily inquired, "_Well, what's five
dollars?_"
Now what progress can even an intelligent, well-meaning,
kind-intentioned mistress make with such a savage element as this?
One replies, "Oh, don't keep them, of course; get others." Very
well--you wear out a pair of boots "_getting_ others." To your horror,
you discover that the new cook is subject "to attacks" which confine
her to her bed, with--a gin bottle! till she feels like convalescing.
The last lady she lived with, in the "recommendation" with which she
got her own neck out of the noose, put yours into it by omitting to
mention this little fact; so that again you must start on your travels
"_Intelligence_"-ward.
During these changes of programme, a house gets pretty well
demoralized; every servant who comes, expects to find nothing to do in
the way of putting it to rights; and often when her lazy dream in this
respect is realized, she will be very far, when _she_ leaves, from
putting her successor's mind, or bones either, at rest on this point.
All this is sufficiently rasping and vexatious. One lady remarked to
me, "Oh! as for me, I neither know nor see, anything that they do. I
have to choose between this or a lunatic asylum. I can't fight all the
time; and if you change, there's only a new _kind_ of misery."
"Your husband must have a long purse, my dear," I remarked. She
shrugged her shoulders, and asked me "where I bought my new bonnet?"
Now, this state of things is deplorable enough. I can very well
understand, and sympathize with, the disgust many right-minded women
arrive at, after a panorama of such Sallys and Betseys have passed
through their pretty houses, intent only on high wages, waste, and
plunder. To fight it, only sours one's temper, and wastes one's life.
There's no right feeling about them; they have neither conscience nor
industry. "I have done my best," said a lady to me, "to teach and
civilize and humanize them, but I tell you there's nothing to work
upon; so, after giving my orders in the morning, I will neither hear
nor see anything more about it."
Well, another lady will keep on her feet all day, trying to bring
things to a focus; trying the impossible task of putting brains where
there is nothing but a great void; trying to encourage--trying to
lighten burdens by shouldering half herself, or getting substitutes to
help; and thus by superhuman efforts she gets her husband's little
culinary comforts all attended to at the right time, and every
disagreeable thing put under lock and key before his return; but she
sits down opposite him at the table with no appetite, with not an idea
in her aching head; the well-ordered repast only representing
back-aches and vexation of spirit.
Now this is rather a steep price to pay for housekeeping, and that is
why the cunning little lady above referred to dodged it, and saved
incipient wrinkles.
In conclusion, I beg leave to suggest to ladies that they must stop
"recommending" dishonest or incapable servants, merely because "they
don't want a quarrel with them." In the next place, if it be true
that the keepers of intelligence-offices, for a stipulated sum, will
furnish "a character" for any kind of girl able to furnish the money,
is it not time something were done about this?
Finally, in the name of all the New York ladies, _I_ know, or have
heard speak, in private, on the subject, let China, or Africa, or
Professor Blot with his travelling cook-shop, and all the laundry
establishments, come speedily to the rescue, and find us a way of
escape. If you ask, by way of postscript, if there are _no_ exceptions
to the kind of servants I have described above, I answer by asking
you, how often you find a four-leaved clover, or a black holly-hock,
or a green rose?
* * * * *
Let the poor wretch, smarting under the lash of the critic, remember
that indigestion has lent point and bitterness to many a sentence
which would else have been kindly. He can add to this, that critics
are subject, like others, to envy, ambition, and little
uncharitablenesses, which grow out of them. Also, that "mutual
admiration" societies are _not_ extinct. Also, that some critics look
through political, some through religious, and some through
atheistical spectacles; and if this don't assuage his anguish, let him
remember that a thousand years hence both the critic and himself will
have passed into happy oblivion.
_THE HAPPY LOT OF A SEXTON._
Not a bad thing to be the sexton of a church. In the first place, he
gets a conspicuous start in life, by advertising on the outer wall of
the church, his perfect willingness to bury all the parish in which he
carries on his cheerful business,--a business which can never be dull
with him, because somebody is always dying, and somebody else is
always being born for the same end. Then Sunday comes regularly once a
week, so that his "shop" never closes, and consequently always wants
his broom of reform. Then the sexton has his little alleviations, when
he has had enough of the sermon: he can make an errand out in the
vestibule, after imaginary bad children, who might disturb the
minister, or to see that the outer door don't creak or bang
un-Sabbatically. When he gets tired of that, he can sit comfortably
down on his stool near the door, which he can tilt back on its hind
legs, out of view of all critical worshippers (except _me_), and then,
and there, he can draw out that omnipresent and national jack-knife,
which is his ever-present solace in every time of need. First--he can
clean his nails, and pare them, varying the performance by biting off
their refractory edges. Then he can commence scratching off any
little spots on his trousers or coat with the point of the same. When
this little exercise is concluded, and the sermon is _not_, he can
draw from another pocket a case-comb, and put those fine touches to
his hair which the early church-bell had interfered with. It is
tiresome on him then for a few minutes, unless some impertinent
sunbeam gilds the minister's sacerdotal nose, and gives him an excuse
for going up in the gallery to lower a curtain, in that dexterous
manner which only a professional can compass. By this time
"seventeenthly" having been concluded by the minister, the sexton
hurries to the church-door, doubling up with a dexterous twist any
aisle-chairs which have done duty _pro tem_. and tucking them in their
appropriate corner, and then takes his position in the porch, the most
important personage present save the minister himself. To the
questions, "Is it the clergymen of this church who has just preached?"
addressed him by some stranger, and "Is there to be an afternoon or an
evening service?" and "Can you tell me where is the clergyman's
residence?" and "Will you hand this note to the clergyman?" etc.,
etc., he returns a prompt and proud answer. And, even when Miss
Belinda Jones steps to his elbow, and requests that he will pay a
little more attention to ventilating the church between the services,
and in fact during the week, in order that she may escape the
infliction of her usual Sunday headache; and when she expatiates
touchingly on the blessing and healthfulness and cheapness of fresh
air, and his Christian duty to apportion a sufficient quantity to
each individual to sustain life, and that meek and quiet spirit that
is enjoined; even then, he bows respectfully, nor mentions that, were
ventilation thus insured by open windows, and the life of the audience
prolonged, it might make him a little more trouble in dusting the
cushions, which he could by no means permit. The polite sexton does
not mention this, nor that he "hates fidgetty females" but he bows
politely and affirmatively, locks up the bad air in the church all the
same, and goes home to his roast-beef and his babies.
* * * * *
Upon his box the hackman sits and reads the newspaper, while his
blanketed horses wait for the coming customer. In the cars the
mechanic holds it, hastily running over its columns at this his only
time for reading. Even in the ferry-boat the clerk and school-girl
bend their heads, absorbed and well pleased. At places of amusement,
before the curtain rises, the audience beguile the time by conning its
pages; and even early comers to church improve the minutes by perusing
the Sunday-school papers before the services begin. With these facts
before us, who shall estimate the influence, for good or evil, of the
newspaper? Who shall question the dignity of an editor's position, or
measure his responsibilities?
_LITERARY ASPIRANTS._
It is the most astonishing thing that persons who have not sufficient
education to spell correctly, to punctuate properly, to place capital
letters in the right places, should, when other means of support fail,
send MSS. for publication. Now before me lies just such a MS.,
accompanying which is a letter requesting me to read it, give the
writer my opinion of it, and hand the same to some publisher.
Now, here is my opinion. In the first place, every editor is crowded
with offered MSS. from all sources. Secondly, many of the writers
would not mind not receiving pay for the same, could they only see
that MS. in print in a certain journal that they have selected. In
fact, many times they would rather _pay for having it inserted_ than
to have it declined. This much for the glut in the market.
Then, after this, an editor makes his own selections. It may be he has
already a sufficient corps of contributors, and does not care for, and
will not entertain, any fresh applications. But suppose this is not
the case. Suppose he looks over, or employs a person to look over,
these various MSS. What chance, I ask you, among the myriads, has a
MS., every other word of which is misspelt, and which is wrongly
punctuated, and without paragraphs or capitals, and illegibly written
beside, and, _crowning bother of all_, written on _both_ sides of the
page, over those which are just the reverse; which are no trouble to
read, which require no revision, and which contain _ideas_ as well as
words?
Very well: after all that, an editor has to decide, among even these
_properly prepared_ MSS., which is best suited to _his_ individual
paper, about which he has, and very properly, his own notions and
ideas. Now an article may be well written, and yet not be the thing he
wishes for his paper, although it might be the very thing desired for
another. Well--he of course rejects it, as he has an undoubted right
to do. He could not carry on his paper or magazine successfully on any
other principle. You would not ask a grocer to buy a piece of calico
because you wanted money for that calico. He would immediately say,
"It is not in my line of business; I can make no use of it. I am sorry
you are in want of money; but business is business. I will make you a
_present_ of three or four dollars, as the case may be; but your
calico is of no use to me."
Now you could see the force of _that_: why can't you be made to
understand that it is just so, only a _great deal more so_, with an
editor?
Perhaps you say to me, "Ah, you forget the time when _you_ began." I
beg your pardon, but I do not. Many a weary tramp I had; much pride I
put in my pocket, and few pennies, even with the advantage of a good
education, and a properly prepared MS., and the initiation "of reading
proof"--for my father, who was an editor, when I was not more than
twelve years old--before I succeeded.
It is _because_ I know; it is because I have been behind the scenes,
that I tell you plainly the preliminary steps to be taken before you
"send MSS. for publication," to any one.
Then, don't you see, it is not agreeable to write thus to a person who
quite puts these preliminary steps out of sight, either through
ignorance or conceit: My Dear Sir, or my Dear Madam, this wont do! you
have neither education nor ideas. This appears to them unfeeling; but
it is not. It is doing such persons a much greater kindness than you
could do them by luring them on with the idea of reward, thus wasting
their time, which might be used _successfully_ in other directions,
only to end in mortification and disappointment.
History and Biography show--perhaps you say to me--that many great men
and great writers are deficient in spelling and chirography. Yes, that
is true; but have you not admitted that they were "_great_ writers"?
An editor may be content to keep on sifting, if he is sure of finding
_wheat_; but when the result is _only_ chaff, life is too short for
it; and his necessity to live, equally with your own, too pressing.
One specimen is as good as a thousand. My last was from a young
person, who tells me that she is tired of sewing for a living, and
wants to write; also, that she wants to write for a certain editor.
Also, that this editor would do much better, were he to take the large
sums he pays to his favorite contributors, who do _not_ need it, and
"assist struggling genius." Also, that "she wishes me to remember that
_I_ once struggled myself." Also, that she wishes me to inform her how
I went to work to get a publisher.
Now, to begin with, this young woman misspelt every other word in her
letter, besides entirely ignoring capitals and punctuation. This of
course settled in the outset the question of her present literary
possibilities. Editors do not expect to find these things for their
correspondents; at least I know one who don't; and when he "pays large
sums of money to his favorite contributors" for supplying this very
lack, with ideas included, I presume he knows what he is about, and I
think he has the same right to prefer good spelling in his paper that
the writer of this letter has to prefer literary work to sewing.
Now as to "how I got a publisher." _I didn't get him. He got me._ And
when this young woman produces anything a publisher wants, or thinks
he wants, she will probably have a call from one too.
Next, I don't forget "that I once struggled myself." It adds zest to
my life every hour to remember it. I love the little cosey house I
live in, as I never else could do, because I earned the money to buy
it myself; and I thank God that, if I lost it to-day, and coupons and
banks also gave out, that I am hale and strong enough, and have the
will and the courage, even at this late day, to begin anew. So much
for that. But I do _not_ believe it to be kindness to advise this
uneducated young woman to throw up her present means of support, how
disagreeable soever it may be, for one, that in her present illiterate
state is utterly hopeless.
Scores of such letters I get, so that I have sometimes thought I would
have a printed circular, embodying the above obvious difficulties in
the way of "literary aspirants," and mail it on receipt of their
epistles. To-day I concluded that I would, once for all, air my views
on the subject. After this, every letter from a "literary aspirant"
_which is misspelled_ goes into my waste-paper basket.
Having said all this, I may, in justice to myself, own up to the fact,
that time and again I have given up my own most imperative writing to
correct, and _try_ to make presentable, MSS. for which I was requested
to "_find a publisher_," and which I knew had not the ghost of a
chance, and all because _I did not_, as this young woman advises me,
"forget that I once struggled myself." I never received one word of
thanks for it, but instead dissatisfaction that "_somehow_" I had not
insured success. I remember, in one instance, having spent nearly a
month over a book in MS., laying aside a book of my own, then in
process of preparation; often sitting up late at night, because I
could not else get time enough to devote to it; the writer of this
MS. repaying me only with abuse and defamation, as I afterwards
learned.
So my conscience is quite clear on the subject of remembering, and in
the best way too, my own early struggles. I have tried, in this
article to express myself so as not to be misunderstood. Still I have
no doubt that some "literary aspirant," feeling himself or herself
aggrieved, will haste to set me down an unfeeling wretch. I can stand
it.
* * * * *
The man with good, firm health is rich.
So is the man with a clear conscience.
So is the parent of vigorous, happy children.
So is the editor of a _good_ paper, with a big subscription list.
So is the clergyman whose coat the little children of his parish
pluck, as he passes them on their play.
So is that wife who has the whole heart of a good husband.
So is the maiden whose horizon is not bounded by the "coming man," but
who has a purpose in life, whether she ever meet him or not.
So is the young man who, laying his hand on his heart, can say, "I
have treated every woman I ever saw as I should wish my sister treated
by other men."
So is the little child who goes to sleep with a kiss on its lips, and
for whose waking a blessing waits.
_WHAT SHALL WE DO FOR THE LITTLE CHILDREN ON SUNDAY?_
"Take them to church, of course," says one. Now, I don't think it is
"of course," when I look about, and see little things of four and six
years old, and sometimes younger, fidgetting and squirming in their
out-door wrappings, in a hot, crowded, badly ventilated church, to
whom the services are a dead language, and who prevent those around
them from worship, through pity for their evident uncomfortableness. I
don't think it is "of course" when I see this. To be sure, there are
mothers whose pockets contain alleviations for this juvenile
restlessness, in the shape of sugar-plums, or picture-books; but all
the time they are being applied, the mother's eye must be on the child
instead of the clergymen, lest sticky fingers intrude upon silk or
velvet, or a too hasty rattling of leaves in reading the book drown
the sound of the preacher's voice. "They should be taught to behave,"
gravely asserts some person, who, perhaps, has forgotten his own
childhood, or has never been a parent. That is true: we only differ as
to the question whether church is the place to pursue that education.
"Well, suppose you keep a child of that age at home?" asks another.
"Of course he ought not to play with his toys as on other days, and
he can't read all day, and no one can read or talk all day to him, and
what are you going to do then?" In the first place, I, for one, should
never "take away its toys" before I could enable it to pass Sunday
pleasantly without them; and, of course, I should not allow them
directly to interfere with other persons' enjoyment of quiet on
Sunday. It is a very difficult problem to solve, I know; but I am
sure, to make Sunday a tedium and disgust, is not the way; we have all
known too many sad instances of the terrible rebound of adult years
from this un-wisdom. We have all known instances where "going to
meeting" was _not_ prematurely forced upon the restless little limbs
of children, who have, when a little older, asked to accompany the
family to worship, and been pleased to go. Nor would I deprive a child
of its accustomed walk in the fresh air on that day; on the contrary,
I should be most anxious that it should as usual enjoy the out-door
brightness. I would also always have for that day some little pleasure
which belonged especially to it. It may be some plain little cakes or
nuts of which it was fond. I would always have on hand some stories to
read, or to tell it, on that day. If possible, I would have flowers on
Sunday placed at the child's plate; I would strive that Sunday should
be the _cheerfullest_ day of all the week to it--not a bugbear. I
believe all this might be done, without disturbing any Christian's
church-membership, or perilling any child's salvation. In the country
it is much easier to make Sunday pleasant for children than in the
city. You have only to let them stray into the garden or field, and be
happy in the best way a little unformed mind can he. Or, if the
weather interferes with this, the barn and the animals are a
never-failing source of pleasure to it.
There are those who might think it "wicked" to do this. The
wickedness, to me, consists in making Sunday, which should be a
delight, such a tedium, that, in after years, whenever the word
strikes upon the ear, or the day returns, the first impulse is to shun
and evade it. Oh, let Sunday be what the memory of "mother's room" is
to us all--radiant with perfume of flowers and sunshine. The bright
spot to look back upon, when old age sits in the chimney-corner, with
the sweet psalm from voices hushed by death, or far removed, still
sounding in the ears; with the memory of happy faces over the Sunday
meal; the glad "Good-morning" and the soft "Good-night."
Surely the God who opens the flowers on Sunday, and lets the birds
sing, did not mean that we should close our eyes to the one or our
ears to the other, or that we should throw a pall over the little
children.
_MY HOUSE IN THE COUNTRY._
When I live in the country, the front door of my house shall be made
for use, and not for show; and the blinds and windows shall be thrown
wide open from sunrise until sunset; and I will issue invitations to
the bees and birds and butterflies to come in and out at their own
convenience, without fear of molestation from me, or of danger to my
furniture or belongings. If a few mosquitoes follow suit, I will
accept them as a necessary evil, and not to be compared, in the way of
annoyance, with that air of sepulchral gloom which, like a wet blanket
of mist, surrounds the exterior of most country dwellings, where the
men, women, and children skulk round like burglars to the _back_ of
the house to effect an entrance, and the closed door and blinds are
suggestive of a corpse awaiting burial. And yet I think I understand
how this bad custom came about. It was from many babies and much
darning and baking, and the dread of impending fly-specks on the gilt
frame encircling General Washington and the large looking-glass. But,
dear friends, put a mahogany frame round the General, and banish the
looking-glass, which will, in a few years, if you neglect all that
makes home cheerful, reflect only the imprint of life's cares,
instead of its pleasures and contents. "_They_ are so very few," you
say. Well, then the more necessity for letting in the sunshine. As I
walk about, I notice the careworn, pallid faces of the wives and
mothers about many of these country homes, and the careless untidiness
of dress which, in a woman, means that she has given the whole thing
up, either from overwork or lack of sympathy from the one person for
whom the shining hair was once neatly combed, and the strip of white
collar carefully pinned, although it might be late in the day before
time was found to do these things. When I see these women at
nightfall, in this neglectful dress, sitting alone upon the back
door-step, while the husband and father has strolled off to some
neighbor's, and lies flat on his stomach on the grass, with half a
dozen other husbands and fathers, browsing like so many cattle,
without a thought of those weary women, I fall to thinking how much
life would be worth to me reduced to this utilitarian standard of cow
and cabbage. Then I wonder if those women were to throw open the
blinds and doors and windows of the front of the house, and smooth
their hair a bit, and let one of the children pick some grasses and
wild flowers for the mantel, and then tell their respective Johns and
Toms to bring into the house the men they like to talk to at that
hour, so that all could be jolly together, whether it wouldn't change
things for the better. If that plan didn't work, do you know what I
would do? I would shoulder my baby, and trot down the road to the
nearest neighbor's, and let the old coffin of a house take care of
itself. I _wouldn't_ rust, anyhow.
Now, it may be that these women wouldn't know how miserable they were,
if I didn't tell them of it. So much the worse, then. I only know that
if life were _all work_ to me, it should go hard but I would try to
catch a sunbeam now and then, if it were only that the children might
not be demoralized by growing up to look at me in the light of a
dray-horse; if it were only that my boys need not expect _their_ wives
to close their eyes and ears to the beauty and harmony which God had
scattered so lavishly about them. Because there are rocks, shall there
be no roses? Because there is dust, shall there be no dew?
Do you do well, my sisters, to make your houses so gloomy that your
husbands would rather roost outside upon the stone fences, than stay
in them? Don't _have_ a "best carpet;" don't _have_ a "best sofa." Let
in the sun, and the birds, and the children, though it involve bare
floors and wooden chairs, and the total banishment of General
Washington and that best looking-glass. _Eat_ in your "best parlor,"
and laugh in it; don't save it up to be laid out in! Try it now, and
see if life isn't a different thing to you all. As to your "work," a
great deal of it is unnecessary. John and the children would be much
better without pies, cakes, and doughnuts. Make it your religion to
give them wholesome bread and meat, and then stop and take a little
breath. Nobody will thank you for turning yourself into a machine.
When you drop in your tracks, they will just shovel the earth over
you, and get Jerusha Ann Somebody to step into your shoes. They wont
cry a bit. You never stopped to say a word to them except "_get out of
my way_." To be sure, you were working hard for them all the while,
but that wont be remembered. So you just take a little comfort
yourself as you go along, and look after "No 1." Laugh more and darn
less; they will like you twice as well. If there is more work than you
can consistently do, _don't do it_. Sometimes there is a little
blossom of a daughter in a family who makes everything bright with her
finger-tips; if there is none in yours, do _you_ be that blossom.
Don't, even for John, let your children remember home as a
charnel-house, and you as its female sexton.
_WHY WEAR MOURNING?_
I wish that a few sensible, intelligent, _wealthy_ people would cease
draping and festooning themselves like engine-houses, when a death
occurs in the family. I use word "_wealthy_" advisedly; because it is
only that class who can really effect a reformation, for the reason
that _they_ will not be supposed unable "to pay a proper respect," as
the phrase runs, to the deceased. Proper respect! Do yards of crape
and bombazine never express the opposite emotion? Is real
heart-breaking grief to be gauged by the width of a hem, or the length
or thickness of a veil? Have not many a widow and orphan woke up, the
morning after a funeral, to find the little left by the deceased,
expended in funereal carriages, for people who would not lift a
helping finger if it would keep them out of the almshouse? We all know
that, or if we don't, we may wake up to the fact, some future day,
when the sunshine of prosperity is clouded over. That point disposed
of, it must also be remembered that a black dress now is hardly
"mourning;" since that color is so fashionable for street and home,
and even festive wear, that it is hard to distinguish the lady who
affects "all black," because "it is so stylish," from a bereaved
person. Another objection to "mourning" is, that it is the most
expensive dress that can be worn, because most easily spoiled by rain,
or dampness, or dust; and as "proper respect for the deceased"
requires such voluminous folds of it, and so often renewed to be
presentable, or else many changes of mourning to keep the "best suit"
up to the proper grief requirement, that the tax on a limited purse
may be easily calculated.
Said a lady to me one day, "This heavy crape-vail, over my face and
down to my knees, keeps out the air, and gives me a constant
sick-headache."--"Why, then, wear it?" asked I.--"Because it wouldn't
be _decent_ to omit it," she replied. This remark, of course, requires
no comment.