church-members and clergymen to give up his disreputable way of
living, Find-Fault said, "Now just see those Christians taking the
bread out of that poor devil's mouth, and expecting him to sustain
nature on praying and singing."
Afterward, when a purse was made up for just such a person, that he
might be able to defy want, and the better to struggle for honesty,
Find-Fault remarked, sneeringly, "Reform, indeed! what fellow like
that _wouldn't_ reform, even fifty times a year, if the bait of a
well-filled purse were put under his nose."
Now what is the use of talking to a man who applies common sense to
every subject but that of religion?--who has no doubt that genuine
money is in circulation although he has a counterfeit dollar in his
pocket, but still persists in denying the existence of true religion
because he sometimes meets a hypocrite. Oh, pshaw! None so blind as
they who _wont_ see. None so hard to convince as they who are
predetermined _not_ to be convinced, come what will.
* * * * *
Would it not be well for the sextons of our churches, to take the
_creak_ out of their Sunday shoes, by wearing them once or twice on a
week-day? Some of the most important points in a clergyman's discourse
are often lost through the music of the sexton's shoes. A pair of soft
slippers, or easy boots, might be raised on subscription and presented
to this functionary. Also, if he would not go out in the vestibule to
smoke, during service, it would be a relief to many lovers of pure
air. Both these suggestions apply equally well to some of the
parishioners.
_AUTOGRAPH-HUNTERS._
If there is an intolerable nuisance, it is your persistent
autograph-hunter--your man or woman who keeps a stereotyped formula of
compliment on hand, "their collection not complete without your
distinguished name," &c.; sending it all over the country, to eminent
and _notorious_ individuals alike, to swell their precious
"collection," as they call it. Now, in the outset, I wish to except
requests for this purpose from personal friends, to whom it is always
a pleasure to say Yes; but to those who torment you from mercenary
motives or from mere curiosity, as they would bottle up an odd insect
for their shelf, to amuse an idle hour, I confess to little sympathy.
Nay more, I am unprincipled enough, having long been a martyr, always
to pocket the stamp they send, and throw the request in the
waste-paper basket. I can conceive that invalids, or very young
school-boys or girls, might amuse themselves in this manner; but how a
sane adult, in the rush and hurry and turmoil of the maelstrom-life of
1868, can find a moment for such nonsense, or can expect _you_ to find
a moment for it, is beyond my comprehension. Now, a lock of hair has
some significance--at least, I hope that man thought so, who received
from me a curl clipped from a poodle-dog, which at this moment may be
labelled with my name. It will be all the same a hundred years hence,
as I remarked when I forwarded it to him.
Your autograph-hunter has a funny way of acknowledging "the
intrusion," and then going on to pile up the agony by asking, beside
your own autograph, that you would "favor him with any from
distinguished individuals that you may happen to have in your
possession, for which he--or she--will be much obliged," etc.; and I
have no doubt they will when I send them!
Now, I know this sounds unamiable; but there is a point when endurance
comes to an end, and that is where persistent impertinence begins. Why
don't they go to my friend Jack Smith? _He_ is eminent. He will write
autographs all day and all night for anybody who wants one, because he
considers it a compliment, which I don't, as autographs go; and
because Henry Clay never refused--and that would be the very reason I
should; and because Jack has the chronic weakness of always saying
Yes, when he should say No, and _vice versa_. I am afraid I shall have
to buy my postage-stamps after this onslaught, instead of having them
found by autograph-hunters, as I have had for some time; but I shall
get off cheaply at that, and save temper, time, and ink beside. The
mischief of expressing one's opinion on this and kindred subjects, in
print, is this: that the rhinoceros-fellows you mean to hit always
dodge it, in favor of some kind-hearted, sensitive soul whose feelings
you wouldn't wound for a bushel of autographs, though you should have
to sit up all night to write them. I didn't mean _you_ at all, my dear
sir or madam, because I know _you_ really like me, good-for-nothing as
I am; and, after all, it may be that I am only "riled" by that
"furniture-polish man," who looked so much like a clergyman that Betty
mistook him for one, and thought I really must go down if I were busy,
and whose nose I should like to have anointed with his miserable
"polish," for wasting one good hour of the morning, trying it on my
furniture.
_THE ETIQUETTE OF HOTEL PIAZZAS._
I am not aware that any one has treated this momentous subject. This
being the case, permit me to inquire what are the rights of persons
occupying rooms on the ground-floors of hotels, or boarding-houses,
with windows opening upon the piazzas of the same. Or, in other words,
_have_ they any exclusive right to that part of the piazza directly
fronting their own windows? May they remonstrate if, while sitting at
their window reading or writing, a person draws a chair in front and
commences singing "Pop goes the Weasel," with variations; or whistles
"Yankee Doodle," for an hour; or _reads aloud_ to a companion some
blood-and-thunder novel? Or worse, when a gentleman(?) draws a chair
in front of the window, and with his heels on the pillar of the
piazza, and his head close to your window, lights an odious pipe, and
commences filling your room with its vileness, compelling your
immediate retreat, because he prefers the spot opposite to your window
to the smoker's end of the piazza: in such case, is it in order for
one to request his speedy exit? Is it piazza-etiquette for strangers,
who have ascertained "that that is _her_ room" to lean close to the
window-sill, the better to observe the habits of the animal inside?
May one, in such circumstances, in self-defence, close a blind, or
drop a curtain, without forfeiting the good opinion of inquiring
minds?
Would it be proper, in those who engage piazza-rooms, first to inquire
of the landlord if he himself is a smoker, the better to calculate
one's chances of sympathy in case of tobacco intruders?
There are alleviations, I am not unaware, to the occupants of
piazza-rooms. For instance, when one's blinds are closed upon the
unwary, it is interesting to hear a narrative of oneself from the
stranger within the gates. Many facts in your history, of which you
were before entirely ignorant, are thus brought to your notice,
without subscribing to any paper. It is also edifying to learn that
your friend, "Mrs. Jones, gives her husband fits;" that "Mr. Smith is
a horrible brute, in his own room, to his wife, although always ready
to pick up gracefully the handkerchief of any other lady, and return
it with the most complimentary little speeches." It is also amusing to
know that Mrs. Jenkins' hair is or is not her own; likewise, her
complexion. Edifying, also, are statistics about family expenses, and
the manner of expending holiday money so as to get the most fun out of
it. But when one young man reposes love-confidences in another,
beneath your lattice, _then_, my sisters, hold your breath and your
sides!--for then shall you know a depth of stupidity in measuring
feminine tactics which should richly entitle its owner to a free pass
into any Lunatic Asylum in the land.
As this is a many-sided subject, let me inquire, were you, the
occupant of a piazza-room, ever awakened at the gray dawn, from lovely
slumber, by the dragging of chairs and stools across it, and the
scratching of mops and brooms? Or were you ever forced to lie in a
perspiration of agony, at twelve o'clock at night, while some
enterprising individual, in the parlor opposite your door, played with
one hand, the inspiring tune of "Lanigan's Ball," or rattled
discordantly through "I love but Thee"?
Lest you should forget it, let me repeat the question with which I
started. Have occupants of piazza-rooms any exclusive rights in the
piece of piazza directly fronting their own windows? If Congress has
not adjourned, perhaps it will stop pulling noses to answer.
_OLD STOCKBRIDGE IN MASSACHUSETTS._
Massachusetts forever! _and thrift, of course_. Doors that will shut.
Blinds that will fasten. Windows that do not dislocate your wrists to
open. Good bread and beef steak. Mountains with cool sloping sides,
and distracting shadows. A river that has coquetted with the meadows,
till one never knows where it will turn up, or disappear. Perfect
roads, even for our precious "Ledger-horses." Trees whose tops pierce
the clouds, with trunks as rugged and gnarled as the theology of the
oldest divine in the place. "Stockbridge!" The name might have been
prettier--the place _couldn't_ be. From my window I can watch the cool
spray of a fountain, as the wind tosses it about, or the sun makes a
rainbow out of it. Or I can look at a little toy of an Episcopal
Church, half hidden in vines, and trees, and roses, through whose open
windows floats faintly to my ear the sweet Sabbath chaunt, to which
the little birds give cheerful response. Bars of sunlight lie across
the wide grassy road, and every door is a picture, with the silver
hair of age serenely biding its time; or the golden locks of
childhood, shading sinless brows, spite of the "hell" which President
Edwards would insist was their inherited portion. In _this_ place,
too, of all other places, where heavenly peace is written in the air,
and so faint is the intimation of life's turmoil, that one might well
doubt whether this were _not_ heaven. I look at the house where this
good, but _I_ think mistaken, man thought and wrote these things, and
wonder that he could not see _my_ God instead of _his--the Avenger_.
I walk under these cathedral trees, and like a dream comes to me the
memory of a bright summer day, when a romping school-girl in
Pittsfield, near by, I came to this very "Stockbridge," to a house a
few rods from my present abode, where a sister's welcome awaited me.
And to-day _her_ trees, _her_ vines, _her_ flowers, give out perfume,
and shade, and bloom, all the same as if she were gliding in and out
beneath them, instead of sleeping, deaf, dumb, and blind, forever to
all their beauty.
_You_, too, must have known those whom you "could not _make_ dead!"
Joyous, beaming creatures, with steps of air, floating _over_--not
walking _on_--the earth; touching everything with brightness, like the
bright-winged birds, which send forth a trill that takes your soul
along with it, as they dart, like a gleam of sunshine, through the
air. _You_, too, have stood over their coffin; but you only remember
the sunny _living_ face. You have touched the cold hand; but you feel
only, through long years of separation, the warm life clasp. And so my
sister was still there, amid her flowers and trees; and when the
present kindly proprietor showed me about the house and grounds, it
was _she_ to whom I listened; it was _she_, not him, whom I followed,
through the well-remembered paths.
And now tread softly, lest you invade the sanctity of yonder Indian
burying-ground, where rest the bones of countless chiefs, whose
descendants make annual pilgrimage to the spot, unmarked, save by the
wild flowers and waving grass. These Indians went by the name of "The
Stockbridge Indians;" and when any of their tribe settled afterward in
any other place, they always insisted on naming it "Stockbridge."
Jonathan Edwards, who was driven from his church in Northampton on a
point of doctrine, was the minister employed by the Government to
Christianize them; and, from all accounts, a hard job he found it.
"The poor Indian" must have passed into his "hunting-ground," for I
meet him nowhere in my twilight walks through his earthly haunts; nor
does the ghost of a single chief cause my hair to stand on end as I
pass, by moonlight, their lonely burying-ground.
MORNING IN THE VILLAGE.--Softly, slowly, the white mist-veil is drawn
back from the cool, green mountains. Now a little bird, raising its
bright head from its nest, sends forth such a welcome to the fragrant
new-born day, that prayer of mine seems superfluous and tame beside
it. Follows another, like a well-trained voice in a choir, till at
last the swelling chorus is complete, and nature's matins have fairly
begun.
How the dew sparkles and trembles on the nodding blades of grass! How
lazily the cows loiter on their shady path to the cool pastures! How
fair look the white daisies and red clover, fresh from their dewy
baths! How still hang the leaves on the trees, as if to enjoy the too
evanescent coolness! Now some little child's sweet voice is heard,
rivaling the birds. There she stands in the doorway, prettier with her
uncombed locks and bare little pink feet peeping from beneath her
loose, white night-dress, than any touch of art could make her. And
now her father, brown and strong, with hoe and rake in hand, goes
forth to his day's work, stopping as he goes to rest his toil-hardened
hand lightly on that little head as he passes it. And whether the hot
noonday sun or the swift lightning-stroke shall paralyze it, that soft
touch, through the slow-coming years, shall be her talisman. And now
the village is fairly astir. None are left in their beds--none are
idle, save the old or the sick. The smoke of the rushing cars curls
out from yonder willows that fringe the river's brink, then
disappears, as, with a parting screech and puff, the train rushes
forth on its errand of life or--death! Now groups gather round the
"store" and "post-office." Ladies who have travelled thither, _with
the city on their backs_, are sauntering under the trees, so occupied
with taking care of their dry-goods that they have neither eyes nor
ears for the beauty and harmony around them. What right have such
women to perpetuate themselves? How _dare_ they be mothers? I don't
know.
NOON IN THE VILLAGE.--How white and hot lies the sun on the dusty
road! The slow, patient oxen are scarce discernible through the cloud
they raise with their huge feet. Their driver has pushed his coarse
straw hat aside, and is mopping his brown face zealously as he
mercifully gives them breath under the shadow of that grand oak-tree.
The voices of the children and the birds are hushed this garish noon.
Each have taken refuge in their nests, to doze the laggard hours away.
The fine city ladies are in loose dresses, deciding whether brown, or
green, or blue shall make us tear each other's eyes out with envy at
dinner. Their husbands lie under the trees in white raiment, insulting
high Heaven with pipes and segars. _Africa_ is flying around in the
dining-hall, regardless of the thermometer, counting spoons, knives,
and noses. Babies afflicted with last night's mosquito-bites howl at
their nurses with distorted faces, while their bigger brothers and
sisters screech for "a drink of _wutter_." Mammas ejaculate "Merciful
heavens!" and keep on surveying their back-hair with the aid of two
looking-glasses. Wonderful beings are women; but don't fear I shall
turn state's-evidence! Not till I can turn female Robinson Crusoe,
with my "man-Friday," to back me in case of onslaught from the
savages.
EVENING IN THE VILLAGE.--Little Bobby stands on the piazza, dressed in
his _fifth_ white robe and sash, since the amorous sun kissed the
tears from nature's face, this blessed morning. Poor Bobby! His
temper isn't improved by it; and as to his nurse, were it not for her
"wages," she would like to fricassee Bobby. Poor wretch! but just wait
till Bobby and his mamma are safe in bed. Wont _she_ enjoy her freedom
in a pink neck-ribbon, flirting by moonlight with Tom--the
head-waiter? So would _you_. I don't blame her. You and I haven't the
monopoly of moonlight; although, 'tis true, they might phrase their
vows more grammatically; and if they _could_ make up their minds not
to kiss so loud under my window, I should sleep better of nights. As
the sun declines, how lovely lie the purple shadows on the grateful
coolness. Ladies are driving past, smiling, and prodigal of sweet
words to the husbands of--_their friends! Their_ husbands are
similarly occupied. "Fair exchange is no robbery," saith the proverb.
Smith used to like black hair, when he married his Belinda; but since
he saw Jones' wife with her blonde locks tied with a blue ribbon he is
a penitent man. Belinda don't care--Mrs. Jones' husband has "such a
way with him!" On they dash!--it's none of my business, as Mischief
remarks, when she has winked and blinked a reputation down. I don't
pretend to be more charitable than my betters. Now those of us who
believe that hoofs should not always be a substitute for human feet,
stroll forth for our evening walk. We are not afraid of dew or dust,
and we get miles away before we remember that we have to return. We
sit on the fences, and dangle our boots, and watch the mountain
shadows and the soft white mist creeping over the valleys, and we
listen to the whip-poor-will. Or we boldly walk up the avenue, under
the dense shade of the trees, to the lovely lawn in front of that big
house, and admire the gardener's skill as displayed in the vivid
patches of bloom nestled in the grass. Or we cross the meadow--to the
tell-tale willows, behind which the river hides, and listen to its
peaceful flow; and say for the thousandth time, that we _will_ own "a
place" in the country; but, nevertheless, it is ten to one, that next
summer will find us staring at the "place" of somebody else, and
allowing him the privilege of keeping it in order for us, and settling
the bills for the same. Alas! that the tools with which scribblers
work can be sharpened and kept from rusting only on that
grindstone--_the city_.
_SUNDAY IN THE VILLAGE._
I am New England born. I want a hymn and a prayer on Sunday. Not that
I do not like both, on other days; but I am always homesick without
them on Sunday. I want them _in church_, too. I said I wanted a hymn
and a prayer. I want a sermon, too; but, alas! I am so often
disappointed _there_, and I so dread being disappointed, that I
generally take a seat near the door, where I can leave at the precise
point when I feel happy, and the sermon begins.
This is naughty, I know, but as I have gone into the confessional, I
will make a clean "_shrive_" of it. I want _what_ I want so much, and
the lack of it spoils my Sunday. I want to know _how to live_; and the
Rev. ---- only tells me that I've "got to die." I want to know how to
manage with _to-day_; and the Rev. ---- only speculates about what may
or what may not be in eternity. I want to be soothed, and helped, and
propped, and comforted; and the Rev. ---- tries to scare me with an
"angry God," and a "sure damnation." I want earnestness in the pulpit;
and instead, I find the Rev. ---- drawling lazily, "And the LUD GED
said unto Adam." I want to know what the Rev. ---- is talking about;
instead--half of the time, I am convinced--he don't even know that
himself.
Perhaps these reasons may be some excuse for my dodging the "sermon"
occasionally; if not, I plead guilty, and only ask you to acquit me of
intentional irreverence. It still remains that who else soever can do
without their Sunday, it is not I--Fanny.
But that's not what I meant to speak about, only that you will insist
on the "prelude" in church. I _meant_ to tell you that the Sunday
before I left New York, I had a genuine Sunday--one of _my_ Sundays;
when, on entering the church of the Rev. Dr. Hall, I did not exchange
the sweet song of birds, the vivid green of the trees, or the blue of
the fair skies, for sulphureous terrors. Since I heard Dr. Payson, of
Portland, when he reached out pleading hands to win wayward feet into
the path of life, I have never been so entirely satisfied with the
delivery of the Master's message. Dr. Hall has the same dignity; the
same pleading earnestness; the same deep, rich voice; the same
appreciative way of reading the hymns; the same _heart_-tone in every
syllable. With him it is no performance. No person present could fail
to feel that he had come there that morning as a fond parent would go
forth, full of tender love, and yearning for the child who had strayed
from home. There was no narrowness, no bigotry, no uncharitable
denunciation; and, at the same time, no blinking of the truth--and the
_whole_ truth. It was the lovely spirit of the Crucified: "Father,
forgive them: they know not what they do."
_I_ had a full meal; and if you could have gone away unsatisfied, I am
sorry for you. It must be that you never had a heart-wrench; that you
never reached out imploring hands in the darkness, only to grasp the
empty air. It must be that the earth never opened at your feet, and
swallowed up your dear ones. It must be that you never--with a sincere
desire to do right, by yourself, and by others--found yourself choking
with distressful tears, that each day's sun should go down with so
poor a record. Oh, you never could have felt thus, or you could not
have gone away from the sound of Dr. Hall's voice, and said, there was
nothing there for me. At least I think you would have admired, as I
did, his noble frankness in telling "church-members" that he did not
blame outsiders for doubting their Christianity, when they were so
swift to pronounce judgment on those who differed from them in
opinion. "This is bigotry," said he; "this is fanaticism--it is not
Christianity. Man's conscience was not given him for this--it was
given him to scrutinize his own shortcomings." This pleased me, in
contrast with the opinion held by many "Christians," that the faults
of such should never be spoken of, "for the possible harm to the
cause."
Now, in conclusion, I would say to Dr. Hall's church, that to allow a
clergyman like him to preach in a place so badly ventilated as was
that church the morning I was present, is a crime. Let them show
their regard for him, while thronging there to hear him, by not
killing him by inches; he is too tall a man to die in that way.
* * * * *
WHAT DIFFERENCE CAN IT MAKE WHAT I DO OR SAY?--Now, there is not a man
or woman living, nor ever has been, to whom it "makes no difference."
If you have neither father, mother, brother, sister, child, husband,
or wife, in the wide world, still there is some neighbor, some
companion, whose eye, fixed upon you, is moved, perhaps unknown to
themselves, for good or for evil. You slip an arm through theirs, in
the crowded thoroughfare, or lay a friendly hand on their shoulder,
and, in a leisure moment, saunter along together. _Where?_ It was
_you_ who decided _where_. It is on you that the responsibility falls,
perhaps, of that friend's _first_ downward step. Never say, it "makes
no difference what I do." It makes a difference to _yourself_, even
were it true that it did to no one else.
They who have passed many milestones on the journey of life, with
their faces toward the Celestial City, do not stop to ask those who
pass them on the road, of their creeds or nationalities. They see only
the brother, or sister, to whom the helping hand and sympathizing word
in time may be life or death for this world and the next. This is the
true Christ-spirit.
_SICK IN THE VILLAGE._