that we, who so adore strength, power, beauty, and perfection, should be
content with its circumscribed _human_ progress; never look for it,
never worship it, where it is limitless, unchangeable, unfettered by
selfishness, caprice, or injustice. Alas! till we learn this, we shall,
vine-like, throw out our tendrils to the mercy of every passing breeze,
with nothing sure to twine around or cling to.
_CAN'T KEEP A HOTEL._
A man who has no call to keep a hotel had better not try it, unless he
can be certain that the horizon of his guests has always been bounded by
the village hay-scales. Noble scenery is a fine thing; but mountain, nor
lake, nor river, was ever enjoyable in company with an empty stomach, or
one which is in the talons of the fiend, _indigestion_. To come to one's
meal with loathing, and eat because we must, or starve, and then hurry
from grease and saleratus as soon as possible, is not the best receipt a
landlord can use to insure a good class of customers for another season.
He may think it of no consequence that his garden, if he have one, be as
full of nettles as of flowers; that the walks have more pig-weed than
gravel in them; that his out-buildings are more conspicuous than any
other object both to the eye and nose; and that the grass-plats about
the house are strewn with perpetual rags, paper, and old boots, which a
fervid August sun is not generally inclined to mitigate.
He may "take things easy" when his guests, having engaged the
hotel-carriage and horses for a ride are still standing on the piazza
waiting half an hour past the time; and when, on its dilatory
appearance, the harness is found giving out at the last minute, having
been patched and repatched in a slovenly manner on uncounted previous
rides; while the golden sunset, on which his guests had reckoned, is
spent in a fruitless search for _that_ hammer and _those_ nails, which
elude all pursuit. He may think it good policy to keep his _regular_
boarders waiting for their meals an hour past the appointed time, while
hungry children fret for sustenance, because new-comers will _then_
appear, and this stratagem will save the trouble of preparing _two_
meals. He may do all that if he will; but he must remember that every
disgusted guest who leaves his establishment will prevent many from
coming to it; and that with such a short-sighted policy he will soon
find "his occupation gone."
Keeping a hotel is a _gift_, as much as poetry, or sculpture, or
painting. I might name men whose hotels have attained perfection under
their wise, cleanly, and systematic ordering; but perfect as they are,
I, for one, am not employed to advertise them over the length and
breadth of the land in the New York _Ledger_. Suffice it to say, that I
have slept on their lovely beds, and had four towels a day to wash my
hands on. That I had a roomy wardrobe for such of my clothes as I
desired to set free from my trunk. That the looking glass was _not_
located in the _darkest_ corner of the room, or placed so high that I
had to stand on tip-toe, or so low that I had to get on my knees to
myself. That the coffee was not made of split peas. That the fried
potatoes even an angel like me might eat. That the meats were cooked in
a Christian manner, and the bread guiltless of any abominable
"Sal"--anything. That the pastry, which I never touch, _looked_ good for
those who like it; and that the ale--oh! the ale was "divine." That in
the spots where cleanliness might not be looked for, there it reigned.
That no chambermaid came with scraping broom against my door, at
daylight, to rouse me from my slumbers, and shuffle and flirt with the
boot-and-shoe collectors at the different doors. That no "pictures" of
ambitious artists upon the walls gave me the nightmare. And, oh!
more--far more than this, that the well-mannered landlord never made a
menagerie--show--of any "lion," or lioness, in his house, by labelling
the same, on the instant of their appearance, in dining-hall or parlor,
for the unwinking stare of the curious.
Of course, such a house needs money as well as an artist-master to carry
it on. Of course, guests who register their names there, must foot the
cost of all this outlay on their bills.
One can buy a bonnet at a pawn-shop, if one is satisfied only with
cheapness; but the dainty, artistic fingers, which blend colors and
fabrics with the lightness and brightness of inspiration, cannot be
expected to sell so much talent at a pawnbroker's price.
Your physician, who stays in your house only five minutes, charges you,
perhaps, fifteen dollars. You stare wildly at the amount; but you do not
take into account the human bodies he has overhauled, and the libraries
and lectures he has mastered to arrive at the knowledge which he has
concentrated for your benefit in that brief five minutes. In homely
phrase, "you pays your money and you takes your choice." Or, "he is a
good-natured man, but he can't keep a hotel," nor will people stay with
him long, though Paradise lies out-doors.
* * * * *
WOMEN LOVERS.--Perhaps you don't know it, but there are women that fall
in love with each other. Woe be to the unfortunate she who _does the
courting_! All the cussedness of ingenuity peculiar to the sex is
employed by "the other party" in tormenting her. She will flirt with
women by the score who are brighter and handsomer than her victim. She
will call on them oftener. She will praise their best bonnet, and go
into ecstasies over their dresses. She will write them more pink notes,
and wear their "tin types;" and when despair has culminated, and
sore-hearted Araminta takes to her bed in consequence, then only will
this conquering she, step off her pedestal to pick up her dead and
wounded. But then women must keep their hand in. Practice makes
perfect.
_NEW CLOTHES._
It is curious with what different eyes human beings look upon new
clothes, at different stages of existence. Youth, which least needs
these auxiliaries, is generally the most clamorous for incessant change.
No discomfort in the way of perpetual guardianship over their freshness;
no uncomfortable sense of their weight or pressure on the limbs, is
heeded, so that the craving for them is satisfied. Nor is there any sex
to this foible. Young men are quite as apt to be caught tripping in this
regard as their sisters. The new coat may squeeze; the new collar may
strangle; the new boots may pinch; the new hat may leave its red mark on
the throbbing forehead, but perish the thought of not wearing either!
The self-immolation which is undergone in this way finds no mention in
"Fox's Book of Martyrs;" but its silent, tearless, uncomplaining heroism
exists none the less for all that. From the days when our foremothers
had their heads built up in turrets by the hurried hair-dresser, the
night previous to some great festive occasion, and sat bolstered upright
in bed all night, for fear of tumbling them--down to the present day of
ladies' "hair-crimpers," human nature has held its own in this respect.
Middle age, with few exceptions, looks upon new clothes with abated
interest. Old clothes, like old customs, fit easy. _Comfort_, anyhow,
says middle age--appearances as the gods please; so new shoes lie on the
shelf unworn for weeks, for fear of stiff heels or squeaky soles; and
new clothes look and feel so spick-and-span and glossy, that middle age
can no more say or do a natural thing in them, than the boy could spell
right "before he had got the hang of the new school-house;" middle age
resents this petty, fretting intrusion on its much-loved quiet. It is
irritable, till new clothes begin to _feel_ easy, which is not generally
the case till some seam grows threadbare, or some treacherous gap
horrifies the easy wearer with renewed visions of innovating fashions
and fabrics.
Now this is very natural and very well, too, to a certain extent; but
middle age sometimes forgets that something is due to affectionate young
eyes, which take a proper pride in seeing "father" or "mother" neatly
and becomingly dressed, according to their age and station in life.
Roses and snow, of course, nobody looks for; but the trim evergreen
shows well, even beside a snow-bank; and nature herself hangs glistening
pendants of icicles from the glossy leaves of the ivy.
It is a harrowing reflection how much money is "sunk" every day in new
clothes, in which the blissfully unconscious wearers look none the
better, but rather the worse. Still, if everybody had good taste in this
matter, there would be no foil to the well-dressed; and I am afraid the
heartless dry-goods merchants care little whether blondes dress in
orange color, or brunettes in sky-blue, so that their bills are paid.
But new clothes for the "baby." Ah! that is something worth while. I ask
you, did love ever find fabric soft enough, or nice enough, or pretty
enough, for "_the baby_"? Fathers and mothers may make as virtuously
economical resolutions as they please; but why, if they mean to carry
them out, do they linger at the shop-window where that dainty little
satin bonnet stares them innocently in the face, with that pert little
rosette, cocked upon one side, that "would look so cunning on baby." Why
do they contemplate the rows of bright little red-prunella boots, or the
embroidered little sacques and frocks? Why don't they cross right over
and travel home out of the way of temptation? Surely, no pink could
rival the rose of baby's cheek; no crimson the coral of its lips; no
blue the sapphire of its eyes. For all that, out comes the purse and
home goes the bonnet, or cloak, or frock. Just as if shopkeepers didn't
know that babies will keep on being born, and born pretty; and that
fathers and mothers are, and will be, their happy slaves all the world
over to the end of time!
_HOW I READ THE MORNING PAPERS._
If there is a time when I sigh for the "Cave of Adullam," whatever that
may be, it is when, my coffee swallowed, my fingers clutch my precious,
morning papers, for a blessed, quiet read.
I just begin an editorial, which requires a little thinking, when up
comes Biddy with "Ma'am, there's a hole in the _biler_." The "biler"
settled, I go back to the place indicated by my forefinger, where the
Editor was saying "that Congress--" when somebody upsets the coffee-pot
in an attempt to burlesque last night's public performance. The
coffee-pot set right end up, and the coffee pond drained off the
table-cloth, I return again to my beloved editorial;--when Biddy again
appears with "Ma'am, the man has come to mend the door-handle as is
broke." That nuisance disposed of, I take my paper and retreat in
self-defence to the top of the house, and commence to read again, "that
Congress--" when I am interrupted with loud shouts of "Where's mother?
Mother? where are you?" I disdain to answer. "Mother?" In despair, I
cry, in tragic tones, "Well, what _is_ it?" "A poor soldier is at the
door with pictures at thirty cents apiece, and he has but one arm."
"Well, I have but one life--but for mercy's sake take his pictures, and
don't let in anything else, man, woman, or child, till I read my paper
through." I begin again: "If Congress--" when Biddy, who is making the
bed in the next room, begins howling "Swate Ireland is the land for me."
I get up and very mildly request--in view of a possible visit to an
Intelligence Office--that she will oblige me by deferring her concert
till I get through my morning paper. Then I begin again: "If Congress--"
when up comes paterfamilias to know if it is to be beef, or chicken, or
veal, that he is to order at market for that day's dinner. "Possum, if
you like," I mutter, with both fingers on my ears, as I commence again,
"If Congress--" Paterfamilias laughs and retreats, exclaiming,
"Shadrachs! vot a womansh!" and I finish "Congress," and begin on the
book reviews. A knock on the door. "Six letters, ma'am." I open them.
Three for an "autograph," with the privilege of finding my own envelope
and stamp, and mailing it afterward. One with a request for me to
furnish a speedy "composition" to save a school-boy at a dead-lock of
ideas from impending suicide. One from a man who has made a new kind of
polish for the legs of tables and chairs, and wants me to write an
article about it in the _Ledger_, and send him an early copy of the
same. One from a girl "who never in her life owned a dress bonnet," and
would like, with my assistance, to experience that refreshing and novel
sensation.
I begin again my postponed list of "book reviews;" when in comes
paterfamilias to know "if I haven't yet done with that paper." That's
the last ounce on the camel's back! Mind you, _he_ has just read _his_
morning paper through, and it contains a different stripe of politics
from mine, I can tell you that. Read it in _peace_, too--with his legs
on the mantel, smoking his beloved pipe. Read it up and down; backwards
and forwards; inside out, and upside down; and disembowelled every shade
of meaning from live and dead subjects; and then coolly inquires of
me--me, with my hair on end in the vain effort to retain any ideas
through all these interruptions--"if I haven't _yet_ done with that
paper?" Oh, it's _too_ much! I sit down opposite him. I explain how I
never get a chance to finish anything except himself. I tell him my life
is all fragments. I ask him, with moist eyes, if he knows how the price
of board ranges at the different Lunatic Asylums. What is his unfeeling
answer? "Hadn't I better take some other hour in the day to read the
papers?"
Isn't that just like a man?
Has not bother and worry "all seasons for its own," as far as women are
concerned? Would it make any difference what "hour in the day" I took to
read the papers? _Can_ women _ever_ have any system about anything,
while a Biddy or a male creature exists on the face of the earth to
tangle up things? Have I not all my life been striving and struggling
for that "order" which my copy-book told me in my youth "was Heaven's
first law"? And is it my fault if "chaos," which I hate, is my
"unwilling portion"? I just propounded to paterfamilias these vital
questions. With eyes far off on distant, and untried, and possible
fields of literature, he absently replies: "Well, as you say, Fanny, I
shouldn't wonder if it _does_ rain to-day." Great Heavens!
* * * * *
SMOKING BABIES.--It would not be amiss to call the attention of parents
and school-teachers to the fact that every morning, lads from seven
years old to twelve may be seen, satchel in hand, _smoking_ on their way
to school. Surely, between the parents and the teachers, some remedy
should immediately be devised to prevent this enormous tax upon the
vitality of youth. A great deal has very properly been written and
spoken upon the mismanagement of young girls who have not yet reached
their teens. Why not extend this philanthropic solicitude to their
brothers? Is it because smoking fathers, being themselves slaves to this
vile habit, have not the face to ask their sons to practise a
self-denial, of which their own manhood is incapable?
_BETTY'S SOLILOQUY._
Hard to live out? Well, that's just as you choose to take it. Some folks
have no faculty at getting along in this world. My name is Easy, and my
nature is ditto. When I go to a place I always say "yes" to everything
they ask me. I never make an objection to doing anything; of course, my
mistress likes that; as to really doing all I promise to do, leave me
alone to manage that, with as innocent a face as the baby I take care
of. Now, for instance, suppose she sends me up into the nursery to get
the child asleep. It is tiresome work; there's a great deal of coaxing,
and twisting, and wriggling, and rocking, and singing to be done, before
that can be brought about; and it tires me, and I don't like it. But of
course I reply, "Certainly, ma'am," when she bids me, and I take the
child upstairs. Then I sit down with it; and just hold it in some
uncomfortable position so that it will cry loud enough to fret its
mamma. Then she bears it awhile, thinking baby will stop by and by; but
baby somehow _don't_ stop. Then she comes up and says to me, "Betty what
do you think _can_ ail baby!" And I kiss it and hold it up to my face,
and say, "Poor little dear, I am afraid it has a bad stomach ache; it
won't be easy--anyhow I try;" and then she says, "Well, I'll take it
awhile, Betty, and see if I can't soothe it asleep;" and I say, "Oh no,
ma'am, it is a pity you should tire yourself with the child;" and she
seeing me so willing, just takes it--don't you see? _That's_ the way to
do. There's no use in _fighting_ one's way through the world, when a
little cunning answers just as well. Well, then my mistress likes baby
to go out of doors a great deal. Now, as a general thing, I never engage
to live with a lady who don't keep her own carriage, on that account.
It's very nice to be sent out in a carriage with the baby, for an
airing, with John, the coachman, particularly when John is agreeable,
which is sometimes the case. It makes a body feel like somebody to say,
"John, you may drive here, or, John, you may drive there." But of course
one cannot always get a place to one's mind; and so when my mistress
uses her feet instead of a carriage, she needn't think that I shall do
it any more than I can possibly help. So when she tells me to take baby
out, I say, "Yes'em," as I always do, respectfully, I hope--and out I
go, and make for the first kitchen where I have a pleasant acquaintance,
and baby can wait till we get through our gossip, which is not very
soon. Of course, I never take a little tell-tale of an older child with
me on such occasions. I tell mistress I'm so afraid of its getting run
over, or something, while I'm minding baby. Then as to my "privileges,"
I hope I know enough to have one of my friends sick or dead if I want an
evening out. There can't anything be said against that, you know, if
one is only judicious enough not to have it happen _too_ often.
Sometimes I come across a mistress who is too keen for me. Now I never
like to live with a lady who has gray eyes; in that case we have a
mutual inclination to part, of course; but as a general thing, I find my
way of managing "_fust-rate_," because I give no "impudence," you see,
which is what most ladies are so touchy about. As to "conscience,"
humph! where are _their_ "consciences," I'd like to know? It is a poor
rule that won't work both ways. I should be worn to a skeleton if I kept
a conscience.
* * * * *
BRIDAL PRESENTS.--If brides could only hear the conversations that are
held over the "bridal presents" by the givers! Their weary yawns while
pondering how much _must_ be expended, and how little _may_; and wishing
heartily the whole system were exploded, in favor of their pockets. If
brides could hear this, they would quietly and with dignity announce,
"No presents received," even without any reservations as to
relationship. It is of no use talking of the "good old days," we
suppose; as well might one ask a confirmed epicure to adjure his
Cayenne, and highly spiced diet for plain, wholesome, nutritious food;
so, with a passing sigh for the days when sentiment, modesty, and
economy had not yet gone out of fashion, we give it up.
_MY DREADFUL BUMP OF ORDER._
I have just been reading a "sweet" article, headed "Coming Home After
the Summer Vacation," in which the writer looks through his "glory
spectacles" upon the delights of plenty of elbow-room in the dear old
house; good fare, and one's little personal hourly comforts generally.
_All very well._ But what of the carpets to be shaken and steamed, or
the new ones to be made? What of the painting and whitewashing, and
cleaning out of cellars and closets? What of the new kitchen-range, and
the new oilcloth for the floor? What of the plumbing and roof painting?
What of the winter's coal to get in, which _paterfamilias_ always
"forgets" to order till the fall house-cleaning is done? What of
upholsterers and painters and plumbers, who begin a job, and finish it
whenever the gods will? What of crisp, sunny, lovely autumn mornings
spent in the delightful atmosphere of an "Intelligence Office" six feet
by eight, while _answering_ the following questions: "Any children in
the family? Have you an English basement? Have you a servant's parlor?
Do you put out your washing? Does your cook wash the dishes? Do you use
such and such a kitchen-range?" All of which questions, answered in the
affirmative, giving you the inestimable boon of a poor cook, at sixteen,
eighteen, or twenty dollars a month, with liberty to have her "cousins"
visit her at will. After that comes your waitress, and if you want to
preserve your senses you had better end there, without encumbering
yourself with more "help."
There is nothing said about all _this_ in the "sweet" article alluded
to, called "Coming Home After the Summer Vacation." I didn't see
anything in it either about the children's dilapidated wardrobe, to be
then replenished, with dress-makers knee-deep in engagements, and
"Furnishing Stores for Children's Outfits," containing only lace and
ruffles, to wear to school. As to your own wardrobe, if you are
possessed of a black silk, or alpaca, or Cashmere walking-suit, blessed
are you among women--for then you at least are always presentable in
public.
Well, after all this, there is a chance that the new cook, not admiring
the new waitress, whom _you_ happen to like, may conclude to quarrel her
off, in order to fill the vacancy with a raw "cousin" just from
shipboard: and directly, when you think the family machine is at last
oiled, and in motion for the winter, and you are taking breath upon that
idea, in comes the irate waitress, and you are "to choose, ma'am, if you
please, between me and the cook, for indeed the house will not hold both
of us," and so on, and so forth.
Here most lady housekeepers come to the end of their calamities. But
suppose you help to earn the family bread and butter as a writer? Then
may the gods send you patience, or a new set of nerves and muscles and
brains! May the gods preserve you from reading yourself the crudities
you give to the public for base lucre! May the gods sustain you under
the torturing reflection, how much better literary work you know
yourself to be capable of, had you only a fair chance at your freshest
moments, and could you inaugurate that "system" in your household to
which Intelligence Offices are an insurmountable obstacle; which you,
New England born and bred, adore and understand, but yet can never bring
about with any "increase of wages," or even personal supervision; not,
at least, while the demand for household servants is always greater than
the supply, and they can make their own terms, and exhaust your vitality
much faster than they can their own vocabulary of abuse.
Knowing thoroughly _this_ side of "Coming Home After the Summer
Vacation," I perused the article with this heading, with the corners of
my mouth slightly drawn down, and the end of my nose slightly turned up.
And if any lady remarks, in reply, that _she_ "admires housekeeping in
all its details," I can only say, that I have observed that slack
housekeepers generally do, as their topsy-turvy cupboards bear witness.
And I also unhesitatingly affirm that no thorough housekeeper, in the
present day of incompetent, careless servants, who desires time for
anything else save the hourly needs of the body, can conscientiously
make such assertion; although, as wife and mistress, she may not at the
same time refuse to meet the consequent exhaustive demands upon her
vitality; that is, so long as she can possibly bear the strain.