people from different parts of the country to rub off their local angles
by collision. It is well for those of opposite temperaments and habits
of thought, to look each other mentally in the face. It is well for the
indefatigable mother and housekeeper to remain ignorant, for one blessed
month, of the inevitable, "What shall we have for dinner?" It is well
for the man of business, whose thoughts are narrowed down to stocks and
stores, to look out on the broad hills, and let the little bird's song
stir memories of days when heaven was nearer to him than it has ever
been since. It is well for the ossified old bachelor to air his
selfishness in the genial atmosphere of woman's smile. It is well for
the overtasked clergyman, and his equally overtasked (though not equally
salaried) wife, to have a brief breathing spell from vestries and
verjuice. It is well for their daughter, who has been tied up to the
parish pillory of--"you must not do this," and "you must not do that,"
and "you must not do the other," till she begins to think that God did
not know what He was about when He made her, to bestow so many powers,
and tastes, and faculties, which must be forever folded up in a napkin,
for fear of offending "Mrs. Grundy." _It is well for the Editor, that he
may look in the faces of the women whose books he has reviewed, and
condemned, too, without reading a blessed word of them._ It is well for
everybody--even the exclusives who hesitate, through fear of plebeian
contamination, to sit down in the common parlor; because, were all the
world wise--which Heaven forbid--there would be nothing to laugh at!
A lack of competition is said to affect progress. That the traveller to
the Caatskills has no choice but "The Mountain House," should not, it
seems to me, act as an extinguisher to enterprise upon its
well-patronized landlord. I might make many suggestions as to
improvements, by which I am sure he would, in the end, be no loser. It
needs no great stretch of the imagination to fancy the carriage which
conveys victims to "The Falls," a relic of the Inquisition. I did not
know till I had tried it, how many evolutions a comfortably-fleshed
woman could perform in a minute, between the roof and floor of such a
ve-higgle! (Result--a villanous headache--and the black and blues.) I
noticed a small bookshelf in the very pleasant ladies' parlor. "Praise
God Barebones," I think, must have made the selection of the volumes.
But it is pleasanter to commend than to find fault. I could forgive
many shortcomings for the privilege of feasting on the wholesome light
bread, which to a saleratus-consuming--saleratus-consumed New Yorker,
was glory enough to nibble at. Blessings, too, on the skilful fingers
which stirred up those appetizing omelettes and sublime orange-puddings.
What an amusement it is, to be sure, to watch a man when he gets hold of
the dish he fancies! What fun to bother him with innumerable questions
while he is trying to eat it in undisturbed rapture--meanwhile wishing
you at the North Pole! How cynical the creatures are, the last
interminable half hour _before_ meals, and how sweetly amiable and lazy
_after_! Then is your time to try men's soles; to insist upon their
taking a walk with you, when they can scarce waddle; when visions of
curling Havana smoke invite them to two-legged piazza-chairs, digestion,
and meditation. _Then_ is your time to be suddenly seized with an
unpostponable longing for a brisk game of ten-pins, to test the
sincerity of all their disinterested speeches. My dears, the man who
continues amiable while you thus stroke his inclinations the wrong way,
may safely be trusted in any matrimonial crisis. I indorse him.
With regard to the Falls it may be a delusion, but I think it is rather
a damper to sentiment to fee a man to turn on the water for them! and I
know it is a damper to the slippers to go down into the ravine
beneath--which, joking aside, is very beautiful, and a great place for a
bear to hug you in. Instead of which, I met a young parson whom I knew
by token of his very black coat, and very white necktie; and who
actually pulled from his sacerdotal pocket a profane handkerchief which
I had carelessly dropped, presenting it with as much gravity as if he
had been giving me "the right hand of fellowship." Heaven help him--so
young--so well-made--and so solemn!--I felt immensely like a frolic. And
speaking of frolics--oh, the mountains I had to leave unclimbed, the
"campings out" foregone--and all because I was foreordained to
petticoats--hampering, bush-catching petticoats!--all because I hadn't
courage to put on trousers (in which, by the way, I have made several
unsatisfactory private rehearsal attempts to unsex myself, but nature
was too much for me), and wade knee-deep in moss to see what man alone,
by privilege of his untrammelled apparel, may feast his eyes upon. It is
a _crying_ shame. Ten-pins, too; who can get a "ten-strike" in
petticoats? See what I would do at it in a jacket and unmentionables,
though I really think nature had no eye to this game when she modelled a
woman's hand and wrist. Now I dare say there are straight-laced people
who will be shocked at the idea of a woman playing ten-pins. Well, let
them be shocked. I vote for it for two reasons; first, for the exercise,
when dripping grass and lowering skies deny it to us elsewhere;
secondly, because it is always a pleasant sight to see husbands sharing
this, or any other innocent recreation, with their wives and daughters,
instead of herding selfishly in male flocks. I like this feature of
domesticity in pleasure-seeking in our friends, the Germans. I like the
Germans. Their joy is infectious. A sprinkling of such spirits would do
much towards infusing a little life into the solemn business way in
which Americans too often pursue, but seldom overtake, pleasure. Yes, it
is a lovely sight to see them with their families! and oh, how much more
honorable and just, to a painstaking, economical wife and mother, than
the expensive meal, shared at a restaurant with some male companion,
while she sits solitary, to whom a proposal even for a simple walk would
be happiness, as an evidence of that watchful care which is so endearing
to a wife's heart.
Not the least among our enjoyments were our evenings at the Caatskills.
When warm enough, promenading on the ample piazza with pleasant friends;
when the out-door temperature forbade this, seated in the parlors,
listening to merry voices, looking on young and happy faces, or, what is
never less beautiful, upon those who, having reached life's summit, did
not, for that reason, churlishly refuse to cast back approving,
sympathizing glances upon the young loiterers who were still gleefully
gathering flowers by the way.
Then, too, we had music, _heart_ music, from our German friend; whose
artistic fingers often, also, gave harmonious expressions upon the piano
to our _sunrise_ thoughts, before we had left our rooms. Happy they,
whose full souls can lighten their secret burdens by the low musical
plaint, understood only by those who have themselves loved and
suffered! Of how many tried and aching hearts has music been the
eloquent voice? The ruffled brow grows smooth beneath its influence; the
angry feeling, calm as a wayward child, at a mother's loving kiss. Joy,
like a white-robed angel, glides softly in, and on the billows of
earthly sorrow she lays her gentle finger, whispering, "Peace, be
still!"
* * * * *
A SHAM EXPOSED.--A great deal is said about young men "who are not able
to marry on account of the extravagance of women," when these very young
men often spend as much on their own superfluities, if not on their
vices, as would support a _reasonable_ wife. But the laugh comes in
here--that such young men don't _really_ want a _reasonable_ wife! They
pass by the industrious, self-denying young girl, who pluckily resolves
not to let an already overtasked father or brother support her, and pay
court to some be-flounced and be-jewelled pink-and-white doll, and then
whine that they "can't get married to her, because she is so
extravagant." That's the whole truth about it; and when young men face
and acknowledge it in a manly manner, it will be soon enough to listen
to them on the "marriage" question.
_THE TRIP TO BROMPTON._
"What a splendid day to go to Brompton!" exclaimed Mr. Smith, looking
out of the open window and breathing in the fresh air as only a man can
who has been pent up in a counting-room till his head feels as though it
had a full-sized windmill going inside. "Come, wife, pick up your traps,
and let's be off; the train starts in an hour, and there is a
return-train at nine this evening; just the time to come back." Mrs.
Smith looked lovingly at her baby, for weary as she was, it was a trial
to leave it behind. Who knew what perfidious pin might torture it, or
how hard it might sneeze without even a sympathizing "coo" to reassure
its startled timidity. Who knew but its milk might choke it, or a window
be left open that should be shut; or shut that should be opened. Who
knew but some passing fish-horn, or shad distributor, might scare it
into fits, with unearthly and prolonged whooping. Who knew that it might
not pull the sheet over its face in its sleep and smother itself, or be
laid too near the edge of the bed, and roll off. In short, come to think
of it, Mrs. Smith felt that she had better stay and attend to these
little matters. But an executive hand thrust her bonnet on her head,
and parasol in hand, she found herself on the way to the depot.
It _was_ pleasant, after one _did_ finally emerge from that smothering
depot. The smell of fresh earth and fresh-springing grass, and the
birds' song, and the vivid green of the trees, were all delicious. Mrs.
Smith felt as if she had but half existed for months, something as a
buried toad might, who had lain all winter under a big cold stone, and
crept out some fine morning to try his hopping powers in the June
sunshine. She took no heed of the oranges "five for a shill_in_" thrust
in her face, nor of that dreariest of all things, "a comic newspaper;"
nor packages of "refined candies," or "fig paste," or "Indian
moccasins," or any of the modern inventions to disturb the serenity of
quiet, reflective travellers. She looked steadily out of the window at
the glimpses of wood, and water, and blue sky to be seen therefrom; nor
noticed the flirtation on a side-seat between a young school-girl and
her juvenile beau; nor the fine bonnet that a lady in front thought it
good taste to be travelling in. It was all one to her, while that sweet,
soft wind soothed her heated temples, and she was borne along without
any effort of her own so deliciously. But all pleasures must have an
end, more's the pity; so had this. "Brompton Station," bawled the
conductor, breaking the spell; and with a conjugal reminding nudge of
Mr. Smith's elbow, Mrs. Smith found her feet, and alighted. "It was just
a mile," so the depot-master said, to the house where they were looking
for "Summer board." "_Only_ a mile--let's walk, then," said Mrs. Smith;
"what a nice road, and what big trees; and how sweet the air is." But
alas! Mrs. Smith was mortal, and she had before starting disdained
dinner. Her exclamations of delight began to grow fainter as they
proceeded, and in half an hour, a seat on the top of a stone wall was a
consummation devoutly to be wished. Perched there, with dangling
gaiter-boots, Mrs. Smith faintly inquired of a cow-boy, "how far to
Brompton?" "A mile, _mum_." "But they told us _that_ at the station, and
we've _been_ a mile," she gasped. "It's a good piece yet," he replied,
with a scratch of the head. "Do you think that man yonder would take me
up in his cart?" whispered Mrs. Smith confidentially to her husband.
"Perhaps so," he replied; "but there's no seat in it, and you'd be
horribly jolted." "So I should--dear me--I shall know what 'a mile' is,
next time," replied Mrs. Smith, as she rolled like a bag of wool from
the fence to the ground, and settling her bonnet, started again on her
travels. "Isn't that a splendid view, May?" asked Mr. Smith. "I suppose
so," replied his wife. "Oh, John, I'm awful hungry; and I cannot go any
farther; and I _won't_," said she, sitting down on a big, flat stone.
People don't always know what they will do; as Mrs. Smith said this she
sprang to her feet, and went down the road with the velocity of a
steam-engine. The innocent cow, who was the unconscious propelling
cause, looked as much astonished as Mr. Smith; but it is an ill wind
that blows nobody good, and the farm-house, thanks to that cow, was
finally reached. A cup of tea, and some "domestic bread," set all right
with Mrs. Smith. What was "a mile" now? She climbed fences, just as if
she had no baby at home; she pulled roses, and lilacs, and grasses, and
peeped into pig-sties, and ferreted little kittens out of the barn, and,
in short, one would scarcely have recognized her as the forlorn lady in
the dangling gaiter-boots perched on a wayside wall. And so the
afternoon wore away, and thoughts of "baby" began to clamor. Just then
appeared Mr. Smith, with a serious face. "What is it?" asked his wife,
with that conjugal free-masonry which beats "Lodges" all hollow.
"There's no train back to-night. May, I made a mistake, and read the
time-table wrong; I'm sorry; but it was nine _A.M._, instead of nine
_P.M._; so we shall have to stay till morning." "John," said Mrs. Smith,
solemnly, "is there a freight train that goes down any time during the
night?" "I don't know; I can ask," said her husband; "but you can't go
on a freight-train--it is so high, that you can't step in or out, even
if the conductor will take you; and then there will be cattle aboard,
perhaps, and you'll be cooped in a close, little pen, full of
tobacco-smoke;--just think! _tobacco-smoke!_" said Mr. Smith. "You know
you never can stand _that_, May." "Just ask if that cattle-train is
_really_ going, and _when_," replied his wife, with a far-off look in
her eyes, as if she could see her wailing baby in the distance. "Well,
it may go at one at night, and it may go at two; it stops to take in
milk for the city at the different stations, and it is often an hour
behind time."
An hour after this conversation, Mrs. Smith found herself reclining on
the sofa, in the parlor of the small country tavern, opposite the depot,
which latter was closed for the night, waiting the arrival of the
"cattle-train," while Mr. Smith consoled himself with a cigar on the
piazza. She was roused from a light nap by a tap on the window; a
marital nose was flattened against the window-pane, through which the
information was conveyed her that _she_ was locked _in_ for the night
and _he_ was locked out.
Mrs. Smith flattened _her_ nose against the window-pane and inquired,
"What was to be done?" "Open the window, of course." "I can't--I don't
understand it. I can't see how it goes. The thing is nailed down. It
won't stir an inch." "Pshaw! press your finger on that little knob, you
goose." And the goose did it; and directly a pair of gaiter-boots were
seen going through the window. That was nice; but the chill river-fog
soon began to penetrate cloak and dress, and slight shivers ensued: and
the bouquet of roses and lilacs was thrown away in disgust, for both
hands were needed to fold her drapery more closely round. The sad-voiced
"whip-poor-will" began his midnight serenade; and puffing bull-frogs
joined in the chorus, and watch-dogs barked, and little chickens peeped,
and roosters mistook the moonlight for broad day, and gave shrill,
premature crows--and still the cattle-train came not; and Mrs. Smith
sat crouched on a wheelbarrow-looking affair, used for trundling trunks
at the depot, thinking of "baby." Whoo--puff--puff--whoo! "There it is;
ask no questions, May, but run ahead, and get in somehow." It _was_
"somehow." May never knew how--for John and the conductor managed it
between them, much to the detriment of skirts and frills, and May found
herself in company with a kerosene lamp and a greasy cushion; and
through the partition friendly cows were greeting her; and the air was
odorous with tobacco-smoke; and the cars bumped and jolted and thumped
as if they were bewitched; and there was nothing to hold on to, or to
lean against; and sometimes her bonnet touched the wall, and sometimes
unexpectedly, she had no chair under her; and so, at two in the morning,
this pleasure-seeking couple were landed about three miles from their
city residence, and _not_ in the vicinity of a livery stable, and caught
by mere good luck an infrequent street car; and, reaching home, counted
the baby's toes and fingers and found them all right; and over their
early coffee laughed at the "trip to Brompton."
_LAKE GEORGE REVISITED._
Lake George has haunted me since I saw it. I thought to abide at peace
in mine easy-chair this summer, but Lake George was not visible from my
windows; and how could I let the summer days shine on its beauty and I
not by to see? and then that glorious Hudson! for a sight of which I am
_always_ longing. There was no help for it; I went through the packing
purgatory, and set sail. Commend me to steamboat travel over and above
all the cars that ever screeched under and above ground; but, alas!
steamboats have a drawback which cars have not. You get a comfortable
seat on deck, on the shady side; in a chair _with a back_ to it. You say
this is pleasant, as you fold your hands--Ugh! So does a man, or a group
of them near you, who have just lighted their cigars, or worse, their
pipes. Puff--puff--puff; straight into your face; right and left; fore
and aft. Is this the "fresh air" for which you were travelling? You
reluctantly change your place. You even take a seat in the sun, to rid
yourself of the smoke. Puff--puff; another smoker sits, or stands, near
you; you turn disgusted away, only to encounter another group, who
evidently regard the beautiful Hudson only in the light of an enormous
spittoon.
Now I protest against this lack of decency and chivalry. If no other
woman dare brave these gentlemen, (?) I will, though I know well what
anathemas I shall incur. I call, moreover, upon all _decent_
steamboat-captains to provide a den for these tobacco-absorbing,
tobacco-emitting gentry, in some part of the boat where women are _not_.
If they must smoke, which point I neither deny nor admit, do not suffer
them to expel ladies, to whom they are so profuse in----fine
speeches--to the stifling air of the ladies' cabin, to avoid it. This at
least seems but reasonable and fair. The only place where one is really
in no danger of this nuisance at present is in church; though I am
expecting every Sunday to see boots on the tops of pews, and lighted
cigars behind them. Oh, I know very well that some ladies _pretend_ to
"like it," because they had rather endure it than resign the attentions
of a gentleman who don't know any better than to ask them "if it is
disagreeable." _Of course_, it is disagreeable, for women are clean
creatures; and if they tell you it is _not_, know that they tell you a
good-natured but most unmitigated fib; and you should be ashamed of
availing yourself of it to make yourselves such nuisances.
That lovely midnight glide up the Hudson! Lying dreamily on one's
pillow; just asleep enough to know nothing disagreeable, and awake
enough to see with half-closed eyes through your little window the
white sails, and green shores, and listen to the plashing water.
Daylight and Albany, with its noisy pier, seem an impertinence.
"Breakfast?" ah, yes--we are human, and love coffee; but the melancholy
figures and faces, as we emerge from our state-room! Rosy mouths agape;
bright eyes half-veiled with heavy lids; cloaks and mantles tossed on
with more haste than taste; hair tumbled, bonnets awry. Pull down your
veils, ladies, and prepare yourselves for a general dislocation of every
bone in your body, as you thunder up to the hotel in _that_ omnibus,
which is bound back again in exactly three seconds, for another hapless
cargo.
Your "unprotected female" is to be met everywhere. Is my countenance so
benevolent that she should have singled me out, as I waited at the hotel
for my breakfast? There she was--with spectacles on nose, carpet-bag in
hand; alert--nervous--distracted.
"Was I travelling North or South?"
Was it for want of coffee, or geography, that I curtly replied: "I
haven't the least idea, Ma'am."
"Was I alone, dear?"
"Husband, Ma'am."
"Where's the ---- House, dear?"
"_This_ is it, Ma'am."
"Lord bless me--I thought it was the Depot!"
There may be individuals existing who have not ridden in _that_
stage-coach from "Moreau Station" to Lake George. If so, let him or her,
particularly _her_, bear in mind, in selecting her attitude on sitting
down, that it is final and irrevocable, spite of cramps, for thirteen
good miles of sunny, sandy, up-and-down-hill, bumping, thumping travel.
However, there's fun even in that. Jolts bring out jokes. After punching
daylight through the ribs of one's neighbor, one don't wait for an
"introduction." Your Cologne bottle becomes common property, also your
fan. If there is an unlucky wight on top, whose overhanging boots
betoken a due respect for the eighth commandment, of course he can have
the refusal of your sun umbrella to keep his brains from frying,
particularly as you don't know what to do with it inside. Yes--on the
whole, it is fun; but it isn't fun to arrive at a hotel faint, dusty,
hungry, and hear, "We are running over, but we can _feed_ you here, if
you'll _lodge_ in the village." May do for men, groan out the green
veils; try at another house. Ah, now it is _our_ turn; installed by some
hocus-pocus in two rooms commanding a magnificent view of the lake, we
can afford to pity hungry wretches who can't get in. Now we breathe! Our
feet and arms--yes, they are all right, for we just tried them. Now we
toss off our bonnet, and gaze at those huge mountains and their dark
shadows on the lake; now we see the little row-boats glide along, to the
musical, sparkling dip of the oar; now we hear the merry laughs of the
rowers, or perhaps a snatch of a song in a woman's voice. Now the clear,
fresh breeze sweeps over the hills, and ruffles the lake, bringing us
spicy odors. Oh, but this is delicious. Dress? What, _here_? No, indeed;
enough of that in New York. Who wants to see dresses may look in our
trunks. That hill is to be climbed, that shore to be reached, that boat
to be sailed in, and how is that to be done if one "dresses"? We are for
a tramp, a sail, a drive--anything but dressing.
Lake George by moonlight, at midnight! oh, you should see it, with its
shining, quivering path of light, as if for angel footsteps. I know not
whether another world is fairer than this; but I _do_ know that _there_
are no sighs, no weary outstretching of the hands for help, no smothered
cry of despair.
* * * * *
SELF-HELP.--We pity those who do not and never have "labored." _Ennui_
and satiety sooner or later are sure to be their portion. Like the child
who is in possession of every new toy, and who has snapped and broken
them all, they stand looking about for something--_anything_ new and
amusing; and like this child, they often stoop to the mud and the gutter
for it. It is an understood principle of human nature, that people never
value that which is easily obtained. Bread which has been purchased with
unearned money has never the flavor and sweetness of that which is won
by the sweat of one's own brow.
_COOKERY AND TAILORING._
When male writers have nothing else to say they fall "afoul" of all
women for not being adepts in cookery. Now, one might just as well
insist that every man should know how to make his own trousers, as that
every woman should be a cook.
Suppose reverses should come, and the man who don't know how should not
be able to employ a tailor, where would he be then, not understanding
how to make his own trousers? And suppose reverses should _not_ come,
how much wiser and better for him to know practically all about
tailoring, so that he might _with knowledge_ be able to direct his
tailor? At present he thoughtlessly steps in and recklessly orders them.
How does he know whether the amount of cloth used is necessary, or the
contrary? How does he know that he isn't swindled fearfully on buttons,
lappets, and facings, and even the padding inserted to make his rickety
figure bewitching? I grieve when I think of this, and then of his asking
his wife afterward, "what she did with the twenty-five cents he gave her
yesterday to go shopping with." He ought to be master of tailoring in
all its branches, before he links his destiny with a woman, or else he
ought to wear a cloak, which, morally speaking, _is_ his normal
condition.