LOOKat those long-faced Christians coming home from church, says Find-Fault; "it is enough to make one sick—gloomy, morose-looking beings. I wonder do they think there is any religion in that? The fact is, religion is played out." Now, Find-Faultwantsreligion to be played out, so he looks at it always through that pair of spectacles. If he sees a mistake in that direction, he never thinks, as in other cases, of making reasonable allowance for it. He can understand how really good men may have narrow views of business, or of politics, or of any such secular matters; but if they blunder through narrowness of view on thereligiousquestion, he immediately sets them down as hypocrites and pretenders. Now I believe that there is many a "Worthy the Lamb" being sung heartily in heaven to-day, by those mistaken Christians who thought it right to groan and sigh all the time they were on earth. It is a pity, to be sure, especially in view of such people as Find-Fault, that they had not occasionally given us a cheerful chirp before they went, but "religion" still lives all the same.
LOOKat those long-faced Christians coming home from church, says Find-Fault; "it is enough to make one sick—gloomy, morose-looking beings. I wonder do they think there is any religion in that? The fact is, religion is played out." Now, Find-Faultwantsreligion to be played out, so he looks at it always through that pair of spectacles. If he sees a mistake in that direction, he never thinks, as in other cases, of making reasonable allowance for it. He can understand how really good men may have narrow views of business, or of politics, or of any such secular matters; but if they blunder through narrowness of view on thereligiousquestion, he immediately sets them down as hypocrites and pretenders. Now I believe that there is many a "Worthy the Lamb" being sung heartily in heaven to-day, by those mistaken Christians who thought it right to groan and sigh all the time they were on earth. It is a pity, to be sure, especially in view of such people as Find-Fault, that they had not occasionally given us a cheerful chirp before they went, but "religion" still lives all the same.
Then Find-Fault is not very consistent, even on his own showing.
"There'sa pretty minister for you," he says, as he comes out of the Rev. Mr. Spring-morning's church; "there's a pretty minister for you—making his congregation smile during the services! A clergyman shouldn't let himself down that way. It is undignified." You tell him that the clergyman in question believes in a cheerful religion, and wishes to do away with the long-faced Christianity which brings religion into disrepute with just such people as himself. Finding himself in a corner, he only gives you his stereotyped answer, that "religion is played out, anyhow."
Find-Fault isn't a bad man: it only pleases him to be thought so. The other day, in speaking of a man who made great efforts to overcome intemperate habits, and failed, he said, "Poor fellow! somebody ought to take hold and help him to help himself." But, mind you, he never thinks of applying the same rule to a church-member for whom Satan, in a moment of weakness, is too strong; no matter how sincere his repentance, he only says, "there's your religion again!"
Not long since, when a man of very bad character was requested by 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 thatwouldn'treform, 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 whowontsee. None so hard to convince as they who are predeterminednotto be convinced, come what will.
Would it not be well for the sextons of our churches, to take thecreakout 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.
IFthere 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 andnotoriousindividuals 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 expectyouto 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.
IFthere 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 andnotoriousindividuals 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 expectyouto 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?Heis 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, andvice 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 meanyouat all, my dear sir or madam, because I knowyoureally 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.
IAMnot 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,havethey 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; orreads aloudto 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 isherroom" 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?
IAMnot 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,havethey 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; orreads aloudto 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 isherroom" 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 entitleits 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.
MASSACHUSETTSforever!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 placecouldn'tbe. 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 wouldinsist was their inherited portion. Inthisplace, 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 werenotheaven. I look at the house where this good, butIthink mistaken, man thought and wrote these things, and wonder that he could not seemyGod instead ofhis—the Avenger.
MASSACHUSETTSforever!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 placecouldn'tbe. 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 wouldinsist was their inherited portion. Inthisplace, 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 werenotheaven. I look at the house where this good, butIthink mistaken, man thought and wrote these things, and wonder that he could not seemyGod instead ofhis—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-dayhertrees,hervines,herflowers, 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 notmakedead!" Joyous, beaming creatures, with steps of air, floatingover—not walkingon—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 sunnylivingface. 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 aboutthe house and grounds, it wassheto whom I listened; it wasshe, 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 noddingblades 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? Howdarethey 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.Africais 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 ofwutter." 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 hisfifthwhite 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. Wontsheenjoy her freedom in a pink neck-ribbon, flirting by moonlight with Tom—the head-waiter? So wouldyou. 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 theycouldmake 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! Theirhusbands 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 whitemist 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 wewillown "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.
IAMNew 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 themin church, too. I said I wanted a hymn and a prayer. I want a sermon, too; but, alas! I am so often disappointedthere, 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 wantwhatI want so much, and the lack of it spoils my Sunday. I want to knowhow to live; and the Rev. —— only tells me that I've "got to die." I want to know how to manage withto-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 theLud Gedsaid 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.
IAMNew 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 themin church, too. I said I wanted a hymn and a prayer. I want a sermon, too; but, alas! I am so often disappointedthere, 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 wantwhatI want so much, and the lack of it spoils my Sunday. I want to knowhow to live; and the Rev. —— only tells me that I've "got to die." I want to know how to manage withto-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 theLud Gedsaid 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. Imeantto tell you that the Sunday before I left New York, I had a genuine Sunday—one ofmySundays; 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 sameheart-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 thewholetruth. It was the lovely spirit of theCrucified: "Father, forgive them: they know not what they do."
Ihad 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 themorning 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 wasyouwho decidedwhere. It is on you that the responsibility falls, perhaps, of that friend'sfirstdownward step. Never say, it "makes no difference what I do." It makes a difference toyourself, 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.
IHAVEbeen sick; safe under the coverlet for seven or eight days at least. I mention what may be to you but a very ordinary experience, because I am really quite humiliated: first, that such an unusual thing should have occurred to me; and secondly, that it should have been the undeserved penalty of great amiability on my part. It happened lately that, on a certain public occasion, a seat was politely assigned me near the orator of the hour, and, unfortunately, also near an open window, through which came directly upon my throat a blast of chill air. I felt it clutch me, but I said to myself, I wont make a disturbance leaving. Hence the necessity of a doctor, and a total cessation of speech, and a big bunch, the size of an egg, on a throat which were better without it. The next time I am polite, you may tell me of it! I am out now, to be sure, under the trees again, but I can't walk with any spring or unction. I can't eat with any appetite. I can't ride without being sensible of every inequality in the road. I hate a bed so that I can scarce bring my mind to get into one at night, and yet I am, as the expression goes, "dead tired" all the time. I tell you all this, particularlynow, however, because I have received a stack of letters, during this period, which I must take a little time to answer, and which correspondents might otherwise suppose were never received, or had been slighted. But, oh! how beautiful look the green fields to me, now, and how welcome the fresh air! Still, don't come to Stockbridgeto be sick. It is heaven for well people, and kind friends who dwell here are heavenly in kind deeds, at such and all other times.
IHAVEbeen sick; safe under the coverlet for seven or eight days at least. I mention what may be to you but a very ordinary experience, because I am really quite humiliated: first, that such an unusual thing should have occurred to me; and secondly, that it should have been the undeserved penalty of great amiability on my part. It happened lately that, on a certain public occasion, a seat was politely assigned me near the orator of the hour, and, unfortunately, also near an open window, through which came directly upon my throat a blast of chill air. I felt it clutch me, but I said to myself, I wont make a disturbance leaving. Hence the necessity of a doctor, and a total cessation of speech, and a big bunch, the size of an egg, on a throat which were better without it. The next time I am polite, you may tell me of it! I am out now, to be sure, under the trees again, but I can't walk with any spring or unction. I can't eat with any appetite. I can't ride without being sensible of every inequality in the road. I hate a bed so that I can scarce bring my mind to get into one at night, and yet I am, as the expression goes, "dead tired" all the time. I tell you all this, particularlynow, however, because I have received a stack of letters, during this period, which I must take a little time to answer, and which correspondents might otherwise suppose were never received, or had been slighted. But, oh! how beautiful look the green fields to me, now, and how welcome the fresh air! Still, don't come to Stockbridgeto be sick. It is heaven for well people, and kind friends who dwell here are heavenly in kind deeds, at such and all other times.
This is what ails Stockbridge. It is occupied, mainly, by rich people, who come here only for their summer sojourn. Most of the houses here are quite closed in winter; therefore, you see that they are all consumers:producersare the exceptions. If you have fruit or squashes in your own garden, thank the sun and the Lord for the same. If you don't own a garden, and don't want to tire out the generosity of your friends; in short, if you are a sick pilgrim at a hotel, then more's the pity.Thenyou'll lie on your pillow and dream of big peaches, and luscious pears, and plums, in your native hunting-ground, the New York markets. You'll think of the stores in Broadway, where huge bunches of grapes, in purple bloom, lie clustering. Maybe at the butcher's, near your very door in New York, is the "sweet-bread," which, if cooked at the right moment, and in the right way, might tempt your flagging appetite. Heaven's blessings on the good Samaritans who broughtmenice tit-bits; but onedon't want to be a pauper too long, lest the patience of benevolence might give out.
While I lay sick, I must say a peach-tree seemed more desirable than the grandest elm; and a pear-tree preferable to ever so magnificent a maple or chestnut. Grape-vines, also, I thought finer than woodbine, ivy, or clematis; in short—were my state of invalidism to continue, I am confident I should become a confirmed utilitarian.
If this bit of experience of mine is any comfort to the forced sojourner in the hot city, let him hug it to heart. I have had sunsets here like the glory of "the New Jerusalem." I've wandered under these trees and been driven over these lovely roads, till my eyes were moist with happiness I could not voice. I have heard such kindly tones, and seen such loving faces, and been so hospitably entreated here, that it would take more physic than was involved in those bed-ridden days of pain and unrest to give me a grudge against lovely, mountain-girdled Stockbridge.
THEfemale fashions of to-day are absurd enough; but if anything more absurd than a man's "stove-pipe hat" was ever invented, I would like to see it. Mark its victims, when they remove it from their heads—which they seldom do, the gods know why, unless they are getting into bed; see the red rim across their foreheads, produced by its unwieldy weight, and unnecessary inches up in the air; see them occasionally in the street, giving it a cock backwards, when nobody but apple-women are looking, to observe how quickly a gentleman, by that action, may be made into a rowdy; then see them apply their handkerchiefs to their foreheads, to cool off the heat and the pain, and then with a stoicism worthy of one of Fox's martyrs, replace it, and bear the long agony till they get home. Then what garment that ever woman wore, is more ridiculous than a man's shirt, whether buttoning before or buttoning behind, or disfigured with puerile "studs;" whether the stiff collar stands up like a picket on guard, or lays over, with a necktie to tie it suffocatingly over the jugular vein.
THEfemale fashions of to-day are absurd enough; but if anything more absurd than a man's "stove-pipe hat" was ever invented, I would like to see it. Mark its victims, when they remove it from their heads—which they seldom do, the gods know why, unless they are getting into bed; see the red rim across their foreheads, produced by its unwieldy weight, and unnecessary inches up in the air; see them occasionally in the street, giving it a cock backwards, when nobody but apple-women are looking, to observe how quickly a gentleman, by that action, may be made into a rowdy; then see them apply their handkerchiefs to their foreheads, to cool off the heat and the pain, and then with a stoicism worthy of one of Fox's martyrs, replace it, and bear the long agony till they get home. Then what garment that ever woman wore, is more ridiculous than a man's shirt, whether buttoning before or buttoning behind, or disfigured with puerile "studs;" whether the stiff collar stands up like a picket on guard, or lays over, with a necktie to tie it suffocatingly over the jugular vein.
Then mark that abomination—a swallow-tailed coat. Heavens! how ugly the handsomest man maylook in it! and woe for the plain men, when they intensify their plainness with it!
Then see the knock-kneed and the crooked-legged advertising their deformity in tight pantaloons; and short, fat, barrel men wearing little boys' cloth caps on their heads! Ah, for every female goose that Fashion makes, I will find you a male mate, even to the wearing of tight corsets!
But, my friends, on one point there's a difference. "When a fashionable lady engages a female servant, she stipulates that she shall wear a cap on her head, and calico on her back, to mark the difference between herself and that servant—without which, I suppose, it would not often be recognizable." When herhusbandgives a dinner, the male waiters are dressed exactly like himself—in festal white neckties, white gloves, and hideous swallow-tailed coats.
How is this? It must be that the male creature is very secure of his position, socially, mentally, morally, and physically, to permit such presumption—nay, to demand it. Can any philosopher explain to me this mystery? I was "struck 'midships" with the idea at a festal gathering not long since; and turning to my male guide, philosopher, and friend, asked what it meant. His irritating answer to this most proper and natural question was, "Fanny, don't be silly."
I reiterate my remark that men's dress is to the full as absurd in its way as women's, and I am only reconciled to the idea that a man was intended for a human being when I see an athlete of a gymnast,of glorious chest and calves, and splendid muscular arms, skimming the air as gracefully as a bird, and as poetically; then I know how civilization has ruined him! I know, that man if he jumped, and ran, and wrestled, and walked, instead of sitting stupidly in a chair in the house, or creeping into an omnibus when out of it, and smoking and going to sleep in the intervals, would not be obliged to creep into these ugly tailor's padded fashions to hide his deficiencies, but could wear what he chose, knowing that the beautiful outlines of his form would glorify any decent vestment.
I walked several blocks out of my way behind a man, the other day, who positively "stepped off." What a chest he had! what a splendid poise of the head! what a free, jubilant swing of the arm! I hope he will come to New York again some day, for I'm sure he was a stranger to it, for he neither stopped anywhere to take a drink, buy a cigar, nor did he hail an omnibus!
Magnificent giant! I wonder what was his name, and had he a mother. If not—well, it was a pity he shouldn't have.
I wonder whatare"good manners"? The question occurred to me the other evening in a place of public amusement. I was one of a dozen or so of ladies, wedged in a row of the usual narrow seats. At every pause in the performance, threegentlemenstepped over the laps of the ladies in that seat, carrying off in their exit, or knocking upon the floor, opera-glasses, fans, scarfs, handkerchiefs, and,almost, the ladies themselves; returning each time wiping their lips, and introducing with them a strong odious smell of tobacco. I respectfully submit to anyrealgentleman who reads this article, if that is "good manners."
Of course, I know it would be better if all seats at such places could be so arranged thatgentlemenneed not clean their boots on ladies' laps in order to pass out. But also it would be well if gentlemen took all the sustenance in the way of wine which they needed before starting from home; and if theycouldalso bring their godlike minds, to defer smoking till they could annoy only the one lady, whom they have a legal right to annoy, it would add to the general comfort, as well as theirpublicreputation for gallantry and politeness. Men generally object to going out evenings, "because they are so tired." Why, then, they never embrace the opportunity to sit still when they get there, is an inconsistency which we must place unsolved, on the shelf already so well labelled with them. I might suggest also, that if they will persist in cleaning their boots on our laps, in order to get out these narrow sets of seats, and if they will carry off in their exit our gloves and fans and opera-glasses, and if they will keep on repeating this little pastime all the evening, to say nothing of occasionally crushing our feet out of all shape, I would venture to suggest that they should mitigate the suffering by saying, occasionally, "I beg pardon," or, "Pray excuse me," or bysome such little deference acknowledge the infinite bore of their presence.
Failing in this, I propose that eachgentleman, on his return, should bring in his hand a peace-offering to the ladies in the seat, of a glass of lemonade and a bit of cake. Why shouldn'twebe thirsty too? Mr. Beecher says a woman has a right to—no, I believe hedidn'tsay that, but he ought to have done so; and if he didn't, "fair play is a jewel."
Mr. Smith exclaims, on reading this, "Horrible woman!" because, though a handsome man, he sees himself looking selfish and ugly in the glass I hold up to him. Now, Mr. Smith wouldn't say that, if he should sit down beside me and let me talk to him five minutes. Not he! You see I have him at a great disadvantage, away off at the other end of the city or over to Brooklyn. I could say the very same things to him I have just said on paper, sitting here on my sofa beside me, and that man would go on lying, as men will, to other men's wives' faces, and besopolite and smiling, that his own wife never would know him, if she happened in; and he'd tell me that "what I said was all true, and that menwereselfish animals," meaning Tom Jones and Sam Jenkins, and every other man but just himself. Don't I know them?
HOWI ever lived so many years in Boston without coming to see Plymouth, is one of the sins of omission for which I am at this present finding doing my best to atone. I trust all of you who are equally guilty, will come as soon as may be to breathe the fine Newport air of the place, and take time to visit its interesting coast, its numerous ponds, its lovely drives through odorous woods, and all the hallowed spots which ought to be dear to the heart of every true American. Don't go to Paris or London till you have been to Plymouth. It were well to "see Niagara" first; but it were better to have gone with me to the "Record Office" this morning, and seen the yellow manuscripts, covered thickly with the small German text-looking handwriting of our Pilgrim Fathers; setting forth, for instance, "the shares they severally held in a cow," in the simple, honest, straightforward manner of the time—one signed by "Myles Standish," who, it seems, having the primitive ambition to own anentirecow, kept buying up the shares of the rest as speedily as his means allowed. I thought of Mr. Bonner's stables, and the thousands of dollars his horses represented, and wondered how he dared tosay his catechism! Then I saw their veritable "Charter," kept in a dark cupboard, with a silken curtain drawn across the precious signatures, lest the unscrupulous sunlight, invading this "Holy of Holies," should snatch them from posterity. And then and there was exploded for me the theory that handwriting is indicative of character. Certainly those effeminate, small, beautiful letters gave no sign or token of the moral strength, the rugged persistence of purpose, of the Pilgrim Fathers. Not one modern young lady in a hundred could write so minute and beautiful a hand. They must have had good eyesight in those days, when gas and furnaces were not. Sharp men they were; disguising the very graves of the first little Mayflower band, lest the Indians should take advantage of the reduction of their numbers. The very house I am in bears the name of the first Indian who visited them,—"Samoset." Whether the fair and tender-hearted Rose Standish quailed before the savage owner of this most musical name, I have not learned. I do not hesitate to say, thatIshould have made for the bushes on his first appearance. It is curious, in walking the streets of Plymouth, to hear the little children calling to each other, in their play, and using the old familiar Mayflower names of hundreds of years ago.
HOWI ever lived so many years in Boston without coming to see Plymouth, is one of the sins of omission for which I am at this present finding doing my best to atone. I trust all of you who are equally guilty, will come as soon as may be to breathe the fine Newport air of the place, and take time to visit its interesting coast, its numerous ponds, its lovely drives through odorous woods, and all the hallowed spots which ought to be dear to the heart of every true American. Don't go to Paris or London till you have been to Plymouth. It were well to "see Niagara" first; but it were better to have gone with me to the "Record Office" this morning, and seen the yellow manuscripts, covered thickly with the small German text-looking handwriting of our Pilgrim Fathers; setting forth, for instance, "the shares they severally held in a cow," in the simple, honest, straightforward manner of the time—one signed by "Myles Standish," who, it seems, having the primitive ambition to own anentirecow, kept buying up the shares of the rest as speedily as his means allowed. I thought of Mr. Bonner's stables, and the thousands of dollars his horses represented, and wondered how he dared tosay his catechism! Then I saw their veritable "Charter," kept in a dark cupboard, with a silken curtain drawn across the precious signatures, lest the unscrupulous sunlight, invading this "Holy of Holies," should snatch them from posterity. And then and there was exploded for me the theory that handwriting is indicative of character. Certainly those effeminate, small, beautiful letters gave no sign or token of the moral strength, the rugged persistence of purpose, of the Pilgrim Fathers. Not one modern young lady in a hundred could write so minute and beautiful a hand. They must have had good eyesight in those days, when gas and furnaces were not. Sharp men they were; disguising the very graves of the first little Mayflower band, lest the Indians should take advantage of the reduction of their numbers. The very house I am in bears the name of the first Indian who visited them,—"Samoset." Whether the fair and tender-hearted Rose Standish quailed before the savage owner of this most musical name, I have not learned. I do not hesitate to say, thatIshould have made for the bushes on his first appearance. It is curious, in walking the streets of Plymouth, to hear the little children calling to each other, in their play, and using the old familiar Mayflower names of hundreds of years ago.
But Pilgrim ancestry does not insure saintliness in all its descendants, as I found upon visiting the county prison. Within its walls was pointed out to me a woman who had poisoned her husband, whensick and helpless on her hands. For thirteen long weary years she had never been outside those walls; and latterly had declined even walking in the little paved yard allowed the prisoners. She was a large, powerfully built woman, with a skin like the parchments I had been looking at in the Record Office drawn tightly over her high cheek-bones. She sat sewing at her grated window as we entered; and when asked "if she were not warm," as the day was very hot, answered petulantly, "No—I am most always cold; there can't be circulation where there's no exercise." Outside was bloom and sunlight, and song of birds, and merry voices, and blue skies, and pleasant hum of labor, and the faint dirge of the sea. She merited her fate, but I turned away from her sick at heart, and thought, were it my case, how questionable were the mercy that abolished hanging for such slow-dropping torture as this.
In the same room with her were three hard-featured women, placed there for violation of the liquor laws. Each in that room had a babe in her arms, or at her knee—poor little innocent victims of maternal misdoing. One baby was moaning with the teething process, so hard to endure and survive, even with all the appliances of out-door air and wholesome surroundings. Its little waxen face showed signs of severe suffering, and forthree monthsmore, if the little life were spun out that long, it must remain there—its only amusement rocking the rude box which was allowed for a cradle. The mother answered me roughly enough when I inquiredthe age of her baby, but God knows I forgive her any bitterness she might feel at the difference that bright day in our respective lots; but could she have read my heart, and seen how I longed to carry her little one out on the grass, and among the flowers, and see it smile, she would have known me for its friend.
I never saw a prison more clean, and neat, and well-ordered; and yet I could not help thinking there should be a nursery there, that the little children of these erring mothers need not be punished with them; but, in the graphic language of the Superintendent, "Its original intention wasnota fancy boarding-house."
I wish here to place on record that Plymouth can make good bread. I had begun to fear, so long had I been fed on Cape Ann saleratus, that I might lose the taste of wholesome yeast and flour, just as the "marasmus" denizens of the Five Points learn to dislike pure air. A brief heaven of good city bread in blessed old Boston quite set me up; and its unexpected appearance in Plymouth was more than I dared to hope.
I presume to this I may attribute the number of hale-looking, cheerful old people in Plymouth. I have no doubt it has had its effect also on the religious liberality so prevalent here, as I find that nobodymakes mouthsat you for being a Unitarian, or an Episcopalian, or of any other denomination that happens to suit your complaint. Rev. Mr. Robinson, the minister of the church in Holland fromwhich "the Mayflower" Christians came, inculcated upon his flock this bit of pure gospel, in his parting sermon to them, that, "there was a great deal of truth coming out ahead that they had not even dreamed of as yet;" and particularly warned them against that spiritual conceit which should close their eyes to the perception of it. Now that's what I call liberal Christianity. Ministers, deacons, and the religious world generally will please take notice.
Since I came here, Plymouth has distinguished itself by a storm of rain and wind, the like of which I never saw before. I began to think over my transgressions; but really there were so many of them, and the house rocked so, and the trees swirled round at such a furious rate, that I had no clear idea then, nor have I since, of their number or enormity. And the very next morning the sun shone out so brightly on uprooted trees and unroofed barns and tumble-down chimneys, and the flowers that from their lowliness had escaped the avenger, that I took heart of grace, and classed myself among the latter!