Ginger-Snaps

HOSPITALITY

IF each person were asked to define this word, the answers would be amusing. Emerson says "that we should not turn away wholly from the routine of our daily life to make our guests welcome." He says "that every one worthy to sit at our table knows that life has its necessary duties; and that we should not burden our friends with the thought that our business is suffering derangement and loss by their coming."

This is common-sense; but if we measure the majority of people by it, then few "are worthy to sit at one's table." It may be because insincerity is so much the order of the day, that each so distrusts the other that a person cannot say frankly to a friend, without giving offence, I would be glad to stay longer with you, or have you stay longer, but I really cannot now. A lady said to me, not long since, "I never dare say truthfully that I am 'engaged' when a caller comes, no matter how impossible circumstances make it for me to go down. If I do, it always offends. Therefore I am obliged to send word that I am out; then the caller leaves without any wound to his self-love." Now this ought not to be. A straightforward honesty is much better. But there are so many inconsiderate people, who, provided they gain their point to see you, care little at what sacrifice on your part of time, or at what postponement of imperative duties. They have time enough. So much that they are even puzzled what to do with it; how can it be that you have none, or so little, at the service of friends? They cannot comprehend that one's duty, or one's labor, may tread so closely on the heels of the other, that your remaining vitality needs the most careful nursing and division to keep your steps from final faltering. What is to be done with such rhinoceros-hided people as these? You feel no unkindness toward them; but, like the beggar that accosts you on the last of many curb-stones, you have simply parted with all your pennies. Your pocket is empty.

I recollect once a lady in the same house with me, to whom I apologized as civilly as I knew how for being obliged to leave her to write a promised article. She bowed coolly, and, on my leaving the room, said to a friend of mine, "I suppose she did that to get rid of me, don't you?"

It is much easier to get along with men, because they can understand that life has its unpostponable duties, without any lifting of eyebrows or incredulous shrugging of shoulders, or a cool salute the next time you two meet. The intercourse of one man with another in this regard has always elicited my admiration. They take up a newspaper or a book, and read in each other's presence, with a tacit understanding of its perfect propriety. If one has to leave, he often says no more than "I'm off," or "Good-by, old fellow." Sometimes it is only a touch of the hat, or a hand laid on the other's shoulder in passing; and no black eyes follow, no locks of hair fly, nor do any hard words or looks result in the future.

If ladies smoked, – which the gods forbid! – do you suppose one lady would allow another to stop her in the street and light a cigar from her lips, when she never was introduced? When she didn't even know who her dress-maker was, or where she bought her bonnets? Good heavens!

Did you ever notice, if anything unexpected occurs in the mutual path of men through the same street, how naturally and frankly they accost each other, though perfect strangers, and converse about it, and go their several ways, to their tombstones, after it. Not so sweet woman! Catch her speaking to "that nasty thing"! How does she know who or what she is?

Children are so delicious about these matters. I saw two little girls the other day trying to crack a nut upon the sidewalk, by pressing in turn their tiny little shoes upon it. Despairing of success, they said to a gentleman passing, "Man, man, crack this nut for us, will you?" His handsome face was luminous with fun, as he pressed his polished boot down upon it, to the delight of the youngsters and myself. Now these little girls wouldn't have thought of asking a lady to do that, or if they had, do you think she would have stopped to do it?

WOMAN AND HER WATCH

THIS unnatural partnership is well understood, both by watchmakers and husbands. Who among the latter has not had occasion to mourn, seventy times seven, that he was ever such an idiot as to present his wife with a watch? Of what use was it, when fastening it to her belt, in its pristine glitter and correctness, that he remarked, with uplifted finger, "Here, my dear, be sure and remember to wind this up regularly every night when you take it off." Of what use was it that she bristled up, and retorted, "As if I shouldn't remember that, John, you goose!"

Didn't John himself, after she crept into bed, that very night, ask her had she done it; and didn't she guiltily reply, dodging the question, "Don't bother me, John, just as I am getting sleepy!" And didn't it run down? And didn't he face her up, the next day, with the face of that watch behind time, at the same moment showing her reproachfully the immaculate time-piece in his vest-pocket, which never erred, or varied from the path of strict duty, no more than one of his relatives! And wasn't she glad, when a pickpocket in a street-car, shortly after, relieved her husband of this finger-post to her transgressions! Besides, suppose her watch were a little before or behind time, or suppose it stopped altogether, for the matter of that; wasn't it her watch, I'd like to know; and didn't his jurisdiction over it stop when it became such? And didn't she, at last, get so mad at his asking her every night, when they got into bed, if it was wound up, that she let it alone from sheer perversity, and never pretended to prevaricate on the subject, but "riz" right up in bed, when he asked her the question, and answered boldly, "No, it isn't!"

And how impertinent it was of the watchmaker, when, after frequent aberrations from duty, she carried secretly this little trinket to get it repaired, to ask what she had been doing to it; or to laugh, with his necessary knowledge of watches and women, when she replied, "I only dropped it on the hearth." But watchmakers are often husbands – and when you've seen one husband, you've seen the whole tribe – always asking you what you've done, and then scolding you for doing it; thus offering you a premium for lying the next time they propose such a meddling question.

Do they tell "what they have been doing"? I rather think there'd be pulling of hair if they did. Then what right have they to catechize us?

Now I ask any candid person if a lady's watch don't look just as prettily in her belt, whether it "goes" or not? And can't she always ask her husband what time it is? And isn't he a brute and a bear, if he growls at telling her, even supposing he has given her a watch to obviate that necessity? I'm sure nothing could be plainer; and I hope nobody will say, after this, that a woman can't reason. Besides, what right has a lazy animal like man to expect anything perpetually to "go"? Don't he lay off, on every convenient chance? Isn't he always prefacing and winding up everything with "Be quiet"? Of course he is. Every wife from Maine to Florida knows that. I tell you they expect too much from women and their watches, and it's high "time" they knew it, and got used to having both run like fury one minute, and stand still the next.

Will people who attend lectures and concerts cease drumming with their fingers on the back of seats, or with canes or feet on the floor, till the services begin? One cannot help remarking, in such vicinity, how few persons are really well-bred. Dress certainly is no indication of it, judged by this rule. If a tattoo must be performed, why not go out in the lobby or vestibule, and have the war-dance out? This thing has come to be such an intolerable nuisance, that the paradoxical regulation, "No gentlemen are allowed to smoke in the ladies' cabin," may as well be imitated by – "No gentleman, in a concert or lecture-room, is allowed to drum on the back of a lady's chair before, or after, or during the entertainment."

"MY DOCTOR."

YOU have one, of course; and of course he never opens his mouth without dropping pearls. (I hope the printer will not print this last word pills.) Your doctor believes in flannel next the skin, all the year round. Mrs. Jones' doctor, who "knows much more than your doctor," thinks that a person of discretion may occasionally, in the dog-days, lay flannel on the shelf and no coffin be imminent. Your doctor says that young children's necks and shoulders should always be covered, even in warm weather. Mrs. Smith's doctor, who, she says, "stands at the head of his profession" says that is all nonsense, and that children should go through a toughening process, which will render changes of temperature harmless. Your doctor advises you never to cross the street, or go down-stairs, unless accompanied by quinine. Mrs. Smith's doctor tells her if she wants poison she had better get ratsbane, and then she will know what she is swallowing.

Now each of you believe that "my doctor" is infallible; that is a great comfort to you, and very satisfactory to them, especially pocket-wise. "My doctor" hasn't dealt with women so long, and failed to see their blind side. He knows what "brutes" husbands are, and how like flints they will oppose the sea-shore, merely because their wives want to go there. What is the use of "my doctor," unless he comforts you under this affliction, and declares that to be the only place where you can regain your lost appetite? No wonder you like him; no wonder life is a blank to you when his carriage is not before your door. There is healing in the very sight of his beard and moustache; and how much handsomer they are than the "brute's." Ah! had you met "my doctor" years ago, you say; not stopping to reflect, that in that case he would have been attending women who paid fees, and left you, his wife, to some medical friend for pills and consolation. It is better as it is, you see. Well, it is comforting "that he understands you better than anybody else, and seems to know just what you want." And then he shows such an absorbing interest in your symptoms, that you almost feel cured by his sympathy alone, before you swallow a single powder; and, since my ears are out of your reach, I will remark, that well you may, when, half the time, nothing in the world ails you but the want of some absorbing occupation or interest. Colored water and bread pills are safe prescriptions for that complaint; meantime it wont hurt the "brute" to pay for the wear and tear of the doctor's carriage in coming and going. If "my doctor" laughs in his sleeve, occasionally, when he thinks what funny creatures women are, you are none the wiser or the angrier for it. He don't dislike, after all, their little cuddlesome, trusting, confiding ways; possibly not so much as his wife does, whose acquaintance you had better not make. As I before remarked, his medical friends can take care of her; it is no business of yours, her disgusting ails and aches.

But what a thing it is when "my doctor" was also "ma's doctor"! If he don't know all the ins and outs, then "may the divel fly away wid – him!"

The moral of all this is, that "my doctor's" life is not without its consolations, and the most astonishing part of it is, that husbands are so blear-eyed to this subject. It wont harm them to hint that in sympathy and courteousness they had better not present too sharp a contrast to "my doctor."

A WOMAN AT A LECTURE

IF you want to see a woman act more like a goose than she need, watch her when she enters a place of public performance, where the seats are at the mercy of first-comers. Notice her profound survey of the situation, as she stands, preceding her John, who is supposed to know nothing about such things, poised on one foot, while she measures distances, drafts, and acoustics with the eye of a connoisseur. Now she decides! At last she swoops down on the seat in all the house which she prefers. John follows, with the shawl and family umbrella. He faintly suggests the possible obstruction of a pillar between the seat she has chosen and the speaker, but he follows. Directly she is seated, and the shawl and umbrella located without inconvenience to themselves, or infringement of the comfort of their neighbors, when she coolly remarks, "John, 'tis true, that pillar is right between me and the speaker." John's ears redden; but he is in public, so he don't say, "Didn't I tell you so?" but rises with shawl and umbrella, the former catching by the fringe on every seat as he passes, and the latter slipping to the floor while he tries to disentangle the shawl. Meantime my lady is on her triumphal march for that "best seat."

Now she alights! It wont do. There's a tall man in front of her; she is always fated to sit behind a tall man. She tries another; there's the phantom pillar again. Yet another; that's the end seat, and every horrid man that comes along will be treading on her dress and knocking her bonnet over her eyes all the evening. Meantime John gets redder in the face; he can't even ease himself with a customary growl. Ah! now she has got the seat at last, and stands beckoning to John to follow. Her friend Miss Frizzle is beside her, and she is happy. There is only one seat, to be sure, but "John can find one somewhere else, or perhaps he would like to take a walk outside and call for her when lecture is over – only he must be sure to be back in time." So down she sits, while John wanders off for a possible stray seat. Now she draws off the glove that hides her one diamond ring, and settles the bracelet on the wrist of that hand. Then she tumbles up her front hair, lest it might have got smooth coming. Then she picks out the bows of the natty little ribbon under her dimpled chin. It was that chin that victimized John! Then she draws from her pocket her scented pocket-handkerchief and gives it a little incense-waft into the air, magnetizing a young man in front, who turns round to find the owner of that delicious gale from Araby the blest. Then she takes out her opera-glass and peeps about, not so much that her sight is defective, but that her diamond-ring and gold bracelets gleam prettily in the operation. John, meantime, has found a seat in a draft, and is sitting with bent brows and a turned-up coat-collar – which last is sufficient to make a ruffian of a man without any woman's help – in the back part of the house. Confidences, millinery, mantua-makery, and matinée-y are meanwhile exchanged between his wife and dear Miss Frizzle, who is an acknowledged man-killer, and keeps a private grave-yard of her own for deceased lovers.

Now the lecturer rises. "Pooh! he's an ugly man. Well, they need't look at him; and perhaps he'll be funny – who knows?" He isn't funny. He is talking about Plato and Epictetus; who the goodness are they? But there's an end to all things, and so there is to the lecture. Now, John is wanted, and, to tell the truth, for the first time thought of! Ah, there he is! but how sulky, and how ugly he looks with his coat-collar turned up! He might have some regard to appearances when he goes with her. People will think she has such a horrid taste in husbands.

"Why don't you talk?" says the little woman, when they get outside. "It was too bad you couldn't sit by me, John; I missed you so! but, you see, there was but one seat." – "Not just in that locality, I suppose," muttered John. But the street-lamp just then shone on that cunning little dimpled chin, and its owner said, coaxingly, "O-o-h, now, John! don't be cross with its little wife!" and it's my private opinion he wasn't. Would you have been, sir?

CAN'T BE SUITED

LOOK at 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-Fault wants religion 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 the religious question, 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's a 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 that wouldn't reform, even fifty times a year, if the bait of a well-filled purse were put under his nose."

Now what is the use of talking to a man who applies common sense to every subject but that of religion? – who has no doubt that genuine money is in circulation although he has a counterfeit dollar in his pocket, but still persists in denying the existence of true religion because he sometimes meets a hypocrite. Oh, pshaw! None so blind as they who wont see. None so hard to convince as they who are predetermined not to be convinced, come what will.

Would it not be well for the sextons of our churches, to take the creak out of their Sunday shoes, by wearing them once or twice on a week-day? Some of the most important points in a clergyman's discourse are often lost through the music of the sexton's shoes. A pair of soft slippers, or easy boots, might be raised on subscription and presented to this functionary. Also, if he would not go out in the vestibule to smoke, during service, it would be a relief to many lovers of pure air. Both these suggestions apply equally well to some of the parishioners.

AUTOGRAPH-HUNTERS

IF there is an intolerable nuisance, it is your persistent autograph-hunter – your man or woman who keeps a stereotyped formula of compliment on hand, "their collection not complete without your distinguished name," &c.; sending it all over the country, to eminent and notorious individuals alike, to swell their precious "collection," as they call it. Now, in the outset, I wish to except requests for this purpose from personal friends, to whom it is always a pleasure to say Yes; but to those who torment you from mercenary motives or from mere curiosity, as they would bottle up an odd insect for their shelf, to amuse an idle hour, I confess to little sympathy. Nay more, I am unprincipled enough, having long been a martyr, always to pocket the stamp they send, and throw the request in the waste-paper basket. I can conceive that invalids, or very young school-boys or girls, might amuse themselves in this manner; but how a sane adult, in the rush and hurry and turmoil of the maelstrom-life of 1868, can find a moment for such nonsense, or can expect you to find a moment for it, is beyond my comprehension. Now, a lock of hair has some significance – at least, I hope that man thought so, who received from me a curl clipped from a poodle-dog, which at this moment may be labelled with my name. It will be all the same a hundred years hence, as I remarked when I forwarded it to him.

Your autograph-hunter has a funny way of acknowledging "the intrusion," and then going on to pile up the agony by asking, beside your own autograph, that you would "favor him with any from distinguished individuals that you may happen to have in your possession, for which he – or she – will be much obliged," etc.; and I have no doubt they will when I send them!

Now, I know this sounds unamiable; but there is a point when endurance comes to an end, and that is where persistent impertinence begins. Why don't they go to my friend Jack Smith? He is eminent. He will write autographs all day and all night for anybody who wants one, because he considers it a compliment, which I don't, as autographs go; and because Henry Clay never refused – and that would be the very reason I should; and because Jack has the chronic weakness of always saying Yes, when he should say No, and vice versa. I am afraid I shall have to buy my postage-stamps after this onslaught, instead of having them found by autograph-hunters, as I have had for some time; but I shall get off cheaply at that, and save temper, time, and ink beside. The mischief of expressing one's opinion on this and kindred subjects, in print, is this: that the rhinoceros-fellows you mean to hit always dodge it, in favor of some kind-hearted, sensitive soul whose feelings you wouldn't wound for a bushel of autographs, though you should have to sit up all night to write them. I didn't mean you at all, my dear sir or madam, because I know you really like me, good-for-nothing as I am; and, after all, it may be that I am only "riled" by that "furniture-polish man," who looked so much like a clergyman that Betty mistook him for one, and thought I really must go down if I were busy, and whose nose I should like to have anointed with his miserable "polish," for wasting one good hour of the morning, trying it on my furniture.