University of Virginia Library

THE MYSTERY OF VISITING.

There is something wonderfully primitive and simple in the fundamental
idea of visiting. You leave your own place and your
chosen employments, your slipshod ease and privileged plainness,
and sally forth, in special trim, with your mind emptied, as far as
possible, of whatever has been engrossing it, to make a descent upon
the domicile of another, under the idea that your presence will give
him pleasure, and, remotely, yourself. Can anything denote more
amiable simplicity? or, according to a certain favorite vocabulary,
can anything be more intensely green? What a confession of the
need of human sympathy! What bonhommie in the conviction that
you will be welcome! What reckless self-committal in the whole
affair! Let no one say this is not a good-natured world, since it
still keeps up a reverence for the fossil remains of what was once the
heart of its oyster.

Not to go back to the creation (some proof of self-denial, in these
days of research,) what occasioned the first visit, probably? Was
it the birth of a baby, or a wish to borrow somewhat for the simple
householdry, or a cause of complaint about some rural trespass; a
desire to share superabundant grapes with a neighbor who abounded
more in pomegranates; a twilight fancy for gossip about a stray kid,
or a wound from `the blindboy's butt-shaft?' Was the delight of

visiting, like the succulence of roast pig, discovered by chance; or
was it, like the talk which is its essence, an instinct? This last we
particularly doubt, from present manifestations. Instincts do not
wear out; they are as fresh as in the days when visiting began—but
where is visiting?

A curious semblance of the old rite now serves us, a mere Duessa
—a form of snow, impudently pretending to vitality. We are put
off with this congelation—a compound of formality, dissimulation,
weariness, and vanity, which it is not easy to subject to any test
without resolving it at once into its unwholesome elements. Yet
why must it be so? Would it require daring equal to that which
dashed into the enchanted wood of Ismeno, or that which exterminated
the Mamelukes, to fall back upon first principles, and let
inclination have something to do with offering and returning visits?

A coat of mail is, strangely enough, the first requisite when we
have a round of calls to make; not the `silver arms' of fair Clorinda,
but the unlovely, oyster-like coat of Pride, the helmet of Indifference,
the breastplate of Distrust, the barred visor of Self-esteem, the
shield of `gentle Dulness;' while over all floats the gaudy, tinsel
scarf of Fashion. Whatever else be present or lacking, Pride, defensive,
if not offensive, must clothe us all over. The eyes must be
guarded, lest they mete out too much consideration to those who
bear no stamp. The neck must be stiffened, lest it bend beyond
the haughty angle of self-reservation in the acknowledgment of
civilities. The mouth is bound to keep its portcullis ever ready to
fall on a word which implies unaffected pleasure or surprise. Each
motion must have its motive; every civility its well-weighed return
in prospect. Subjects of conversation must be any but those which
naturally present themselves to the mind. If a certain round is not
prescribed, we feel that all beyond it is proscribed. Oh! the unutterable

weariness of this worse than dumbshow! No wonder we
groan in spirit when there are visits to be made!

But some fair, innocent face looks up at us, out of a forest home,
perhaps, or in a wide, unneighbored prairie, and asks what all this
means. `Is not a visit always a delightful thing—full of good
feeling—the cheerer of solitude—the lightener of labor—the healer
of differences—the antidote of life's bitterness?' Ah! primitive child!
it is so, indeed, to you. The thought of a visit makes your dear
little heart beat. If one is offered or expected at your father's, with
what cheerful readiness do you lend your aid to the preparations!
How your winged feet skim along the floor, or surmount the stairs;
your brain full of ingenious devices and substitutes, your slender
fingers loaded with plates and glasses, and a tidy apron depending
from your taper waist! Thoughts of dress give you but little
trouble, for your choice is limited to the pink ribbon and the blue
one. What the company will wear is of still less moment, so they
only come! It would be hard to make you believe that we invite
people and then hope they will not come! If you omit anybody,
it will be the friend who possesses too many acres, or he who has
been sent to the legislature from your district, lest dignity should
interfere with pleasure; we, on the contrary, think first of the magnates,
even though we know that the gloom of their grandeur will
overshadow the mirth of everybody else, and prove a wet blanket
to the social fire. You will, perhaps, be surprised to learn that we
keep a debtor and creditor account of visits, and talk of owing a
call, or owing an invitation, as your father does of owing a hundred
dollars at the store, for value received. When we have made a
visit and are about departing, we invite a return, in the choicest
terms of affectionate, or at least cordial interest; but if our friend is
new enough to take us at our word, and pay the debt too soon, we

complain, and say, `Oh dear! there's another call to make!” Our
whole system of morning visiting will amuse you, doubtless; we
will just give you a sketch of it.

A hint has already been dropt as to the grudging spirit of the
thing, how we give as little as we can, and get all possible credit
for it; and this is the way we do it. Having let the accounts
against us become as numerous as is prudent, we draw up a list of
our creditors, carefully districted as to residences, so as not to make
more cross-journeys than are necessary in going the rounds. Then
we array ourselves with all suitable splendor (this is a main point,
and we often defer a call upon dear friends for weeks, waiting till
the arrivals from Paris shall allow us to endue a new bonnet or
mantilla), and, getting into a carriage, card-case in hand, give our
list, corrected more anxiously than a price-current, into the keeping
of the coachman, with directions to drive as fast as dignity will
allow, in order that we may do as much execution as possible with
the stone thus carefully smoothed. Arrived at the first house (which
is always the one farthest off, for economy of time), we stop—the
servant inquires for the lady for whom our civility is intended, while
we take out a card and hold it prominent on the carriage door, that
not a moment may be lost in case a card is needed. `Not at
home?' Ah then, with what pleased alacrity we commit the scrap
of pasteboard to John, after having turned down a corner for each
lady, if there are several in this kind and propitious house. But if
the answer is, `At home,' all wears a different aspect. The card
slips sadly back again into its silver citadel; we sigh, and say `Oh
dear!' if nothing worse—and then, alighting with measured step,
enter the drawing-room, all smiles, and with polite words ready on
our lips. Ten minutes of the weather—the walking—the opera—
family illnesses—on dits, and a little spice of scandal, or at least a

shrug and a meaning look or two—and the duty is done. We
enter the carriage again—urge the coachman to new speed, and go
through the same ceremonies, hopes, regrets, and tittle-tattle, till
dinner-time, and then bless our stars that we have been able to
make twenty calls—`so many people were out!'

But this is only one side of the question. How is it with us when
we receive visits? We enter here upon a deep mystery. Dear
simple child of the woods and fields, did you ever hear of reception-days?
If not, let us enlighten you a little.

The original idea of a reception-day is a charmingly social and
friendly one. It is that the many engagements of city life, and the
distances which must be traversed in order to visit several friends in
one day, make it peculiarly desirable to know when we are sure to
find each at home. It may seem strange that this idea should have
occurred to people who are confessedly glad of the opportunity to
leave a card, because it allows them time to despatch a greater
number of visits at one round; but so it is. The very enormity of
our practice sometimes leads to spasmodic efforts at reform. Appointing
a reception-day is, therefore, or, rather, we should say, was
intended to make morning-calls something besides a mere form. To
say you will always be at home on such a day, is to insure to your
friends the pleasure of seeing you; and what a charming conversational
circle might thus be gathered, without ceremony or restraint!
No wonder the fashion took at once. But what has fashion made
of this plan, so simple, so rational, so in accordance with the best
uses of visiting? Something as vapid and senseless as a court-drawing-room,
or the eternal bowings and compliments of the
Chinese! You, artless blossom of the prairies, or belle of some
rural city a thousand miles inland, should thank us for putting you
on your guard against Utopian constructions of our social canons.

When you come to town with your good father, and find that the
lady of one of his city correspondents sets apart one morning of
every week for the reception of her friends, do not imagine her to
be necessarily a `good soul,' who hates to disappoint those who call
on her, and therefore simply omits going out on that day lest she
should miss them. You will find her enshrined in all that is grand
and costly; her door guarded by servants, whose formal ushering
will kill within you all hope of unaffected and kindly intercourse;
her parlors glittering with all she can possibly accumulate that is
recherché (that is a favorite word of hers), aud her own person arrayed
with all the solicitude of splendor that morning dress allows,
and sometimes something more. She will receive you with practised
grace, and beg you to be seated, perhaps seat herself by you and
inquire after your health. Then a tall grave servant will hand you,
on a silver salver, a cup of chocolate, or some other permissible refreshment,
while your hostess glides over the carpet to show to a
new guest or group the identical civilities of which you have just had
the benefit. A lady sits at your right hand, as silent as yourself;
but you must neither hope for an introduction, nor dare to address
her without one, since both these things are forbidden by our code.
Another sits at your left, looking wistfully at the fire, or at the stand
of greenhouse plants, or, still more likely, at the splendid French
clock, but not speaking a word; for she, too, has not the happiness
of knowing anybody who chances to sit near her.

Presently she rises; the hostess hastens towards her, presses her
hand with great affection, and begs to see her often. She falls into
the custody of the footman at the parlor door, is by him committed
to his double at the hall door, and then trips lightly down the steps
to her carriage, to enact the same farce at the next house where
there may be a reception on the same day. You look at the clock

too—rise—are smiled upon, and begged to come again; and passing
through the same tunnel of footmen, reach the door and the
street, with time and opportunity to muse on the mystery of
visiting.

Now you are not to go away with the idea that those who reduce
visiting to this frigid system, are, of necessity, heartless people.
That would be very unjust. They are often people of very good hearts
indeed; but they have somehow allowed their notions of social intercourse
to become sophisticated, so that visiting has ceased with them
to be even a symbol of friendly feeling, and they look upon it as
merely a mode of exhibiting wealth, style, and desirable acquaintances;
an assertion, as it were, of social position. Then they will
tell you of the great “waste of time” incurred by the old system
of receiving morning calls, and how much better it is to give up
one day to it than every day; though, by the way, they never did
scruple to be `engaged' or `out' when visits were not desirable.
Another thing is—but this, perhaps, they will not tell you,—that
the present is an excellent way of refining one's circle; for as the
footman has strict orders not to admit any one, or even receive a
card, on other than the regular days, all those who are enough
behind the age not to be aware of this, are gradually dropt, their
visits passing for nothing, and remaining unreturned. So fades
away the momentary dream of sociability with which some simple-hearted
people pleased themselves when they first heard of reception-days.

But morning calls are not the only form of our social intercourse.
We do not forget the claims of `peaceful evening.' You have read
Cowper, my dear young friend?

And you have been at tea-parties too, where, besides the excellent
tea and coffee and cake, and warm biscuits and sliced tongue,
there was wealth of good-humored chat, and if not wit, plenty of
laughter, as the hours wore on towards ten o'clock, when cloaks and
hoods were brought, and the gentlemen asked to be allowed to see
the ladies home; and, after a brisk walk, everybody was in bed at
eleven o'clock, and felt not the worse but the better next morning.
Well! we have evening parties, too! A little different, however.

The simple people among whom you have been living really
enjoyed these parties. Those who gave them, and those who went
to them, had social pleasure as their object. The little bustle, or,
perhaps, labor of preparation was just enough to mark the occasion
pleasantly. People came together in good humor with themselves
and with each other. There may have been some little scandal
talked over the tea when it was too strong—but, on the whole, there
was a friendly result, and everybody concerned would have felt it a
loss to be deprived of such meetings. The very borrowings of certain
articles of which no ordinary, moderate household is expected
to have enough for extraordinary occasions, promoted good neighborhood
and sociability, and the deficiencies sometimes observable,
were in some sense an antidote to pride.

Now all this sounds like a sentimental Utopian, if not shabby
romance to us, so far have we departed from such primitiveness. To
begin, we all say we hate parties. When we go to them we groan
and declare them stupid, and when we give them we say still worse
things. When we are about to give, there is a close calculation
either as to the cheapest way, or as to the most recherché without

regard to expense. Of course these two views apply to different
extent of means, and the former is the more frequent. Where
money is no object, the anxiety is to do something that nobody else
can do; whether in splendor of decorations or costliness of supper.
If Mrs. A. had a thousand dollars worth of flowers in her rooms,
Mrs. B. will strain every nerve to have twice or three times as many,
though all the green-houses within ten miles of the city must be
stripped to obtain them. If Mrs. C. bought all the game in market
for her supper, Mrs. D.'s anxiety is to send to the prairies for hers,—
and so in other matters. Mrs. E. had the prima donna to sing at
her soirée, and Mrs. F. at once engages the whole opera troupe.
This is the principle, and its manifestations are infinite. But, perhaps,
these freaks are characteristic of circles into which wondering
eyes like yours are never likely to penetrate, so we will say something
of the other class of party-givers, those who feel themselves
under a sort of necessity to invite a great many people for whom
they care nothing, merely because these people have before invited
them. Obligations of this sort are of so exceedingly complicated a
character, that none but a metaphysician could be expected fully to
unravel them. The idea of paying one invitation by another is the
main one, and whether the invited choose to come or not, is very
little to the purpose. The invitation discharges the debt, and
places the party giver in the position of a creditor, necessitating of
course, another party, and so on, in endless series. It is to be
observed in passing, that both debtor and creditor in this shifting-scale
believe themselves `discharging a duty they owe society.'
This is another opportunity of getting rid of undesirable acquaintances,
since to leave one to whom we `owe' an invitation out of a
general party is equivalent to a final dismissal. This being the
case, it is, of course, highly necessary to see that everybody is asked,
and only those omitted whom it is desirable to ignore, and for this
purpose, every lady must keep a `visiting list.' It is on these occasions
that we take care to invite our country friends, especially if
we have stayed a few weeks at their houses during the preceding
summer.

The next question is as to the entertainment; and this would be a
still more anxious affair than it is, if its form and extent were not in
good measure prescribed by fashion. There are certainly must-haves
and may-haves, here as elsewhere; but the liberty of choice is not very
extensive. If you do not provide the must-haves you are `mean,' of
course; but it is only by adding the may-haves that you can hope
to be elegant. The cost may seem formidable, perhaps; but it has
been made matter of accurate computation, that one large party,
even though it be a handsome one, costs less in the end than the
habit of hospitality for which it is the substitute; so it is not worth
while to flinch. We must do our `duty to society,' and this is the
cheapest way.

Do you ask me if there are among us no old-fashioned people,
who continue to invite their friends because they love them and
wish to see them, offering only such moderate entertainment as may
serve to promote social feeling? Yes, indeed? there are even some
who will ask you to dine, for the mere pleasure of your company,
and with no intention to astonish you or excite your envy! We
boast that it was a lady of our city, who declined giving a large
party to `return invitations,' saying she did not wish `to exhaust in
the prodigality of a night, the hospitality of a year.' Ten such
could be found among us, we may hope; leaven enough, perhaps,
to work out, in time, a change for the better in our social state.
Conversation is by no means despised, in some circles, even though
it turn on subjects of moral or literary interest; and parlor music,

which aims at no eclat, is to be heard sometimes among people who
could afford to hire opera singers.

It must be confessed that the wholesale method of `doing up'
our social obligations is a convenient one on some accounts. It prevents
jealousy, by placing all alike on a footing of perfect indifference.
The apportionment of civilities is a very delicate matter. Really,
in some cases, it is walking among eggs to invite only a few of your
friends at a time. If you choose them as being acquainted with
each other, somebody will be offended at being included or excluded.
If intellectual sympathy be your touchstone, for every one gratified
there will be two miffed, and so on with all other classifications.
Attempts have been made to obviate this difficulty. One lady proposed
to consider as congenial all those who keep carriages, but the
circle proved so very dull, that she was obliged to exert her ingenuity
for another common quality by which to arrange her soirées.
Another tried the experiment of inviting her fashionable friends at
one time, her husband's political friends at another, and the religious
friends whom both were desirous to propitiate, at another; but
her task was as perplexing as that of the man who had the fox, the
goose, and the bag of oats to ferry over the river in a boat that
would hold but one of them at a time. So large parties have it;
and in the murky shadow of this simulacrum of sociability we are
likely to freeze for some time to come; certainly until all purely
mercantile calculation is banished from our civilities.

It is with visiting as with travelling; those who would make the
most of either must begin by learning to renounce. We cannot
do everything; and to enjoy our friends we must curtail our
acquaintances. When we would kindle a fire, we do not begin by
scattering the coals in every direction; so neither should we attempt
to promote social feeling by making formal calls one or twice a

year. If we give offence, so be it; it shows that there was nothing
to lose. If we find ourselves left out of what is called fashionable
society, let us bless our stars, and devote the time thus saved to
something that we really like. What a gain there would be if anything
drove us to living for ourselves and not for other people; for
our friends, rather than for a world, which, after all our sacrifices,
cares not a pin about us!