 | The evening book, or, Fireside talk on morals
and manners |  |
STANDARDS.
We need standards. Not such as are wont to be presented by
fine ladies in balconies to glittering crowds below, where plumes
wave and steel flashes in the sunshine, while the vulgar, dazzled
with the pretty pageant, rend the air with their `most sweet voices.'
Not such standards as these do we lack; would they were fewer!
By the way, is it not a strange thing that woman, who was sent
into the world to be an angel of peace and mercy, should have lent
herself to such things? that she should ever have been persuaded
to become the tool of the ambitious and the revengeful? that her
hand should have been trained to endue the knight's death-dealing
sword; to buckle on his heel those silver cruelties called spurs; and
to place in his steeled grasp the lance whose best aim was to be the
life-blood of fathers, and brothers, and husbands? Does she not shoot
madly from her sphere when she lends the power of her presence to
the public baptism of a silken banner, whose inscription is cunningly
devised for the promotion of ghastly death? Oh that these beautiful
emblems of horror, these gilded toys significant of deepest woe,—
of poverty, of widowood, of despair,—were wont to change their
delusive seeming for their true character, even as they pass from the
and gold, for gleaming white and delicate azure, we should then
behold the fell traces of a `heady fight;' black powder-stains, huge
rents, showing the path of hostile bullets; and over all and through
all, a plentiful sprinkling of human gore; perhaps the heart-blood
of the poor ensign whose duty it is to pour out his life in defence of
the costly rag. Methinks one such disenchanting revelation would
suffice for the woman of one generation at least.
But whither am I wandering? All I set out to say was, that we
are in daily want of standards suited to the considerate, prodigal,
ambitious, economical, and particularly the moralizing habits of this
utilitarian age; standards of propriety, standards of expense, and of
many other things which are brought into daily discussion in our
times. Here, in our country, where we boast that none of us have
any body to look up to, while we are every one looking up to somebody,
it seems to be peculiarly difficult to determine just how far
each ought to go in certain matters; what proportion should be
observed in our expenditures; and how much pretension we are
entitled to, whether in dress, furniture, or style of living. At least
half the scandal of our coteries derives its zest from the debateable
nature of these important points. If any one would be kind and
ingenious enough to devise a sliding-scale whose register should
decide these things, he would be much better entitled to the national
thanks than ever was the great inventor of that corn-screw to the
gratitude of the grain-growers of England. We need some tallisman
to put a cheek upon these ceaseless inquisitions, and imputations,
and calculations, all undertaken for the sole benefit of our
neighbors. If we must, as a people, be idolaters of the physical and
the outward, let us have our grounds of worship and our grades of
ministration settled definitely, that the land may have rest.
What an edifying conversation ensues when Mrs. Angle sets the
ball rolling by a remark touching the table-habits of the Dashwoods!
`Can you believe that people who live in so splendid a house,
with satin-damask hangings and all manner of show, dine off a
cotton table-cloth, and without even napkins?'
`Believe it! certainly,' says a hum-drum looking person in the
corner, whose appearance would be entirely insignificant were it not
for a pair of peering eyes, which show that she is to be dreaded as
a visiter at least; `believe it! I can believe any thing, for I caught
them sitting down to a shoulder of mutton, with the water it had
been boiled in served up for soup;'
`How came you to call at dinner-time?' asks a simple-minded
country lady.
`O! I went late on purpose, and made the servant believe I was
a person on business, just to see how they did live, for I knew that
people who cut the figure they do must pinch somewhere.'
`As to that,' remarks a prim-lipped damsel, with very bony hands
`I saw Mrs. Dashwood put a sixpence into the plate last Sunday.
I declare I thought her fat fingers blushed as they did it? They
looked red enough, I 'm sure!'
Poor Mrs. Dashwood! Yet she has her revenge, for she is at
this very moment telling one of her neighbors, whose ideas of style
correspond more nearly with her own, what she thinks of the airs of
Mrs. Angle `and that set,' who, living in small houses with `really
common furniture,' yet affect not only napkins but silver forks and
finger-glasses!
Mrs. Pensile is a serious lady, a pattern-woman; but she means
to maintain her reputation and satisfy her conscience by just as little
self-denial as will answer the purpose. She will be careful not to
of sobriety. She sometimes indulges in expenses which she
feels to be scarcely in keeping with her theories, but she is always
able to come off triumphant by proving to you that one of the
neighbors, who makes a still higher profession, goes farther that she
ever does.
`It does really hurt my feelings,' says Mrs. Pensile, `to see Miss
Evergreen, who is a member of our church, wear a shawl that cost
her, to my certain knowledge, three hundred dollars.'
`But Miss Evergreen is a woman of fortune, and has nobody to
provide for.'
`True; but it does seem to me that there is some limit to the
expenses in which serious people may lawfully indulge! My shawl
now cost but ninety dollars, and I am sure it is as good as anybody
ought to want?'
The visiter who has assented to this proposition goes off to her
own coterie, and there gives vent to the `exercise' of her mind by
telling Mrs Pensile's idea of a standard for shawls.
`To think that woman actually takes credit to herself because
she wears a shawl that cost only ninety dollars! I rather think if
she would look round her own church, she would see many people
whose wardrobe needs very much the aid of a part of the money!
For my part, my best shawl cost scarcely half as much, and even
that went against my conscience!'
Upon this a certain lady whispers to her companion on the sofa,
at the same time looking very hard at the last speaker:
`That is a good deal more than you ought to afford, Madam, on
my certain knowledge! Do you know, Mrs. Burn, that that lady's
husband is my husband's partner, and I never think of giving over
twenty dollars for a shawl. There's my broché cost but eighteen.'
`And after all,' says an ancient dame who overhears her, `my
good Paisley tartan, which cost but five, is warmer than either, and
looks as well as anybody need wish, if it were not for pride.'
Now if it were supposable that one of our thrifty, tidy western
housewives could be present at so refined a colloquy, she might cap
the climax by adding:
`If you would all do as I do, make comfortable wadded mantillas
out of your old dresses, for yourselves and your children, you would
have more money to pay your husband's debts with, and something
to give to the poor beside. Mine is made of the skirt of my
wedding-gown, and cost me nothing but the batting and the
quilting!'
Who shall draw the line for these good ladies?
Miss Long, during a stroll up Broadway, late on a pleasant
afternoon, happens to see Miss Hauton trip daintily down her
father's marble steps to the carriage which is to convey her to
a dinner-party. It is but a glimpse, yet Miss Long had time to take
an inventory of Miss Hauton's decorations. The hair was elegantly
dressed; the robe, of the latest Parisian make and the most exquisite
delicacy of color, and the satin shoe and the splendid mouchoir
completed a costume which would have been pronounced faultless
by the best judges, and which Miss Long secretly decides to be
`perfectly angelic!' From this moment she never rests until
she has persuaded her indulgent papa to allow her an outfit as
nearly like Miss Hauton's as possible. But Miss Long is not invited
to dinner-parties, nor does her papa keep a carriage; what then
shall she do with her beautiful new dress and its accompaniments?
She wears them to walk the streets and make morning visits. Mrs.
Sharp, after bowing out Miss Long, turns to her daughter with a
compassionate smile, and the remark:
`What a pity that poor girl will make herself ridiculous by
dressing so conspicuously in the streets!'
Miss Long has no conception of anything like propriety in dress.
With her, dress is dress, be time and place what they may. She
has been accustomed to think that a gingham wrapper, or perhaps
something not so neat, is quite `good enough' for a morning at
home; but there her distinctive perceptions of proprieties in costume
are at an end. The idea of a `beauty of fitness' in dress or
anything else, has never been presented to her mind.
A lady of clear understanding but no particular accuracy of
expression happens to observe to her friend: `Your daughter is just
now at the right age to begin music.'
`Don't you think she's rather young?'
`No; it is the best time for whatever depends much on habit or
requires manual dexterity. Beside, her time is worth nothing for
any other pursuit.'
The friend looks up from her worsted-work in horror. `Time
worth nothing! You surprise me! I consider time a sacred
trust.'
`Oh, certainly; but comparatively, I mean; there is very little
use in urging books at so early an age.'
`Time worth nothing!' pursues the moralizing dame, who has
got hold of a fruitful topic; `that is the last sentiment I should have
expected from a woman of your principles! I look upon even a
little girl's time as very valuable. I am teaching Viola to sew. I
consider sewing much more necessary than music. A woman who
does not know the use of her needle is good for nothing. You 've
no idea how beautifully Viola can work already! Here is a pair of
manchettes she is finishing for me; look at the lace-work. By the
way, have you seen my new collar? Mrs. Taft says she could not
from a French one. And there are my ottomans, just come home;
beautifully mounted, are they not? The unconscionable wretch
charged me forty dollars for that mounting. But they ought to be
handsomely set, when I have bestowed so much labor upon them.
I worked at them five weeks, and we had company part of the time
too, so that I could not work all the time.' The friend takes the
opportunity of a pause, to observe politely: `I cannot imagine how
you find time for so much!'
Oh! it is by making use of every moment. I never allow
myself to be idle. I keep this screen-frame at hand, so that while
I am receiving calls I may be busy.' And, full of self-approval, the
lady continues her devotion to the embroidered screen, wondering
how so sensible a woman as Mrs. — could say that even a child's
time is worth nothing.
Mr. Howard, a city merchant, finding business unprosperous,
through the changefulness of the times or the failure of some
correspondent, resolves to retire while it is yet time; and wishing to
alter his style of living, thinks he can do it with smaller sacrifice of
feeling if he change his place of residence and his plan of life. He
has always had, like many of his city brethren, a green dream
floating far away in the back-ground of his imagination; an incipient
calenture, under the influence of which fields and forests have
looked particularly enticing to his mind's eye. Now is the time to
try this new spring of happiness. So he follows his friend Allbright
into the country, and buys a farm, and hires a farmer to manage it
for him, as Allbright has done. But Allbright is of a quiet turn,
and fonder of reading than anything else; and Howard is a person
of overflowing activity, who cares nothing for books, and whatever
he may suppose, really loves only society and bustle.
During the first month after the effort and turmoil of becoming
settled in a new residence are over, Howard yawns and stretches
until dislocation seems inevitable. But harvest is approaching, and
then there will be some stir, and Howard suspends his judgment of
rural life until then. Harvest begins, and all is animation; and
Howard walks about the fields, with his hands in his pockets, until
he begins to long to be busy too. After two or three days, looking
on has lost its charm, and he resolves to try his hand at this new
form of energy. He works furiously for a day or two, quite flattered
that the men declare he does his share and more. And then one
morning he wakes up with a fever. After a tolerable seasoning, he
quietly moves his forces townward again, being thoroughly convinced
that ruralizing is not his forte. He had judged himself by his
friend, when in fact no two can be more different. He resolves to
face manfully his altered style of living, and with conscious honesty
to sustain his self-respect, he finds the world's dread eye not half so
terrible as he thought it.
The Reverend Doctor Deal, pastor of a city congregation, with a
large salary and only two sons, not only sends his boys to the most
expensive colleges, but allows them private instruction from the
best masters, to fit them for the arena. The good Doctor has been
heard to remark, with a disapprobation not unmixed with contempt,
upon the absurdity of his friend Mr. Berrington's attempting, with
his family, to send his sons to college.
Now Mr. Berrington, a member of Dr. Deal's church, and no
illiberal contributor to the large salary above-mentioned, is a salaried
man too, but his income is not so good as the Doctor's, and he
has, moreover, six sons instead of two. Yet he feels that his position
in society, his connections, his own education and habits, all
make it very desirable that his sons should be liberally educated.
anxious to go to college with his young companions. The father,
after much deliberation and some misgiving, concludes that the
attempt must be made. It is only choosing a college where expenses
are moderate, retrenching a little at home, and enjoing strict
economy upon Charles; and he will be nearly through college
before John's turn comes. Charles leaves home with heroic resolutions
of hard study; then goes to college, and does as most other
boys do. Retrenchments at home are trying, and Mr. Berrington
has almost resolved against another so inconvenient attempt. But
John, who is of a more quiet turn than his brother, makes so many
fair promises, and seems so likely to keep them, and Charles, under
pain of his father's displeasure, takes hold of his studies so manfully
at last—and comes off with the honors—that John is, after all,
allowed to take his brother's place when Charles is put into a law-office
to learn his profession. And this is the history of some three
or four of the elder sons, until Charles, having set up for himself,
finds that he has a great many competitors. The next tries medicine,
but finds it hard to make bread of calomel. The next—we
will not, even for a supposition, say that out of the whole six one
takes to the Church as a mere livelihood,—the next, we may find
teaching in some school or college, and he continues poor, almost of
course. One has some talent as an artist, and he makes a support,
though it is a slender one. Another thinks this being a poor gentleman
is but a poor business after all, and he resolves to try farming.
But the education of his father and brothers is against him. He
feels so painful a distinction between himself and the rest, that his
courage fails, and he studies a profession after all. It is not until
the youngest has witnessed the struggles of pride and poverty and
pangs of `hope deferred,' wearing the very life out of the whole
apprenticed to an architect; learns the business thoroughly, and has
during his time of service the advantage which may be enjoyed in
many other branches of business, a constant familiarity with objects
of taste and refinement. He has also the advantage of a means of
living which is referable to rules, and can be judged of with certainty.
He thrives, marries, lives respectably, and is happy. His
brothers have an air, when speaking of him, as if he had rather lost
caste, yet they are not averse to borrowing money of him sub rosa,
and their unprosperous condition proves no small drawback upon his
comfort. He has chosen one of many professions which, though
connected with mechanical effort, do not necessarily imply any lack
of intellectual culture or social refinement; and he has secured competence,
peace, ability to assist others, in place of that grinding poverty
which is imbittered by a constant effort at concealment, and
that close application of every dollar to purposes connected with
appearance, which allows nothing to spare in any emergency; a condition
more inevitably belittling (if we may be allowed the use of a
kitchen word in a utilitarian discussion) than any mechanical employment,
stitching not excepted.
Do we not need standards sadly? Or is it only a little more self-reliance,
self-recollection, self-respect? a more distinct perception
of our true interest and dignity? a clear-sighted preference of reality
to mere appearance, of the inward to the outward? Something is
lacking, certainly; and the inquiry is worth making—`What is it?'
| The evening book, or, Fireside talk on morals
and manners | |