Chapter V: Introduction (3)

The family waitress, with extra help if needed, should be in attendance near the dining-room exit, to receive the used dishes and remove them at once from the scene. This is a nice point; for a congestion of dishes in the dining-room spoils the effect of an otherwise well-managed service. The maid will also keep the stack of plates, etc., replenished; and she will carry back and forth from the pantry the salad bowl and platters for replenishing.

Cutlery is limited to a fork for the salad, a spoon for the coffee, and a fork or spoon for the ice cream. The ices may be in fancy individual shapes, if one chooses to take that much trouble; but the brick, brought in ready sliced for serving, is always suitable, and easier to manage.

Much of this is so generally understood that further details seem superfluous. The least experienced hostess need not be overanxious about small points, if the general order is observed; for luncheon guests are a genial crowd, and nobody notices little mishaps. I am assuming that your guests are all very nice people, in sympathy with you, and aiding you to the extent of their ability to make things pleasant. Those who have this sincere disposition need no instruction in behavior. Each one's conduct will be guided by her own instinctive sense of propriety. One who is habitually polite is not likely to make any blunders at a luncheon, since there are no rigid conventionalities to be infringed.

If the luncheon hour is much past noon, the guests should be careful not to remain too long after, as they might thus be detaining the hostess from later afternoon engagements.

SUPPERS

A supper is a late evening meal, and may be an entertainment by itself, or be served in connection with some social event. A supper is understood to consist prevailingly of hot dishes, which distinguishes the supper from the collation--which might be served on similar occasions--and which is mainly of cold dishes. The distinction is not absolute, however.

A formal supper, or banquet, is served _a la Russe_, and resembles the dinner in its general conduct; but instead of the heavy roast and vegetables, the game is the conspicuous course, and various preparations of oysters, lobster, terrapin, etc., crowd the _menu_ card, with salads of all kinds. Nine o'clock is a fashionable hour for the sit-down supper. The supper served at a dance or a reception is timed to suit the leading features of the evening. The _menu_ for these "crush" suppers covers the ground of the hot supper and the cold collation combined, and there are few things within the range of dainty cookery that are not permissible.

The most "social" and enjoyable suppers--with the doctor's permission--are those that are served an home after the hostess and her guests have returned from the theatre or opera, lecture or concert. Tiny biscuit, sandwiches, fried oysters, chicken salad, and golden coffee, with ice-cream and some superior cake, served like a luncheon, make a supper easily arranged, and one which winds up a pleasant evening in a very satisfactory way.

BREAKFASTS

A formal breakfast has little distinctive character. It differs very slightly from an early luncheon, except that the viands are more distinctly breakfast dishes; as, toast, hot muffins, omelettes and other preparations of eggs, delicate farinaceous foods, _cafe au lait_, etc. If it is the veritable breaking of the fast the guests must be very late risers indeed, as 11 o'clock, or even 12, noon, is a fashionable hour for this so-called breakfast, which is a phase of social entertaining reserved for the "leisure class," or only at odd intervals possible to people of active pursuits. The morning hours are precious to the hurried man of business, and the care-environed housekeeper; and "promptness and dispatch" is the motto of the breakfast table in most houses.

The _real_ breakfast of everyday life is the meal where we least expect to meet guests--unless it be some one who is staying at the house. It is a rare thing for a friend to "drop in" to breakfast, and to invite him to do so is perhaps the rarest expression of hospitality, and will probably remain so, while we remain a nation of brain and hand workers.

During the summer vacation, when we pause for a breathing spell, no more charming hospitality can be offered than a dainty breakfast, especially in the country. It may be the preliminary to an all-day house party, or a picnic excursion; or the breakfast may be the goal of an early morning drive by carriage or motor, and the hour may be early or late, just as you please; for is not vacation a period of emancipation from the tyranny of the clock? But let not the hour be too early, for tired people are heavy sleepers; yet not too late either, lest the heat of the sun may have become too suggestive of the approaching noon-tide; late enough for weary eyelids to unclose willingly, early enough for the fresh dewy odor still to cling to the vines on the porch.

The conventional breakfast in town is given very seldom as compared with dinners and luncheons. It is peculiarly a holiday hospitality, reserved until the men are at leisure; for breakfast without the man of the house would be Hamlet with the prince left out.

There is another significant distinction: the guests are chosen from the inner circle. When, on Christmas morning, Mr. and Mrs. A. entertain Mr. and Mrs. B. and Mr. and Mrs. C. at breakfast, we infer at once their intimate friendship and congenial companionship. One may lunch impersonally with comparative strangers; one may dine formally touching elbows with one's dearest foe but one does not of choice breakfast with any one but a friend, or a friend of a friend--graciously accepted on trust. Breakfast is the most intimate breaking of bread; not even the festive elaboration can make the friendly breakfast seem like anything but "playing at" formality. The service is essentially the same as it usually is in that household, except that the children are not at the table. The more homelike it is, the better; for home atmosphere is revealed as at no other meal, and on no other occasion can a visitor be made to feel so entirely "one of the family."

The guests remain but a short time after a breakfast, chatting in a leisurely way, but leaving rather promptly.

The problem of the family breakfast is complicated by the modern stress of business life. In suburban towns the typical "commuter" must flee away with little ceremony; for the 7:08 will not wait, and the 7:10 is a way train. In most families breakfast is on the European plan, so to speak. For this very reason, perhaps, the occasional holiday breakfast is the more attractive. With no train to "catch," no boat to "make," no office hours to "keep," no demon of driving work to lash one to the treadmill, how delightful to be able to breakfast with the serenity of the genial "Autocrat" himself; and how very odd it seems to find oneself sociably disposed at this unwonted hour! May it not convey the gentle admonition that we might be more social every day, if we only thought so?

Psychologically, the breakfast is peculiar. It is the first commingling of the day; and whether it be the late holiday feast, or the usual family gathering, it sets the pace for the twenty-four hours. A cheerful start in the morning may give an optimistic momentum for all-day hill-climbing; or, one may slip dejectedly down hill if leaden-weighted with a "morning grouch" (one's own, or somebody else's). Even fellow "boarders" might reflect on this, with profit. Preoccupied with our own affairs, we forget to be mutually considerate. We habitually wake to rush and worry, taking social recreation chiefly at the close of day, when too weary to appreciate it. Might it not sometimes be well to get ourselves into a good humor the first thing in the morning, and then work afterward? Few people are of such a happy, self-contained disposition that they do not need the sustaining influence of other cheerful spirits. Most of us would have more of sunshine in our hearts if the first business of the morning had been to put ourselves in harmony with our fellow-creatures socially. And if we cannot do this every day, nor even often, according to our ideal, we at least doubly appreciate the rare occasions when it has been possible, and we feel impulsively grateful to the hostess whose thoughtful kindness has made our holiday so bright at its dawning. Other ways of entertaining may be more imposing; none are more delightful. Bid whom you will to dine with you, but ask me to _breakfast_.

EVENING PARTIES

This general term includes a variety of social entertainments, and suggests all degrees of formality, from the stately reception to the "surprise party." With a range so varied, classification is not readily made. Some features are always present: a host and hostess always receive; a guest always first pays his respects to his entertainers, and then mingles agreeably with the throng. He makes himself useful in any way that tact and courtesy suggest. Supper is served, usually the buffet collation. It is more formal, and less confusing, if the guests go to the dining-room--convenient numbers at a time--instead of being served in the parlors, as at a luncheon. On formal occasions professional readers and musicians are often engaged as entertainers. Sometimes the amusement is furnished by clever amateurs among the guests, who may read, sing, or whistle, or what not. In a circle where all are well acquainted, some of the pleasantest evening parties are those to the success of which each one contributes his mite, cheerfully singing in the chorus when nature has denied him a solo voice, and not allowing any dark jealousy of superior gifts to deprive the harmony of his one little note.

Invitations to these informal parties are cordial and personal in tone. If the guest is expected to make preparation, in costume or to fill some part on the programme, that fact is briefly stated. For practical suggestions, consult "Parlor Games," adding any novel features that you can devise. A hostess with original ideas for entertainments is always successful and popular. Elderly people as well as the young enjoy these parties; and they are a safe resource for mixed companies, when a form of entertainment must be chosen that will please all and offend none.

Children's parties, usually afternoon affairs, are often merely childish "good times"; but again, they are conducted in close imitation of an evening party for adults, and thus made a means of education in the social ceremonial. When sensibly managed, the children's party affords a fine opportunity for training the little people in polite manners.

When the children are almost grown up, but not "out," pleasant little parties for "the younger set" are given by the mothers, to accustom the "buds" to conventionalities, and prepare the debutantes and their young brothers to take their place gracefully in the larger social world. These younger-set parties are like a grown-up party, except that they are conspicuously chaperoned, and all responsibility is assumed by the mothers and godmothers.

The two extreme phases of the evening party are the conventional ball, and the rural "sociable."

The special requirements for a ball are good music, and large well-ventilated rooms, from which all superfluous furniture has been removed. For music, an orchestra of four or six pieces may be sufficient. For space, we must make the best of what we have, if the ball is given at home. This is practicable only where the rooms are reasonably spacious. Nowadays, a ball in a private house is rare, for hotels, clubs, and first class caterers furnish charming ballrooms for rental to exclusive patrons.

But whether in her own house or in a hired ballroom, the hostess is for the time "at home"; and the general conduct of the ball is the same in both cases. Decorations, floral and otherwise, are important; and a supper, served either during the progress, or at the close of the dance--or both--is an indispensable feature.

The guests arrive at the hour designated, not earlier than nine o'clock. The hostess is stationed at some point near the entrance of the drawing-room, where she remains during the evening to receive the guests, who must pay their respects to her, first of all. A gentleman will also lose no time in finding his host, and paying him the courtesy of a deferential greeting.

As the hostess cannot delegate her special duty of receiving, she has usually several aids, young matrons, who keep a watchful eye upon the dancing throng, and see to it that partners are not lacking for those who might otherwise be overlooked; and in any way that the emergency may suggest, or tact devise, they radiate the hospitality from its centre--the hostess.

A gentleman in American society does not ask a lady to dance until he has been introduced to her. He may seek an introduction for this purpose, or the hostess may request him to be introduced. In either case, the lady and the gentleman both cheerfully acquiesce. A lady usually accepts the invitation to dance, unless the dance is already engaged. She should be careful to inspect her tablets; and not promise the same dance to two different partners, an awkward accident that sometimes happens to a heedless belle. After a dance, a gentleman promenades with his partner, chats with her for awhile, and, finally, with a graceful bow, leaves her once more in the care of her chaperone.

If a man has made an engagement to take a particular lady out to supper, he must not forget himself and linger talking to another lady until supper is fairly announced, since etiquette then requires him to take out the lady with whom he is at the moment talking. He should seek the one he has chosen, some moments before, and leave the other lady free to receive other invitations to supper.

Any gentleman who observes a lady who is not being served with refreshments, should courteously offer to bring her something. If he is a total stranger he will attempt no conversation beyond the civilities of the case; but these he will cordially though unobtrusively offer. The young man who does these little things with the gentle grace of a knight errant, may not know that he is simply charming, from a woman's standpoint; but the fact remains.

A ball, proper, is a strictly formal affair. A dancing party, while observing similar regulations on the dancing floor, may be, in the social intervals between dances, as informal as a village "sociable." That is to say, as informal as the sociable ever _ought_ to be; possibly not as informal as the sociable sometimes _is_. People who have "grown up" together, as villagers often have, are apt to consider a life-long acquaintance the proper basis for unlimited off-hand familiarity. To a certain extent, and in a certain sense, such acquaintance, being second in intimacy only to near relationship, does warrant a cordial and trustful informality. The cautious reserve that marks one's conduct toward a recent acquaintance might justly be resented by a tried and trusted friend of one's youth. But even relationship does not warrant undignified behavior, or rude liberties of speech or action. The boy and girl who went to school together grow up to be the young man and woman of society; and while the memory of school days is a bond of hearty friendliness between them, it is not necessary that they should evince their mutual regard by a free-and-easy demeanor.

Country sociables, attended largely by the younger members of families long acquainted and associated, are apt to be rather rollicking, not to say "rough and tumble," affairs, where practical jokes and unmerciful "guying" are the characteristic wit, and such smart tricks as bumping an unsuspecting comrade's head against the wall are applauded with shrieks of admiring laughter. The onlookers may be excused for their tacit countenance of the rudeness, since some element of drollery--that might have been wit, under better conditions--compels a smile, in spite of a dignified disapproval of the performance. A young student, unused to such scenes, standing a little apart from such a group once remarked judicially to a lady near him, "I do not care for such _dare-devil sociability_." Nor would other young people cherish it as their ideal of a "good time" if they could learn how much more charming altogether it is to exchange the delicate courtesies that make up refined social companionship. The difference in social culture is what distinguishes the vulgar wag from the urban wit. The crude humor of the former, often marred by coarseness, is like ore in which the dross greatly out-weighs the pure metal. The brilliant _mots_ of the latter, refined by the processes of culture, are like the gold nuggets separated from their base surroundings.

How to eliminate the "dare-devil" from the sociability of country life, without substituting an artificial stiffness, is the problem for every thoughtful and refined man and woman in rural circles. How to "be kindly affectioned one to another, in brotherly love, in honor preferring one another"--perhaps that would furnish the keynote of it all, alike for the citizen and the rustic.

THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

The preceding chapters describe established customs in home entertaining. Such rules remain in force for the home conditions.

But who can live in this electric-motor age without noting the gradual variation in "the ways of doing things"--changes that are directly traceable to the influence of modern inventions? The trolley lines have brought large areas within the city limits; the swift automobile has reduced miles to furlongs. Town and country are intermingled as never before, and each is sensibly modified by the other. By its very name, the "Town and Country" club recognizes this new community of interests. Its members, living even twenty miles away, outdo Sheridan's ride, in arriving at the club on time for luncheon, golf, or dinner.

Which brings to mind this fact: that to-day a large part of formal entertaining in cities is no longer _at home_. Elaborate dinners, teas, and luncheons are given at one's club, or at _cafes_, exclusive "tea rooms," and in the elegantly appointed private dining-rooms now provided by the best hotels. After-theatre suppers are almost invariably taken at a fashionable restaurant--doubtless greatly to the relief of both the hostess and her housemaids. While cooperative housekeeping is still an undeveloped scheme, things seem to be trending that way.

The multiplication of huge apartment houses (and diminutive apartments) is the other prime factor in the case. While the hotel dinner may have come into fashion first as the dire necessity of the "cliff dwellers," its convenience appeals to many householders who formerly would not have dreamed of offering their guests the hospitality of a _cafe_. Many conservative people still deplore the innovation; but fashion approves, and the custom grows.

Entertaining at one's club is governed by the rules of that particular club. When entertaining at tea rooms, or _cafes_, one has simply to arrange with the superintendent or the head waiter, for tables or private dining-room, for the date chosen; to choose the _menu_, and order the decorations. This done, the entertainers and their friends have but to appear at the stated hour and play their respective roles with care-free grace. These dinners may be given by a bachelor, to a mixed company, or to a bevy of the debutantes, with the co-operation of a society matron or a married couple to chaperone the affair. This is a very pleasant way for a bachelor to make return for the social attentions showered on himself.

This way of entertaining may be lavishly expensive, but it is not necessarily so; all things considered, it may not greatly exceed the cost of similar entertaining at home. In this land of the free, any one who will may give a tea room luncheon. But the semi-publicity of these functions invites criticism; and people of moderate income discreetly forbear attempting anything too ambitious for their obvious means. Elegant simplicity is always good form.

The universal use of the telephone is another factor in the modification of social customs. Among familiar friends, the little chat over the 'phone largely takes the place of the informal call. Also, invitations to any but strictly formal functions are now sent by telephone, if agreeable to both parties; though it is still considered better to adhere to the more respectful written form if there is any doubt about the new way being acceptable to the party of the second part. While I counsel conservatism in these changes, I am convinced that the new dynasty of wire and wireless is destined to dominate us; and as discovery continues and inventions multiply, the time is near when _immediate communication_ will be had at long range; possibly telepathy--who knows? Or, possibly tele-photography with it--why not? Then, the slow, laborious writing of messages will be as much out of date as the super-annuated stage-coach.

But--not yet; we are still in the process of evolution. It is still safe to heed Pope's famous advice:

"Be not the first by whom the new is tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside."

"THE STRANGER THAT IS WITHIN THY GATES"

It is the duty of the host or hostess to give a polite and cheerful welcome to the guest whom they have invited to cross their threshold. During the time that she remains under their roof they have the responsibility of making her comfortable, and as happy as possible. To do this, attention to details is of the greatest consequence. It is possible to give dinners, and _musicales_, and receptions for a guest, and to introduce her to a choice circle of friends; to plan drives and excursions for sight-seeing to points of interest; to bring out the best preserves from the store-room, and put on the table all the delicacies of the season; and yet something may be lacking. A subtle expression of discomfort may at times cloud the face of the guest, and greatly disturb the anxious hostess, who redoubles her efforts to think of something else in the way of entertainment and diversion. If this well-meaning hostess will accompany me to the guest-room while its temporary occupant is reading on the "front porch," perhaps I can point out to her some things that will give a clue to the mystery.

The guest-room is large and airy, and "well-furnished," as the phrase goes, with a soft carpet prevailingly blue, and a prettily carved oaken "set." The bed is covered with a lace counterpane over a blue silk quilt, and downy pillows invite to slumber. Curtains of blue silk and white lace are draped at the windows; cushions, tidies, sachets, gim-cracks of every description load the bureau, and lie around in profusion; a pretty rug of fluffy fur is spread before a comfortable couch, and a rocking-chair and foot-stool are in the cozy window recess. A small table with a vase of flowers upon it occupies one space against the wall. The wash-stand bears the regulation "toilet set," bowl and pitcher, soap-dish, etc., with the china jar set in the corner. Plenty of damask towels hang on the rack, and the "splasher" is a marvel of needlework. Well, is not this a pretty comfortable room?

It seems ungracious to answer nay; but truth compels me to say that it proves to be a most _un_comfortable room, as managed. Since the guest arrived, this three-quart pitcher has been filled each morning with cold water. Beyond this, no offer of the aqueous element in any form has been made. The guest, accustomed at home to an abundance of hot water, and the luxury of a bath daily--or oftener, at will--has been suffering the greatest privation rather than trouble her hostess with a request for something which is so evidently not thought of in this house. With soap that "chaps," and a stiff nail-brush she has painfully scrubbed her cold knuckles to remove the grime which several days of imperfect ablution has rendered almost immovable--except as the skin comes with it. And as to her customary bath, she has substituted so much of hasty sponging as chattering teeth will allow, finishing off with a dry polish when prudence forbids further risk of a chill; and she has completed her toilet with a sense of self-disgust, and a dissatisfaction with her surroundings which makes her long for the day set for the termination if this visit, which might have been so pleasant, if she had been made physically comfortable. When she goes home she will answer, to the kind inquiries of her mother: "Oh! yes; I had a lovely time!--or that is, I should have had, if only I could have had a _bath_!"

Whether it is that some people do not care for bathing, and therefore do not realize its necessity to the comfort of other people; or whether they have an idea that a "guest" is a being who, while in that _role_, needs none of the ordinary comforts of every-day life; or, whatever the reason may be, this failure to provide bath facilities is one of the most common and flagrant neglects of hospitality.

When the guest-room has no private bath attached, and it is impracticable to offer the use of the family bath-room, a small tub of zinc or granite ware should be included in the furnishing of the guest-room, together with a square of thin oil-cloth to spread on the carpet. The guest should be informed that hot water is always in readiness to be brought to her room whenever she requires it. In country houses having no "modern conveniences," every kitchen stove may have an ample boiler always filled with clean water, so that at all times hot water may be available for bathing purposes. It is unpardonable to live without at least this much provision for an essential condition of civilized life--"the cleanliness that is next to godliness."

In addition to the water supply, the guest-room should contain other requisites for a comfortable toilet. Presumably, every guest who comes for a several-days' stay brings with her the small articles she will need; but oversights are frequent in hurried packing, and the resources of the guest-room should be equal to any such emergency, even though only a part of the provision is required in any one case. A neat, close cabinet, with a closet beneath and shelves above, is a desirable piece of furniture. In the closet the bath-tub can be stored, and bath-brushes, "loofahs," and sponges can be hung up while the shelves may hold a supply of toilet sundries; for example, a flask of bay rum, and one of violet-water; a bottle of spirits of ammonia, a bottle of alcohol, a spirit lamp and curling tongs, tooth-powder, rosewater, and glycerine; a jar of fine cold-cream, hair-brush and combs, a clothes-brush, a whisk broom, a reserve supply of soap--"Ivory" (if the water is hard, this soap is superior for the bath) and fine castile, and a delicately-scented soap of first quality. The cheap "scented" abominations should not be inflicted on a guest.

The dressing-table should have a supply of pins in variety, including hairpins; a work-box, containing needles and thread, a thimble, scissors, tape, shoe-buttons, etc. A bottle of cologne and also of some first-class "triple extract" should stand on the bureau.

With all this provided, one is not likely to lack any comfort for the toilet; yet, with it all, the hostess should make her guest understand that the motto is: "If you don't see what you want, ask for it." This freedom will not be taken by a sensitive guest unless it is clearly invited. The self-complacent way in which a hostess sometimes ushers a guest into the "best room," and then leaves her to the mercy of what she can find--or, rather, _cannot_ find--forestalls all requests for additional supplies. In the midst of all the satin and lace flummery, it is pathetic to suffer in silence for the lack of a little beggarly hot water. And yet, such is the experience of many an "honored guest."

Beside the toilet comforts, there are other things that may well be added to the equipment of the guest-room. One, in particular, is a well-appointed little writing-desk, containing all the requisites for letter-writing, including stamps. Perhaps the guest has brought these things with her, more likely she has forgotten them, and it may be a matter of great convenience to her to find this little desk awaiting her. If there is a shelf above, a selection of standard and entertaining books may be placed thereon. The Bible, a book of Common Prayer, a hymnal, may be included; a copy of Shakespeare, a dictionary, some clever and interesting book, like _Curious Questions_, and a volume or two of sketches and essays, ranging in style from Emerson to Jerome K. Jerome, may agreeably fill the mid-day hour of rest which the guest takes in her room before dressing for the afternoon. The only trouble is that the guest who is made so thoroughly comfortable may forget to go home. At all events, she will no doubt hail with delight a second invitation to come.

It may be objected that to keep the guest-room supplied to this extent would involve a considerable expense; but that would depend on the character of the guest. No well-bred woman would depend on these "supplies" for the entire period of a long visit. They are there to meet the emergency of a belated trunk, of something forgotten or overlooked, or the delays in making necessary purchases after her arrival. She will gratefully accept the cologne until her own flask is unpacked, but she leaves the guest-room supply but little diminished when she departs.

The hostess who has been embittered by seeing only a train of empty bottles in the wake of a departing guest may naturally feel discouraged about offering unlimited hospitality in the matter of druggists' sundries. But it is merely that she has been unfortunate in her guests. She should revise her visiting list. In entertaining the right sort of people, she will have no such experience. She will be fully rewarded for every care she bestows to make her house a home-like resort, and she will find that the cost amounts to very little compared with the large return it brings in the way of social appreciation, to say nothing of the satisfaction afforded to her own benevolent impulses. "It is more blessed to give than to receive," as the ideal hostess can testify.

"MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME"

The responsibilities of a visit are not all on the shoulders of a hostess. The guest has also a duty in the matter.

The phrase of welcome quoted above is variously interpreted, if we may judge by the various ways in which the injunction is obeyed. To some people, "make yourself at home" is a free permit to take possession of everything on the premises; to cut the choicest roses in the garden, to call for the carriage at capricious will, to consult no one's comfort but their own, and to impose upon the polite forbearance of every one else, regardless--in short, to behave as no one can behave at home for any length of time without disrupting that home.

To _make one's self_ at home is to _adapt one's self_ to one's environment. If things are different from what we are accustomed to, we must try to accustom ourselves to _them_, and the mannerly guest will strive to do this, not as a cross, but as a pleasure. She will meet cordially the friends of her hostess who are introduced to her, however little they attract her; she will cheerfully accompany the family to their church, even though it be of a different faith from her own; and she will listen respectfully to the sermon, and refrain from ungracious criticism of the choir or the minister. She will take an interest in any local happenings that are of vital interest to her entertainers; she will show lively appreciation of everything done for her entertainment, even though it may be but a commonplace and dull affair, in her private judgment. She will measure her grateful duty to them, not so much by the degree of pleasure which they actually give her, as by the amount of effort which they obviously make. It is very ungracious for a guest of wide social experience to be apathetic when some unsophisticated little hostess offers what to her seems a novel treat, but which to her worldly-wise guest is a threadbare device. No matter if the device is threadbare; the spirit of kindness which prompts the effort is immortal; and though we have seen "rainbow teas" until we are weary of them, we will enter cheerfully into the spirit of this one, because our little hostess in the innocence of her heart has worked so hard to make it ready in our honor.

The guest should avoid giving extra trouble to the hostess, or to the servants. She may offer assistance when circumstances warrant her doing so, but must refrain from meddling with household matters when her help is evidently not desired. She should entertain herself easily when the hostess is otherwise busy, yet never seem to have any absorbing occupation that would prevent her from being ready at once to join the family in any project. If there are children in the house, she should be cordial and affectionate with them, without gushing insincerity or indiscreet petting, and she should not betray any annoyance if they are noisy and occasionally troublesome--as the best of children will be at times. She should aim to feel and act as though the interests and pleasures of the family were her own, and not make remarks that are tacit comparisons to their disadvantage. If there are glaring faults in the domestic management, it is not her province to correct them, except so far as a quiet example may be subtly influential, as it will be, if at heart she makes herself a part of the circle of sympathy. After her return to her own home, she should write a letter to her hostess, expressing the pleasure which the memory of her visit gives her, and gracefully thanking her friend for all that made the sojourn so restful and happy.

There is something singularly inspiring in the idea of "making one's self at home," in the sense of finding the _value_ in every environment which fate, or chance, or Providence may place us in. And when, as welcome guests, we listen to this hearty greeting, we resolve that in all ways consistent with our duty to our entertainers, and with all grateful appreciation of their kindness to us, we will "make ourselves at home."

"AS THE TWIG IS BENT"

Every one theoretically admits the importance of early training. It is demonstrated in the animal and the vegetable kingdoms, wherever organic life unfolds and grows; and that the human child is no exception is promptly recognized in theory, however fatally practice ignores it.

Not that parents mean to ignore it; but there is a "happy-go-lucky" impression that somehow "he will come out all right;" that "as he gets older, his own good sense will assert itself," and so on. Happily, this is partly true. A native good disposition and good sense saves many a child from the ruin which an unwise course of training has done its best to precipitate. The wonder is that they "turn out" as well as they do. Perhaps Providence, in visiting its judgments, is lenient to the young and inexperienced parents, themselves undisciplined; to the helpless child, at the mercy of his blind guides.

There is too much negative, too little positive, in child-training; too much querulous reiteration of "don't," too little intelligent teaching how to _do_. Little children like to be "shown how;" they are fascinated with the games and gifts of the kindergarten, which aims to _teach something_, not to _repress everything_. Children are delighted to learn little polite phrases; to make a bow; to hold a fork daintily; to offer little courtesies, and to receive a smiling approbation. They would rather do things prettily than not. They are _not "contrary,"_ exceptional cases of hereditary ugliness aside. They are apt pupils, whether their tutor be a philosopher or a fool. And if a faulty example be a child's most constant and influential teacher, what wonder that the lessons, well-learned, are put in practice? And just then, if you listen, you will hear some one issue the emphatic but vacuous command, "Don't!" And the baby _doesn't_, for the space of a few seconds; after which, unable to get any new suggestions out of the idea-less instructions given him, he proceeds to do the same thing over, only to be again commanded to desist, a spanking for "disobedience" this time varying the monotony of the universal prohibition.

The profane poll-parrot is not a more startling witness to the character of its surroundings than the "terrible infant," whose rude snatchings, pert contradictions, and glib slang phrases are sure to be most effectively "shown off" in the presence of visitors. It is of little use to affect grieved surprise, or stern reprobation, when one's children are merely exhibiting their daily discipline. Most parents feel keenly the embarrassment of having the infant misbehave so inopportunely, and they are apt to offer a tacit apology and a vague self-defense by sharply reprimanding the child in words that are meant to give the visitor the idea that they--the parents--never _heard_ or _saw_ such conduct before, and are now frozen with amazement. The nonchalant or incredulous or impish way in which the children receive these reproofs only confirms the suspicion that such scenes have been frequent, and the discipline attending them has been inconsequent.

One parent I have heard acknowledge the truth of the matter. An elderly clergyman was his guest, and the four-year-old daughter of the house was entertaining the "grandpa" with a toy puzzle, which he fumbled with in vain, unable to put it together or to take it apart. Impatient at last, the little girl hastily snatched it from his hand with a childish growl of contempt, and proceeded to show him the trick, saying, with an airy mingling of criticism and condescension, "By Jove! your name is Dennis; _you_ are not in it!" The old gentleman paused, instinctively prepared to hear the usual "Why, daughter! papa is _astonished_ to hear his little girl," etc, etc., after the fashion of the parental hypocrite. But this candid young father met the dignified eyes squarely, and said promptly, "I'm sorry, Doctor, but there's no use denying it; she is just giving _me_ away." He had the sense to recognize his own teaching, the honesty to admit it. Whether he has the discretion to reform his methods remains to be seen.

For right here is another point: that people think it is "cute" for a _little_ child to say and do things that in a child a few years older would be most unattractively rude. But they must reflect that this same cute little child will soon be a few years older, and will carry into that riper age the fixed habits that are forming now; and it will not be so easy a task to transform the child's manners as it is to dress him in a larger suit of clothes.

A choice rose was grafted upon a wild, thorny stock, and planted beside a veranda trellis. The owner watched it carefully for a year or so, cutting down the rank shoots of the wild stock as they sprang aggressively from the root, allowing the grafted branch to grow in full luxuriance, bearing carmine clusters that filled the garden with spicy odor. The next spring an ignorant gardener pruned away the branches, cutting down the slenderest and leaving what to his unpracticed eye were the most desirable, because the thriftiest, shoots; and when the time of blossoms came, nothing appeared but the ragged petals of the wild thorn.

So, in "the rosebud garden of girls"--or boys. If the choice graft of cultured manners (for it _is_ a graft on the sturdy but wayward stock of human nature) is left to be choked out by the rank, wild growth of impulse, or if by some flagrant error in example and discipline it is practically cut down at the main branch, what can the careless trainer expect? He may weep to find no velvet-petaled rose when he comes to look for it; but he has no right to blame the rose-bush, nor can he, at this late day, hide the tact of his blundering pruning by righteously affirming that he is "perfectly astonished." His neighbors, who have quietly noted the methods pursued in his kindergarten, are not in the least surprised.

Another resource for escaping blame is that of explaining that the children "learn these things at school." Presumably they do not mean from the teachers. It is "from the other children," who seem to be a most injurious class of society. It is their influence which makes _our_ children so rude and so ungrammatical; and, strangely enough, though these other children never dine with our children, so subtle and far-reaching is their baleful influence that our children's defective manners at the table are directly traceable to the same evil source.

Granted, a measure of truth in the charge; for large mirthfulness and large imitation lead children to do things "just for fun," which all the time they know better than to persist in. But, as a fact, demonstrated by observation, a very small percentage of the children who are habituated to correct behavior at home are ever seriously affected by outside influences. A superficial effect may show in little things; but such lapses of speech or manner are transient, and in no degree control the development of the child when his home training is irreproachable. On the other hand, the efforts of an untiring teacher, laboring five hours a day to teach correct language and enunciation, may be of little permanent value, when the remaining hours of the day are spent in a home where the English grammar hourly meets a violent death.

And what is true of grammar is equally true of morals and manners. The school and society may be measurably influential; but the home casts the deciding vote. And when people note the manners--good or bad--of your boys and girls, they do not ask, "What school do they attend?" "What children do they associate with?" but, "_Whose children are they?_"

Would you have them mannerly? Teach them; by precept, certainly; but above all things, by example.

SOCIAL YOUNG AMERICA

Henry the Fifth, of England, disposed of certain troublesome restrictions of etiquette by remarking that "nice customs curtsey to great kings:" but in the twentieth century, customs are more likely to curtsey to the common sense of the community at large.

City codes and country customs present some contradictious. The exact rules of etiquette in social formalities, which are derived from the established usage of fashionable circles in the city, are constantly subject to modifications when they are applied under the conditions found in rural neighborhoods. This is plainly illustrated in the comminglings of social "Young America." Whereas the city-bred girl is carefully chaperoned, the village girl of equal social standing, intrinsically speaking, is accustomed to go about unconcernedly, either alone or under the escort of some youth, with whom she makes engagements to drive, or walk, or row, or attend picnics, without either of them, as a rule, thinking it necessary to ask her mother to join them, or even to give her permission, that being taken for granted, since it has probably never been denied. And the question naturally arises, Why _should_ it be denied, when the young man is a trusted chum of her brother, and as safe an escort for her as her own father would be? It is a very different case from the similar instance in the city, where the gallant is a comparative stranger, who may or may not be reliable, and where a conventional world is coldly looking on.

But, moreover, if this young country girl chooses, she goes alone to a little evening party a few doors away, or to the evening "meeting" at the village church, and this same youth, or some other one, escorts her home in an impromptu fashion. The young lady probably invites him into the house, if the hour is early and the family are still circled about the parlor lamp. Or, if it is late, she does not ask him in, but invites him to call. She does not thank him for his escort, unless it has been given at obvious inconvenience to himself or others, and is therefore not so much a matter of gallantry as of neighborly accommodation. In the latter case she does thank him frankly for his trouble.

When the young man calls to see her, she receives him with or without the presence of her mother or other members of the family. She may invite him to tea, with her mother's serene but passive approval; and, in fact, the goings and comings of these young people are more like the comradery of two girls than like the formal association of a young man and young woman in society.

We are accustomed to call such a code a country code, because of its almost universal following in small towns and villages. But similar freedom of association is also observed in city circles outside of the exclusive bounds of fashionable life. Indeed, some of the fashions called "countryfied" are equally "cityfied," if we judge by the extent of the usage. But what has been quite safe and sensible and refined in the particular instance in the country, may be a most unsafe freedom in the city, where every circle is constantly being invaded, more or less, by new-comers and by a floating contingent of transient people, whose record is not known even to the people who introduce them. The frank friendliness that is usually good form in the village circle is usually a great mistake in the city. It is better that young ladies, whether nominally chaperoned or not, should be guarded against making acquaintances too readily, especially among young men. If a young man is deserving of social recognition, let the young lady's mother grant it to him by inviting him to her house and permitting his association with her own young people.

A young girl should not extend these invitations to call unless she is well acquainted with the young man, or unless she gives the invitation in her mother's name, and with the understanding that he will be received by her mother as well as herself. Usually, the mother should be the one to extend the hospitality.

In the case of an unmarried woman who is no longer young, it is presumed that discretion will guide her as to when it is dignified and proper to give invitations to call, the conservative side being the safe side where strangers are concerned.

The ideal condition of Americanized chaperonage is far from being realized in the great mass of American society. A small and exclusive circle observes the English code in this matter; the rest of society ignore the whole idea--as an idea--though the thoughtful mother instinctively guards her daughter in a desultory way, perhaps meeting the spirit of the idea in the main, but flagrantly disregarding the letter of the formal code. The two extremes we have; but a real, systematic code of chaperonage that is not French, nor English, nor Spanish, but wholesome, sensible, thorough-going American _mother's_ guardianship we are yet to see definitely carried out. The occasional instance of it which we now and then observe has taught us to appreciate what would be the happiest development in our social life, if once attained.

Meanwhile, the average American girl will probably continue to shine as the startling exception to the rule; and in her remarkable escapes from serious blunders, will continue to bear the palm for self-command and good sense. Her ability to ignore a law, while consciously cherishing all that the law was devised to protect, is a flattering indication of her mental and moral integrity. Even a dull-witted person can follow a set rule; it requires some genius to make a legitimate exception, and it also involves some temerity. It is like gathering mushrooms; perhaps they are edible, perhaps they are poisonous; for the various fungi look very much alike. If it happens to be right, it is right; if it happens to be wrong, it is sheer disaster.

A social code that borrows no artifice from foreign lands and institutions, but which, true to the spirit of our own country, guards the liberty of young girls on the one hand, while on the other it shields them from license, will be welcomed by all thoughtful people. The American chaperone is the coming woman. The girls of the next generation will rise up and call her blessed.

THE AMERICAN CHAPERONE

The question of the chaperone in America is peculiarly perplexing. The consternation of the hen whose brood of ducklings took to the water is a fit symbol of the horrified amazement with which an old-world "duenna" would be filled if she attempted to "look after" a bevy of typical American girls, with their independent--yet confused--ideas of social requirements in the matter of chaperonage.

In Europe, where social lines are distinctly drawn, a young woman either belongs "in society" or else she does not. In the former case she is constantly attended by a chaperone. In the latter case she is merely a young person, a working girl, for whom "society" makes no laws. In our country there is a leisure class of "society women," so recognized. If these alone constituted good society in America, we might simply adopt the European distinctions, and settle the chaperone question by a particular affirmative referring to these alone. But we reflect that our thoughts throughout this little volume are mainly for those who dwell within the broad zone of the average heretofore referred to. In this republican land no one can say that the bounds of good society lie arbitrarily here and there; certainly they are not marked by a line drawn between occupation and leisure. The same young girl--after leaving school, at the period when society life begins--may be "in society" during leisure hours and in business during working hours. It is accounted perfectly lady-like and praiseworthy for a young woman, well born and bred, to support herself by some remunerative employment that holds her to "business hours." She may be a teacher, an artist, a scribe, an editor, a stenographer, a book-keeper--what may she _not_ do, with talent, training, and good sense? And she may do this without being one iota less a lady--_if she is one to begin with_.

Now appears the complication. As a business woman, the self-reliant young girl does not need a chaperone. As a society woman, this inexperienced, sensitive, human-nature-trusting child _does_ need a chaperone. She is, therefore, subject to what we may call intermittent chaperonage. Business, definite, serious occupation of any kind, is a coat of mail. The woman or girl who is plainly absorbed in some earnest and dignified _work_ is shielded from misinterpretation or impertinent intrusion while engaged in that work. She may go unattended to and from her place of business, for her destination is understood, and her purpose legitimate. She needs no guardian, for her capacity to take care of herself _under these conditions_, is demonstrated to a respectful public. The spectacle of a stately middle-aged woman accompanying each girl book-keeper to her desk every morning would be burlesque in the extreme. The girl who is thus allowed to go alone to an office in business hours, sometimes thinks it absurd for any one to say that she must not go alone to a drawing-room, and she _does_ go alone. Right here this independent girl makes a mistake. It is granted that the girl with brains and principle to bear herself discreetly during office hours is probably able--in the abstract--to exercise the same good sense at a party.