Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

The requirements of Archery are these: First, a bow; secondly, arrows; thirdly, a quiver, pouch, and belt; fourthly, a grease-pot, an arm-guard or brace, a shooting glove, a target, and a scoring card.

The bow is the most important article in archery, and also the most expensive. It is usually from five to six feet in length, made of a single piece of yew, or of lance-wood and hickory glued together back to back. The former is best for gentlemen, the latter for ladies, as it is better adapted for the short, sharp pull of the feminine arm. The wood is gradually tapered, and at each end is a tip of horn, the one from the upper end being longer than the other or lower one. The strength of bows is marked in pounds, varying from twenty-five to thirty pounds. Ladies’ bows are from twenty-five to forty pounds in strength, and those of gentlemen from fifty to eighty pounds. One side of the bow is flat, called its “back”; the other is rounded, called the “belly.” Nearly in the middle, where the hand should take hold, it is lapped round with velvet, and that part is called the “handle.” In each of the tips of horns is a notch for the string, called the “nock.”

Bow-strings are made of hemp or flax--the former being the better material; for though at first they stretch more, yet they wear longer and stand a harder pull, as well as being more elastic in the shooting. In applying a fresh string to a bow, be careful in opening it not to break the composition that is on it. Cut the tie, take hold of the eye, which will be found ready worked at one end, let the other part hang down, and pass the eye over the upper end of the bow. If for a lady, it may be held from two to two and a half inches below the nock; if for a gentleman, half an inch lower, varying it according to the length and strength of the bow. Then run your hand along the side of the bow and string to the bottom nock. Turn it round that, and fix it by the noose, called the “timber noose,” taking care not to untwist the string in making it. This noose is simply a turn-back and twist without a knot. When strung, a lady’s bow will have the string about five inches from the belly, and a gentleman’s about half an inch more. The part opposite the handle is bound round with waxed silk, in order to prevent its being frayed by the arrow. As soon as a string becomes too soft and the fibers too straight, rub it with beeswax, and give it a few turns in the proper direction, so as to shorten it, and twist its strands a little tighter. A spare string should always be provided by the shooter.

The arrows are differently shaped by various makers, some being of uniform thickness throughout, while others are protuberant in the middle; some, again, are larger at the point than at the feather-end. They are generally made of white deal, with points of iron or brass riveted on; but generally having a piece of heavy wood spliced on to the deal between it and the point, by which their flight is improved. At the other end a piece of horn is inserted in which is a notch for the string. They are armed with three feathers, glued on, one of which is of a different color from the others, and is intended to mark the proper position of the arrow when placed on the string, this one always pointing from the bow. These feathers properly applied give a rotary motion to the arrow which causes its flight to be straight. They are generally from the wing of the turkey or the goose. The length and weight of the arrows vary, the latter (in England) being marked in sterling silver coin, and stamped on the arrow in plain figures. It is usual to paint a crest or a monogram or distinguishing rings on the arrow just below the feathers, by which they may be known in shooting at the target.

The quiver is merely a tin case painted green, intended for the security of the arrows when not in use. The pouch and belt are worn round the waist, the latter containing those arrows which are actually being shot. A pot to hold grease for touching the glove and string, and a tassel to wipe the arrows, are hung at the belt. The grease is composed of beef-suet and wax melted together. The arm is protected from the blow of the string by the brace, a broad guard of strong leather buckled on by two straps. A shooting glove, also of thin tubes of leather, is attached to the wrist by three flat pieces ending in a circular strap buckled round it. This glove prevents that soreness of the fingers which soon comes on after using the bow without it.

The target consists of a circular mat of straw, covered with canvas painted in a series of circles. It is usually from three feet six inches to four feet in diameter. The middle is about six or eight inches in diameter, gilt, and called the “gold”; the next is called the “red,” after which comes the “inner white,” then the “black,” and finally the “outer white.” These targets are mounted on triangular stands at distances apart of from fifty to a hundred yards--sixty being the usual shooting distance.

A scoring card is provided with columns for each color, which are marked with a pin. The usual score for a gold hit or the bull’s-eye is 9; the red, 7; inner white, 6; black, 3; and outer white, 1.

To bend the bow properly the bow should be taken by the handle in the right hand. Place one end on the ground, resting in the hollow of the right foot, keeping the flat side of the bow, called the back, toward your person. The left foot should be advanced a little, and the right placed so that the bow can not slip sideways. Place the heel of the left hand upon the upper limb of the bow, below the eye of the string. Now, while the fingers and thumb of the left hand slide this eye toward the notch in the horn, and the heel pushes the limb away from the body, the right hand pulls the handle toward the person, and thus resists the action of the left, by which the bow is bent; and at the same time the string is slipped into the nock, as the notch is termed. Take care to keep the three outer fingers free from the string, for if the bow should slip from the hand, and the string catch them, they will be severely pinched. If shooting in frosty weather, warm the bow before the fire, or by friction with a woolen cloth. If the bow has been lying by for a long time, it should be well rubbed with boiled linseed-oil before using it.

To unstring the bow, hold it as in stringing, then press down the upper limb exactly as before, and as if you wished to place the eye of the string in a higher notch. This will loosen the string and liberate the eye, when it must be lifted out of the nock by the forefinger, and suffered to slip down the limb.

Before using the bow, hold it in a perpendicular direction with the string toward you, and see if the line of the string cuts the middle of the bow. If not, shift the eye and noose of the string to either side, so as to make the two lines coincide. This precaution prevents a very common cause of defective shooting, which is the result of an uneven string throwing the arrow on one side. After using it, unstring it; and at a large shooting party, unloose your bow after every round. Some bows get bent into very unmanageable shapes.

The general management of the bow should be on the principle that damp injures it, and that any loose floating ends interfere with its shooting. It should, therefore, be kept well varnished, and in a waterproof case, and it should be carefully dried after shooting in damp weather. If there are any ends hanging from the string, cut them off close, and see that the whipping in the middle of the string is close and well fitting. The case should be hung up against a dry internal wall, not too near the fire. In selecting your bow, be careful that it is not too strong for your power, and that you can draw the arrow to its head without any trembling of the hand. If this can not be done after a little practice, the bow should be changed for a weaker one. For no arrow will go true if it is discharged by a trembling hand.

If an arrow has been shot into the target or the ground, be particularly careful to withdraw it by laying hold close to its head, and by twisting it round as it is withdrawn in the direction of its axis. Without this precaution it may be easily bent or broken.

In shooting at the target, the first thing is to nock the arrow; that is, to place it properly on the string. In order to effect this; take the bow in the left hand, with the string toward you, the upper limb being toward the right. Hold it horizontally while you take the arrow by the middle, pass it on the under side of the string and the upper side of the bow, till the head reaches two or three inches past the left hand. Hold it there with the forefinger or thumb while you remove the right hand down to the nock. Turn the arrow till the cock-feather comes uppermost, then pass it down the bow, and fix it on the nocking part of the string. In doing this, all contact with the feathers should be avoided, unless they are rubbed out of place, when they may be smoothed down by passing them through the hand.

The body should be at right angles with the target, but the face must be turned over the left shoulder, so as to be opposed to it. The feet are to be flat on the ground, with the heels a little apart, the left foot turned toward the mark. The head and chest inclined a little forward, so as to present a full bust, but not bent at all below the waist.

Draw the arrow to the full length of the arm till the hand touches the shoulder, then take aim. The loosing should be quick, and the string must leave the fingers smartly and steadily. The bow-hand must be as firm as a vice--no trembling allowed.

The rules of an Archery Club are usually these:

That a “Lady Paramount” be annually elected.

That there be a President, Secretary, and Treasurer.

That all members intending to shoot shall appear in the uniform of the club. That a fine shall be imposed for non-attendance.

That the Secretary shall send out cards at least a month before each day of meeting, acquainting the members with place and hour of meeting.

That there shall be four prizes for each meeting--two for each sex; the first for numbers, the second for hits; and that no person shall be allowed to have both on the same day. A certain sum of money is voted to the Lady Paramount for prizes for each meeting.

That in case of a tie for hits, numbers shall decide; and in case of a tie for numbers, hits shall decide.

That the decision of the Lady Paramount shall be final.

That there shall be a challenge prize of the value of ---- dollars, and that a commemorative ornament be presented to winners of the challenge prize.

That the distance for shooting be sixty or one hundred yards, and that five-feet targets be used.

The dress of the club to be decided by the Lady Paramount.

The expenses of archery are not great--about the same as lawn tennis--although a great many arrows are lost in the course of the season. Bows and other paraphernalia last a long time. Sides are chosen as at lawn tennis, and the game grows on one. The lady archers are apt to feel a little lame after the first two or three essays, but they should practice a short time every morning, and always in a loose waist or jacket. It will be found a very healthy and strengthening pastime.

We must not judge of the merits of ancient bowmen from the practice of archery in the present day. There are no such distances now assigned for the marks as we find mentioned in old histories or poetic legends, nor such precision, even at short lengths, in the direction of the arrow.

“The stranger he made no mickle ado,
But he bent a right good bow,
And the fattest of all the herd he slew,
Forty good yards him fro;
_‘Well shot, well shot,’ quoth Robin Hood_.”

Few, if any, modern archers in long shooting reach four hundred yards, or in shooting at a mark exceed eighty or a hundred. But archery has been since the invention of gunpowder only followed for pastime. It is decidedly the most graceful game which can be practiced, and the legends of Sherwood Forest, of Robin Hood, Maid Marian, Little John, Friar Tuck, and the Abbot carry us into the fragrant heart of the forest, and bring back memories which are agreeable to all people who have in them a drop of Saxon blood.

XVIII.

AMUSEMENTS FOR THE MIDDLE-AGED AND THE AGED.

We can not but notice, as people go on in life--when, as Lord Mansfield said, “The absence of pain is pleasure, just as in youth the absence of pleasure is pain”--that the quiet corner by the fire, or the seat at the library-table with the shaded lamp, and a quiet game or two when reading has fatigued the eyes, becomes almost necessary.

Of all the means of cheating a succession of dull evenings of their tedium, perhaps that little invention called a “Solitaire” board--which is simply a board pierced with thirty-seven holes, which are nearly filled with thirty-six pegs--has proved itself the most eminently successful. It was invented, it is said, by a French Jesuit, in Canada, to help him through the long Canadian winter evenings, and it has proved to be a boon to mankind.

One peg takes another when it can leap over into an empty hole. To get all off but one peg is nearly impossible, but it can be done.

Then comes “Merelles,” or “Nine Men’s Morris,” which can be played on a board, or on the ground, but which finds itself reduced even to a parlor game. This, however, takes two players.

“American Bagatelle,” which can be played alone, or with an antagonist; Chinese puzzles, which are infinitely amusing; and all the great family of the sphinx known as puzzles--are of infinite service to the retired, quiet, lonely people for whom the active business of life is at an end. The guessing of arithmetical puzzles, the solution of enigmas, and the solution of a paradox--these amuse many an evening.

We may give one of these old things as an example. It is called “The Blind Abbot and his Monks,” and is played with counters. Arrange eight external cells of a square so that there may always be nine in each row, though the whole number may vary from eighteen to thirty-six.

A convent in which there were nine cells was occupied by a blind abbot and twenty-four monks, the abbot lodging in the center cell, and the monks in the side cells, three in each, giving a row of nine persons on each side of the building. The abbot, suspecting the fidelity of his brethren, often went out at night and counted them, and when he found nine in each row the old man counted his beads, said an Ave! and went to bed contented. The monks, taking advantage of his failing sight, contrived to deceive him, so that four could go out nightly, yet leave nine in a row. How did they do it?

The next night, emboldened by success, the monks returned with four visitors and then arranged them nine in a row. The next night they brought in four more belated brethren, and again arranged them nine in a row; and again four more. Finally, when the twelve clandestine brothers had departed, and six monks with them, the remainder deceived the abbot again by presenting a row of nine. Try it with the counters, and see how they so abused the privileges of a conventual seclusion.

Then try quibbles--“How can I get wine out of a bottle if I have no corkscrew, and must not break the glass or make any hole in it or the cork?”

The telling of a good story well should be encouraged. The _raconteur_ can be the most delightful of all household blessings. A mother who can tell a story well by the nursery fire is a potent force; and the one who will light up the winter evening by telling stories of adventures--the simplest every-day ones in the street--the little journey, even the round of shopping, becomes very much of a treasure. Some ladies commit to memory the stories of Hans Christian Andersen; Grimm, the fairy-story maker; Charles Kingsley’s short stories, Ouida’s “A Dog of Flanders,” or the poems of Dr. Holmes, or some other benefactor of mankind, and tell these stories and poems in a sort of unpremeditated way by the library-table. This is a charming accomplishment. Some people have the gift of improvising, and will tell a very good bit of ghost story in a very gruesome manner for the entertainment of those who enjoy the night side of nature.

But this talent should never be abused. The man who in cold blood fires off a long poetical quotation at a dinner, or makes a speech in defiance of the goose-flesh which is creeping down his neighbors’ backs, is a traitor to honor and religion, and he deserves the death of a Nihilist. It is only when these extempore talents can be used without alarming people that they are useful or endurable.

We might make our Christmas holidays a little more gay in this country. We might read and study up all the old English and the German customs, beyond the mistletoe, the tree, and the rather faded legend of Santa Claus. There are worlds of legendary lore which would help us to make this time-honored festival even more lively and gay and amusing than it is. We have not yet reached the English jollity at Christmas.

The supper-table has, as an American home festival, rather fallen into desuetude. We sup out, but rarely have that informal and delightful meal which once wound up every evening devoted to Home Amusement. Mrs. Elizabeth Montague, in her delightful letters, talks about the “whisk and the quadrille parties with a light supper” which amused the ladies of her day. We still have the “whisk,” but what has become of lansquenet, quadrille, basset, and piquet, those pretty and courtly games?

Playing-cards made their way through Arabia from India to Europe, where they first arrived about the year 1370. They carried with them the two arts, engraving and painting. They were the _avants coureurs_ of engraving on wood and metal, and of printing.

Cards early began to be the luxuries of kings and queens, the necessity of the gambler, and the consolation of those who innocently like games. Piquet, a courtly game, was invented by Étienne Vignoles, called _La Hire_, one of the most active soldiers of the reign of Charles VII. This brave soldier was an accomplished chevalier, deeply imbued with a reverence for the manners and customs of chivalry. Cards continued from this time to follow the whim of the court and to assume the character of the period through the regency of Marie de Medicis, in the time of Anne of Austria and of Louis XIV. The Germans are the first people who essayed to make a pack of cards assume the form of a scholastic treatise. The king, queen, knight, and _knave_ tell of English manners, customs, and nomenclature.

XIX.

THE PARLOR.

That is a poorly-furnished parlor, think some people, which has not a chess-table in one corner, a whist-table in the middle, and a little solitaire-table at the other end near the fire, for grandma. People who are fond of games stock their table drawers with cribbage boards and backgammon, cards of every variety, bézique counters and packs, and the red and white champions of the hard-fought battlefield of chess.

Mrs. Frances Anne Kemble, one of the most gifted of women--whose recollections would, one would think, be the most attractive book which one could read--is devoted to card solitaire. Every evening she describes herself as spending an hour or two over these combinations. This is not to be confused with the game of peg solitaire.

Whist! Who shall pretend to describe its attractions? What a relief it is to the tired man of business who has been fighting the world all day, to the woman who has no longer any part in the gay and glittering pageant of society! What pleasure in its regulated, shifting fortunes! We all have seen that holding the cards--even the highest ones--does not always win the game. We have noticed that with a poor hand somebody wins fame, success, happiness. We feel the injustice of that long suit which has baffled our best endeavors. Whist is a parody on life; we play our own experience over again in its faithless kings and queens. The knave is apt to trip us up on the green cloth as on the street. We are simply playing the real over in shadow.

The great passion for gambling is no doubt behind even the game of Boston, played for beans. We all like to accumulate, to believe that we are Fortune’s favorite. What matter if it be only a few more beans than one’s neighbor? The principle remains the same.

So long as cards do not lead to gambling, they are innocent enough. Indeed, they are a priceless boon to eyes which can no longer see to read; to those who must get rid of time; to those who are ill, weary, or unfortunate. We always wonder at seeing the young take to them; it seems as if they could do so much better; but the sight of a parlor, warm, well lighted, with its games going on in every corner, is not a disagreeable one. Especially should the young ladies of the family look to this arrangement, and see that everything is comfortable for papa’s game of whist, bézique, or cribbage. They do not know how great a necessity it may be to him--what a relief, what a consolation!

As for Chess, the devotee of this heavy, remorseless game has no further need of our help or sympathy. To any one who likes to puzzle his brain over the fantastic skips of the Knight or the prodigious descent of the Castle, we can offer no suggestions except that he may be left undisturbed.

As for Music, one can hardly say anything which has not been said about its transcendent powers in assisting at every Home Amusement. The family circle which has learned three or four instruments, the brothers who can sing part songs, are to be envied. They can never suffer from a dull evening. Even the musical absurdities of Kindergarten choruses are to be commended, and the German mimicry of all the instruments. What a blessing to a family is the man who can sing comic songs, and who also does not sing them too often!

It is well, where it can be done easily, to allow young boys to sing in church choirs; to train their voices, and be with musical people; to learn choruses, chants, etc. In that way Arthur Sullivan began, that benefactor of his species, the author of “Pinafore.” What has _not_ “Pinafore” done to help along the musical education of our young people? How it has been sung in country towns! How church choirs have taken it up! How popular, innocent, sweet it is!

Now, in our musical home training we may not make an Arthur Sullivan, but we shall certainly add to the sum of innocent enjoyment; and it is a delightful fact that if there are six or seven children in a family, one of them is apt to have a good voice, one a talent for the piano, and generally all can be taught to play and sing a little. Sometimes there are rarely gifted, great musical organizations in all the sons and daughters, which is a supreme blessing. For there is not only Home Amusement in it, but a certainty of making a good living, if fortune frowns and makes work necessary.

The only deep shadow to the musical picture is the necessity of practicing, which is _not_ a Home Amusement; it is a home torture. If only a person could learn to play or sing without those dreadful first noises and those hideous shrieks! But, since these are not to be avoided, some one in the family must have the tact to arrange them well, and to have the hours of the various students so placed that there need not be a perpetual tinkle-tinkle, or something worse.

The season of early spring and summer! Oh! what sounds come through the first open casement! How dreadful is that _appoggiatura_! how fearful that badly-played waltz! Is it possible that yon violinist will ever be Maurice Dengrémont? And yet it is by these hard chromatic steps that all have mounted the heavenly stairs of melody.

No young lady should sing in public--that is, before a party of friends--until she can sing _well_. In these days, when amateur cultivation has reached a high point, let everybody say to herself, “Am I sufficiently advanced to give pleasure by my singing?” and let her modestly abstain from singing if she finds that, after hearing her once, her friends do not press her to sing again. There is, perhaps, nothing so foolish as for a woman to persist in singing in her own parlor when she is not a thoroughly good vocalist. No one can get away from her there. They must suffer. Still, if birds _can_ sing, they should sing. Nothing is more disagreeable than to have to urge a person to sing. The possessor of a voice is always a very rare and much to be envied person, and a certain amiability in singing becomes such a person very much.

All young ladies who have been taught the piano should have some pieces learned, and be able to play for the amusement of the home circle. Especially should they be able to play for dancing. A few waltzes are very convenient. They often help off a dull evening wonderfully. The person who plays should be willing occasionally to be made use of. Are we not all made use of at times? Is not the good talker in perpetual request? The _raconteuse_--is she not begged to tell that story over and over again? Does not the wit find himself invited out to dinner to amuse the company? And are they not all, if amiable, glad to perform their part? Surely the pianist should be as amiable!

Reading aloud is one of the most common of Home Amusements, and one of the best. It is a pity, however, that our women, especially, do not cultivate elocution a little, so that they may read aloud intelligently. There is no prettier accomplishment. A lady at a watering-place, who can read a poem or story well, is always surrounded. The sweet voice, the correct accent, the air of intelligence--all give the author a great help, and Longfellow never wrote a prettier stanza than this:

“Then read from the favored volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The music of thy voice.”

But, when the favored volume and the poem have to be filtered through a nasal accent and an uneducated drawl, we feel that the poet has been vilified, and his gold and silver turns to dross. Every woman especially should remember the fable of the girl whose lips dropped pearls and diamonds, who was so much more agreeable as a friend and acquaintance than that other damsel whose lips dropped toads and vipers. The latter, evidently, had never taken lessons in elocution.

We have a certain national vice in pronunciation and in accent which we ought to correct. A moment’s listening to the English accent will soon teach us to pronounce with a more melodious finish. We need not hug ourselves with any vainglorious national conceit. We do _not_ speak as well as our English cousins.

XX.

THE KITCHEN.

We began at the garret, and we are now at the kitchen. So our readers may learn that we are on the home-stretch, and shall be through very soon. If we have wearied them, let them bear with us but a little longer, and then, on our faithful steed, whom they shall find at the kitchen door, they shall ride off and never be troubled with us any more.

A model kitchen is every housekeeper’s delight. In these days of tiles and modern improvement, what pretty things kitchens are!

The modern dairy, with its upright milk-pans, in which the cream is marked off by a neat little thermometer; the fire-brick floor; the exquisite range, with its polished _batterie de cuisine_; every brilliant brass saucepan, seeming to say, “Come and cook in me”; every porcelain-lined pan urging upon one the necessity of stewing nectarines in white sugar; every bright can suggesting the word “conserve,” which always makes the mouth water; every clatter of the skewers, saying, “Dainty dishes, dainty dishes, come and make me! Come and make me!” All this is quite fascinating to an amateur.

No pretty woman--did she but know it--is ever half so pretty as when she is playing cook. The clean, white apron, the neat, short cambric dress, the little cap, the fair bare arms--does the reader remember Ruth Pinch and the beefsteak-pie? A lady should make the desserts in summer sometimes. Such ice-cream, such glorified Charlotte Russe, such cakes, such delicate apple-pies, such creams and jellies as fall from a lady’s fingers--these are ambrosial food!

There is among certain women a great passion for the cleanly part of household work. The love of a dairy has grown to be a favorite task with many a duchess. In our country, where ladies are compelled to put a hand, perhaps once too often, to the household work, owing to the inefficiency of the servants, this is _not_ ordinarily considered the most thoroughly amusing of Home Amusements. To cook a heavy dinner in warm weather, to wash dishes afterward--this is sober prose, and by a very dull author. But the poetry of house-work, the rose hue o’er our russet cares--this can be classed as a Home Amusement.

In the early morning we can imagine a lady going into her neat kitchen to prepare the desserts for the day, and finding it very agreeable. She will set her well-flavored custard away in the ice-chest with a serene knowledge of how good it will be at dinner, and place her compote of pears securely on a high shelf, away from that ubiquitous visitor the cat, who has in most families so remarkable and irrepressible an appetite. She can take a turn at the milk-pan, and skim off the cream herself if she pleases. It will be much thicker if she does. It is a not unpleasant duty to steal into the kitchen ten minutes before dinner, to see to it that the roast birds are garnished with watercresses, that the vegetables are properly prepared, that the silver dishes are without a smear. All this sort of attention makes good servants, and very good dinners.

It is often one of the Home Amusements for a party of girls to try their hand at clear-starching. Statira, indeed, does not like this; but they should learn to flute their own ruffles. Who knows but they may marry an army officer, and go to Nebraska?

All sorts of fine washing and ironing, all sorts of doing up of lace, of renovating old silks, etc., may be made into Home Amusements, if done cheerfully, and in the right spirit. The modern embroidery requiring pressing, the many modern accomplishments of lace-making, _appliqué_, etc., lead a young lady into the kitchen, and she can derive a vast deal of amusement from this room, if she chooses.

One of the holiest of duties is to learn how to cook for the sick. This requires a great deal of patient talent, and it is a sufficient reward if we can see the beloved convalescent tasting our arrowroot and sago, and good beef-tea and jelly, with approbation.

Among Home Amusements, how many reckon the jolly party assembled to make the wedding-cake? Susan and Sarah shall stone the raisins, Charlotte and Clara shall beat the eggs, Louisa shall slice the citron, Matilda, who has a judicial mind, shall weigh! Then all shall stir, and who shall be the one to get the ring?

The baking is momentous. Mamma had better be consulted here. And then the great question of the icing! Oh! how anxious! The mince-pies require another season of deep thought and much very stringent stirring. The excellent brandy, the dash of orange curaçoa, must be poured out by the lady, else why is it that ever after the mince-pie seems to lack that inspiriting and hidden fire? We read that there is many a slip between the cup and the lip!

The modern elegant devices by which strawberries, violets, and orange-blossoms are candied in sugar, effect a Home Amusement for dainty-fingered girls; and since the establishment in Boston of a cooking club, at which each young lady is to contribute some article of her own cooking, we see signs of a revival in all branches of the great art of cookery which is most encouraging. It was a notable old maxim among Puritan mothers that every wife should know how to make bread, and, perhaps, it has not died out yet.

Looking at the subject broadly, every thoroughly accomplished woman should know how to do everything, from making a soup up to a cup of tea--the Alpha and the Omega of cookery.

In the matter of flavoring, the colored race have us at a great disadvantage. Any old colored cook can distance her white “Missus” here. This highly-gifted race seem to have a sixth sense on the subject of flavors. The rich tropical nature breaks out in reminiscences of orange-blossoms, pineapple, guava, cocoanut, and Mandarin orange. Never can the descendants of the poor, half-starved, frozen exiles of Plymouth Rock hope to achieve such custards and puddings as these Ethiops turn out. And as to the juicyness of their fried oysters and their inimitable terrapin, who has ever approached them? It is as if a luxurious and tasteful, beneficent power had left us, when we were given what we proudly call a “higher intelligence.” Who would not exchange all the cold mathematical supremacy in which we glory for that luscious gift of making pies and puddings _à ravir_?

XXI.

THE FAMILY HORSE, AND OTHER PETS.

Standing at the kitchen door, all ready for the most timorous to drive, is the most important minister to the Home Amusements--the family horse. He is a beast of burden, no doubt. There is but little Arab steed left in him, if, indeed, there ever was much. He is a plodder, a patient, much put-upon beast. The boys can harness him, the girls can drive him. He is allowed to take out grandma--when she consents to be driven, and isn’t afraid of the railroad train, and does not think that it is going to rain. The baby, when he takes his first adventurous journey down the village street, is put in state and in blankets behind the family horse. No one is afraid of Blossom. No one likes to whip him, because if he were whipped, what antics he might give way to!

Blossom is an exceedingly inappropriate name. Dried Leaf would be far more descriptive. Still Blossom is adhered to, because the suggestion that he was once young, and that really he is frisky, in his silent way, is still a delightful legend in the family.

Blossom, who is an intelligent old beast, knows perfectly well how utterly weak and imbecile the whole family are about him. So he will never do anything but walk and trot very gently, because he knows that no one dares to whip him. Once a young cousin, who had none of the family reverence for Blossom, did give him a few cuts on his exceedingly smooth, fat sides. Blossom had the presence of mind to stand up on his hind legs, frightening mamma nearly to death; and she mentioned, in Blossom’s hearing, that “he never was to be whipped again, because he really had a great deal of fire in him, and would not brook whip or spur!”

“I remember, dear,” she says, “your father says that he heard, when he bought him, that he came of very proud stock.”

It has been noticed that when papa wishes to catch the train Blossom can go as fast as anybody.

Blossom is a great pet, and he has that instinct of a good family horse--he stops when anything is wrong. Once, when the harness broke, Blossom, instead of running, stopped short, and saved the lives of the whole family. He has a quick ear for a coming railway train, and never has balked going up hill. The girls feed him with sugar, and take their first ride on his dear, safe, hard old back. The boys have had imaginary jousts with neighboring knights, urging him in the lists. He has been put through all the sports of the middle ages, has Blossom, and probably he distrusts the institution of chivalry. Still, he likes the boys, and does all that a phlegmatic temperament and an indomitable laziness will allow in the way of a spirited and impulsive charge.

There _are_ persons whom Blossom dislikes; one is the spinster sister, Miss Caroline, who drives him with many a whirrup, and “get up,” and “g’lang,” and has a nervous twitch to her hand, and a distrustful and uncertain temper with the whip. Miss Caroline nags Blossom, as she has nagged everything and everybody all her life, and Blossom resents her absence of repose and confidence by starting wildly to right and left as he goes down the village street, appearing to make for a distant fence when she is endeavoring to guide his nose toward the gate of the parsonage. Indeed, the village wit says that if he sees only the back of the family carriage he can tell that Miss Caroline is driving, as he watches that respected vehicle describing parabolas and angles as it wobbles down the street.

When mamma drives, Blossom goes in a slow, stately, but dignified manner, and, although he imposes upon her good-nature, and does not put forth any mile-in-three-minutes style, yet he shows a due respect for himself and her. When the girls drive him, he, feeling through the reins a little of the ichor of their young blood, becomes almost vivacious, and goes almost half as fast as he can go. When papa drives, he feels a strong hand behind him, and actually gets there.

Every family should have as many animals as possible. Dogs of every breed and variety--especially big ones, and good ones, like mastiffs and Newfoundlands, and a few little ones to play with. Cats and kittens, if they like them, rabbits, goats, pigeons, lambs, peacocks, etc., and as much live-stock as can be accommodated about the place should be there. These four-footed friends, especially dogs, are indispensable in the country. What attachments one forms for them! How dreary the hour when they die! Perhaps, then, we wish that they had not been so intimate, so dear, so loving, so trustful. The walk, the ramble, the quiet seat on the piazza--all, all must be endeared by the silent friendship of the dogs.

There is sometimes a want of harmony among the pets. Carlo must be shut up while Flirt is at large, and the parrot must be kept away from the pigeons. The parrot can take care of herself as to the cats; but how about the canaries and the blackcap? Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, and the only safety of slavery.

And yet these enforced duties: do they not fit the boys for the cares of government? Do they not tell the future politician what he is to do? Are they not, after all, a part of that great education which Home, and only Home, can give us?

We shall have few friends so faithful as Blossom, few who will impose upon us so gently, and who will really impose upon us to our advantage. We shall have few such friends as Carlo and Flirt, who love us, faults and all; who never ask what wrong we have committed, or how unworthy we are, but who are, without doubt, the most flattering of worshipers, loving us simply because we are _ourselves_. How few love us for that, and that alone!

XXII.

IN CONCLUSION.

In looking over our list of Home Amusements--the private theatricals, the tableaux vivants, the brain games, the fortune-telling, the making of screens, the painting of fans, etc.; the games at cards, the etching, the lawn tennis, the dancing, the garden party, the window gardens, the birds, the picnics, the plaque-painting, the archery, the parlor and the kitchen--we can only feel how much we have left out. Why have we not spoken more fully of the library, with its quiet and respectable arm-chairs, its green table, its shelves filled with those silent friends who never desert us, its paper-cutter, its wood-fire, its latest magazine, its quiet, and the heavy curtain dropped at evening? How did we happen to so slight this delightful room, wherein so many of the best amusements of home are always arranging themselves? Perhaps because the story told itself, and we did not need to tell it.

How could we have forgotten the quest for green apples and choke-cherries in the spring, or the subsequent repentance? the bird-snaring and nesting? and in summer the search for wild flowers? the attempts at making an herbarium? the berry-picking? the nutting in the fall? that cracking of butternuts by the winter fire? that arrangement of the autumn-leaves?

Simply because the record of Home Amusements is endless. It is almost all of life which is worth remembering.

But we can not leave the reader here, particularly if that kindly personage be a young lady, without congratulating her upon the age in which she exists. She finds vastly more to amuse her in her home-life than her mother or her grandmother did before her. They were content to receive once a month “The Lady’s Book,” with a few hints as to lace-work, worsted-work, patterns for the embroidering of slippers or sofa-cushions. A new suggestion for embroidery on white cambric, or, through a friend in some great mart of fashion, the cut pattern of an article of dress--think of that, ye who get the fashions by telegraph. Dress itself was a crude thing compared to what it is now. There was not even at Newport the slightest approximation to the luxury of to-day. A “London-made” habit, for instance, was almost unknown. There was no “riding to hounds,” no skating rink, no casino; there were quiet dinners, and very many “Germans,” but they were conducted inexpensively, at the hotels almost universally.

Of course, New York and Philadelphia, Boston and Washington, offered an exciting life to the prominent and fashionable women of the day for a few weeks of the season. But the long life at home of the rank and file, the severe winters, during whose rigors the ardent and ambitious and pleasure-loving were shut up for months behind four dreary walls, were not illumined by patterns of artistic fancy-work from South Kensington, or by the delightful knowledge of china painting. No ingenious boy or girl thought of cutting or carving in wood beyond the vulgar whittling, which all good housekeepers condemned. The elderly lady sat about with her knitting--very plain knitting at that. The crochet-needle had not then begun that endless chain which has since united our vast continent in a network of elaborate tidies, and covered our babies with delicate flannel Josies, or given us, for the head and neck, the softest of wraps. The sewing-machine had not begun its prodigious march down our long seams. People did much “plain sewing,” but knew not of artistic curtains made of cheesecloth, or of unbleached muslin elaborated into Roman scarfs--a singular marriage, by the way, of Lowell and its looms with the Eternal City, all of which they know now.

Young ladies had not then been taught to draw and paint artistically, sincerely, as they are taught to-day. The education in music was infinitely less thorough. It was an age when the person who aspired to the accomplishments had much to contend against. There were but few railroads which penetrated to the remote villages; and it must be confessed that life had its dull evenings.

But around the one astral lamp which then shed its uncertain rays upon the family circle there were the same elements of which human society is now composed, and there was one amusement present whose absence we now sometimes have to regret. We refer to that lost art of conversation which has, it would seem, departed from our busy last half of the nineteenth century. Indeed, it has left the whole world, if we can believe Cornelius O’Dowd, Mrs. Stowe, and Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, and even some French writers. Mrs. Stowe, in one of her books of early New England life, referring to the art of conversation, speaks feelingly of the change. Young ladies were driven by the very dullness of their lives to be readers of good books. There were many admirable historical scholars and Shakespeareans among the New England girls of a past generation. They read Milton and John Bunyan, and the early essayists and poets. Their novels had been written for them by Walter Scott and Miss Austen, and they were an education in themselves.

And conversation, such as we do not hear often, lighted up those long winter evenings. Perhaps, too, this very quiet and dullness was helping to forge the armor of some heroine who was to take her part in civilizing the West. Certainly it made some great women. However, as we take account of what little we may have lost, we are very grateful for all we have gained. Our present civilization rubs out individuality, no doubt. Life is smothered in appliances.

What is called the higher education of women, and the very superior culture now possible, may not have yet made a race of good talkers, but it has undoubtedly made an army of thinkers.

It certainly has helped to fill the country with refined and happy girls, who have no reason to complain of repression. It would seem almost impossible to find now the repressed, morbid, undeveloped, and crushed natures which a gloomy religion and a lingering of Puritan prejudice made almost too common in early New England. Many of those women still live, and have found expression in literature to tell us how devoid their homes were of amusement.

The world is not filled with geniuses, or with those fortunate people who can evolve an amusing life from out of the depths of their inner consciousness. We may, therefore, be very grateful for every innocent amusement. Indeed, we may be very grateful that amateur concerts, little operettas, cantatas, musical clubs, are now common, and that the performers, young ladies of all ranks and classes, are admirably trained in music; that in decorative art industries they are no longer novices, but deserving of the higher name of artist.

All these better developments of the mind and power of each inmate can not but render home interesting, gay, cheerful, happy, blessed.

And all the Home Amusements should be made, or studied to be made, the amusements of the whole.

No pursuit or pleasure can be carried on in the best spirit without being in some measure unselfish if it conduces to the amusement of home. Thus the indulgence of a favorite taste may have the beauty of philanthropy in it, if it is made to help along the cheerfulness of home.

There are some trades which are solitary and exclusive. Authorship is one of these; and perhaps the author is not always a very amusing inmate. But the actor in the private play, the clever and ready wit who makes the charade lively, the musician, the embroideress, the fortune-teller, the good partner at whist, the clever amateur cook, and the artistic member--these can all add to Home Amusements.

THE END.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] This was the invention of a poor poet named Dulot, who found rhymes for other poets.

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