How to Behave: A Pocket Manual of Republican Etiquette, and Guide to Correct Personal Habits by Samuel Roberts Wells (read the beginning after the end novel .txt) 📕

he house of the excellent Squire Scrub was the itinerant's home; and a right sweet, pleasant home it would have been but for a certain unfortunate weakness of the every other way excellent Sister Scrub. The weakness I allude to was, or at least it was suspected to be, the love of praise. Now the good sister was really worthy of high praise, and she often received it; but she had a way of disparaging herself and her performances which some people thought was intended to invite praise. No housewife kept her floors looking so clean and her walls so well whitewashed as she. Every board was scrubbed and scoured till further scrubbing and scouring would have been labor wasted. No one could look on her white ash floor and not admire the polish her industry gave it. The "Squire" was a good provider, and Sister Scrub was an excellent cook; and so their table groaned under a burden of good things on all occasions when good cheer was demanded. And yet you could never enter the house and sit half an hour without being reminded that "Husband held Court yesterday, and she couldn't keep the house decent." If you sat down to eat with them, she was sorry she "hadn't anything fit to eat." She had been scrubbing, or washing, or ironing, or she had been half sick, and she hadn't got such and such things that she ought to have. Nor did it matter how bountiful or how well prepared the repast really was, there was always something deficient, the want of which furnished a text for a disparaging discourse on the occasion. I remember once that we sat down to a table that a king might have been happy to enjoy. There was the light snow-white bread; there were the potatoes reeking in butter; there were chickens swimming in gravy; there were the onions and the turnips, and I was sure Sister Scrub had gratified her ambition for once. We sat down, and a blessing was asked; instantly the good sister began; she was afraid her coffee was too much burned, or that the water had been smoked, or that she hadn't roasted the chicken enough. There ought to have been some salad, and it was too bad that there was nothing nice to offer us.

We, of course, endured those unjustifiable apologies as well as the could, simply remarking that everything was really nice, and proving by our acts that the repast was tempting to our appetites.

I will now introduce another actor to the reader—Elder Blunt, the circuit preacher. Elder Blunt was a good man. His religion was of the most genuine, experimental kind. He was a very plain man. He, like Mr. Wesley, would no more dare to preach a fine sermon than wear a fine coat. He was celebrated for his common-sense way of exhibiting the principles of religion. He would speak just what he thought, and as he felt. He somehow got the name of being an eccentric preacher, as every man, I believe, does who never prevaricates, and always acts and speaks as he thinks. Somehow or other, Elder Blunt had heard of Sister Scrub, and that infirmity of hers, and he resolved to cure her. On his first round he stopped at "Squire Scrub's," as all other itinerants had done before him. John, the young man, took the elder's horse and put him in the stable, and the preacher entered the house. He was shown into the best room, and soon felt very much at home. He expected to hear something in due time disparaging the domestic arrangements, but he heard it sooner than he expected. This time, if Sister Scrub could be credited, her house was all upside down; it wasn't fit to stay in, and she was sadly mortified to be caught in such a plight. The elder looked all around the room, as if to observe the terrible disorder, but he said not a word. By-and-by the dinner was ready, and the elder sat down with the family to a well spread table. Here, again, Sister Scrub found everything faulty; the coffee wasn't fit to drink, and she hadn't anything fit to eat. The elder lifted his dark eye to her face; for a moment he seemed to penetrate her very soul with his austere gaze; then slowly rising from the table, he said, "Brother Scrub, I want my horse immediately; I must leave!"

"Why, Brother Blunt, what is the matter?"

"Matter? Why, sir, your house isn't fit to stay in, and you haven't anything fit to eat or drink, and I won't stay."

Both the "Squire" and his lady were confounded. This was a piece of eccentricity entirely unlooked for. They were stupefied. But the elder was gone. He wouldn't stay in a house not fit to stay in, and where there wasn't anything fit to eat and drink.

Poor Sister Scrub! She wept like a child at her folly. She "knew it would be all over town," she said, "and everybody would be laughing at her." And then, how should she meet the blunt, honest elder again? "She hadn't meant anything by what she had said." Ah! she never thought how wicked it was to say so much that didn't mean anything.

The upshot of the whole matter was, that Sister Scrub "saw herself as others saw her." She ceased making apologies, and became a wiser and better Christian. Elder Blunt always puts up there, always finds everything as it should be, and, with all his eccentricities, is thought by the family the most agreeable, as he is acknowledged by everybody to be the most consistent, of men.—Rev. J. V. Watson.

Mr. Johnson, an English traveler, relates, in his notes on North America, the following story:

"At Boston," he says, "I was told of a gentleman in the neighborhood who, having a farm servant, found him very satisfactory in every respect, except that he invariably came into his employer's room with his hat on.

"'John,' said he to the man one day, 'you always keep your hat on when you come into the room.'

"'Well, sir,' said John, 'and haven't I a right to?'

"'Yes,' was his employer's reply, 'I suppose you have.'

"'Well,' said John, 'if I have a right to, why shouldn't I?'

"This was a poser from one man to another, where all have equal rights. So, after a moment's reflection the gentleman asked:

"'Now, John, what will you take, how much more wages will you ask, to take off your hat whenever you come in?'

"'Well, that requires consideration, I guess,' said the man.

"'Take the thing into consideration, then,' rejoined the employer, 'and let me know to-morrow morning.'

"The morrow comes, and John appears.

"'Well, John, have you considered what additional wages you are to have for taking your hat off?'

"'Well, sir, I guess it's worth a dollar a month.'

"'It's settled, then, John; you shall have another dollar a month.'

"So the gentleman retained a good man, while John's hat was always in his hand when he entered the house."

This story, to one who knows New England, is not altogether incredible. Toward the democratization of this country, yet most incomplete, it will perhaps be one day conceded that the South has contributed ideas, and New England sentiment; while the Great West will have made a partial application of both to the conduct of life. The Yankees are the kindest and the acutest of our people, and the most ungraceful. Nowhere in the world is there so much good feeling, combined with so much rudeness of manner, as in New England. The South, colonized by Cavaliers, retains much of the Cavalier improvidence and careless elegance of manner; and Southerners, like the soil they till, are generous. But the Yankees, descended from austere and Puritanic farmers, and accustomed to wring their subsistence from an unwilling soil, possess the sterling virtues of human nature along with a stiff-jointed awkwardness of manner, and a