Read Ebook: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature Science and Art fifth series no. 127 vol. III June 5 1886 by Various

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Release date: August 19, 2023

Original publication: Edinburgh: William and Robert Chambers, 1853

HOSTESS AND GUEST.

BY MRS POWER O'DONOGHUE.

I have often thought that a few practical hints relative to the preparations for and treatment of a guest who comes to be a member of the household for a while, would not, perhaps, be thrown away upon the general company of readers. I therefore venture to offer these hints in homely fashion, feeling that I am, as it were, treading upon almost new ground, for the matter is one that appears to me to have been, considering its importance, wonderfully little discussed.

Before entering upon my subject, I would wish to say that my observations and advice are not addressed to those heads of families who have large establishments and a numerous staff of servants at command; such, of course, have merely to signify to the housekeeper or upper housemaid that a guest is expected, and give directions that such and such a room be prepared: the green, the yellow, blue, or any other colour, as the case may be. I desire rather to write for those heads of houses who belong to the middle classes, and for ladies who, for lack of means, can afford to keep but one servant, or at the most two.

It may, perhaps, be said that in the former case a visitor ought not to be invited at all; but that is mere nonsense, for there are times and circumstances when such a mark of civility is undoubtedly due, and when it cannot with propriety be avoided; nor need there be any reason, in a properly regulated household, why a guest should not be lodged and entertained quite as comfortably, if less luxuriously, in an unpretentious dwelling as within the lordliest halls. Of course, a great deal must depend upon the style of living to which the visitor is accustomed. It would, for instance, be unwise for a hostess with limited means at her command to undertake the entertaining of a wealthy nabob, who, from being born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, knows nothing of difficulties or struggles with the world, and is in consequence a mere mass of selfish exactitude and caprice. Nor would it be judicious for a person of moderate income to invite a gourmet, who lives to pamper his appetite, and is guilty of such vulgar pomposities as passing the wines beneath his nose before tasting them, in order that he may boast of his knowledge of the various vintages to which they belong. It is likewise unwise for a host or hostess of limited resources to extend an offer of hospitality to a fine lady or gentleman who cannot travel without a maid or valet in attendance upon them. Strange servants are an intolerable nuisance among a household, and it is usual for those who have had experience of them, to declare that they would rather entertain a dozen guests in the dining-room than cater for one in the kitchen or servants' hall.

In the event of a hostess deeming it a necessity--which sometimes occurs--to invite a guest whose household and style of living are to her knowledge superior to her own, she should not be in the least ashamed to confess the fact, or feel in the smallest degree embarrassed about doing so. She should, on the contrary, refer to it--once only--with easy grace, exhibiting no trace of 'awkwardness,' for there is not any shame in being unable to cope with those who are wealthier than ourselves, nor can riches ever weigh against gentility of soul. Were we to ape what we cannot have--to strive after position which we cannot attain--to attempt style that we cannot keep up--to cheat honest tradesmen out of their lawful earnings in order to gratify some expensive taste which we have no right to indulge--then, indeed, might a blush lawfully arise; but there is nothing in upright frugality to make even the most sensitive feel ashamed.

I have said, refer to the matter once only, because I consider it a sign of extreme bad taste to keep perpetually offering apologies to visitors, in the event of things not being quite so grand or imposing as the hostess may desire. How frequently we are put to the pain of listening to such sentences as: 'Do, pray, take some more; although I know it is not so good as you have at home'--'I hope you slept well, though I am afraid you missed your own fine big room,' &c. This display of deferential anxiety cannot be otherwise than painfully embarrassing to a visitor, and looks as though the hostess were either throwing out perpetual hints for compliments upon the excellence of her house and table, or as if she were really uncomfortably conscious of deficiencies which are perhaps noticeable to herself alone. A few words--the briefer the better--spoken to the guest on arrival, or inserted in the note of invitation, are sufficient to answer all purposes: 'You are aware, Miss--or Mr' , 'that our means are not sufficient to admit of any style; but I hope you will be comfortable, and I am sure you will be welcome.'

A hostess of moderate income, such as I am writing for, should always ascertain personally that the bedchamber intended for her guest's use is comfortably arranged and the bed-clothing properly aired. These are things which, if left to the care of the ordinary run of servants, will in most instances be performed in a very slovenly manner. As I intend that these observations shall be of a decidedly practical nature, I shall state plainly my ideas respecting the arrangement of a guest-chamber in an ordinary middle-class house. Ignoring, then, the existence of a family bathroom, the visitor's apartment should be provided with a bath, a large sponge, and a plentiful supply of towels. The first of these should be kept turned up in some spare corner by day, and laid down at night by the chambermaid, with a square of oilcloth or felt underneath, to save the carpet from being wetted; for some persons are very untidy bathers, and make a terrible splashing when they indulge in a 'tub.' The sponge should be kept in a little basket, made to hook on to the lower rail of the towel-stand, which is in every way preferable to keeping it in a bag. Care should be taken that the looking-glass does not, when touched, make a low salaam--the upper end coming down upon the nose of the visitor, while the lower portion departs out of sight! This is very frequently the case in hotels and lodging-houses, and indeed in too many private dwellings also; and it can be so easily rectified by the bestowal of a little care upon the screws, that it is quite wonderful how persons can contentedly go on from month to month propping up the disabled toilet-mirror--or leaving others to do it--with a hairbrush, or pocket-handkerchief, or half a newspaper folded into a pad.

I have occasionally stayed at houses, and very frequently at hotels, where there was no such thing in my room as a wardrobe at all, in any shape or form--not even a shelved press, or a clothes-rack on the wall. This is dire misery, and is an unpardonable omission on the part of those in authority over the management of affairs. It is not by any means a matter of necessity that a costly glass-panelled wardrobe should be provided. Many households cannot afford such; but a neatly painted one is not an extravagance; and in the event of a narrow staircase or doorway preventing ingress to such a piece of furniture, there is an excellent plan for improvising a wardrobe, which I have seen tried with great success. Nail up a substantial clothes-rack in a recess of the room; suspend a brass rod across it, on which are curtains hung on rings, and cover in the top with strong calico, leaving a neat valance of the curtain-stuff, bordered with fringe, to hang over the edge. Any place, in short, which will allow of coats and dresses being hung up, to prevent the creasing which they suffer by folding, and to preserve them from dust, cannot fail to be acceptable to a visitor, when he or she comes to unpack.

Always make sure that the window-blinds are in perfect working order. They are at times too stiff, or too loose, or so much out of gear that if drawn down at night they remain immovable in the morning, and the guest is obliged to dress in semi-darkness. See, also that the windows themselves are properly in order. Every window ought to be made to open both at top and bottom, as this admits of the immediate and thorough ventilation of the room. If, however, through defective carpentering in the first instance, the windows are hermetically sealed at the top--as is too frequently the case in old houses--make certain at all events that the lower sash opens and shuts with ease, and that when closed it does not admit a draught. Above all things, see that means are provided to prevent the shaking of windows in windy weather. Few things are so aggravating to the temper, and at the same time so wearying to the constitution, as being kept awake at night by the ceaseless and monotonous 'bang, bang' of a loose window-sash, which, after all, can be very easily remedied without adopting the old-fashioned method of thrusting a toothbrush handle or rack-comb between the sashes, to act as a sort of wedge. Procure two neat flat pieces of wood, about four inches in length; drill a hole in the centre of each; affix one at each side of the window-frame with a screw, which you must not drive in too closely, but leave sufficient of the head for the wood to revolve or move upon. You will find that by slightly lifting the outer or lower end of the wood, the other end becomes pressed against the edge of the window-sash, which it holds perfectly steady; and that by declining or lowering this outer or lower end, the sash is released from pressure. The plan is an invention of my own; and I must not be considered egotistical for saying that it is an excellent one, as it will silence the noisiest window in an instant of time. A small bar of brass, treated in the same manner as the wood, looks more ornamental, and is of course stronger, where much pressure is desirable. Should there be any aperture or draught, a neat piece of cloth may be nailed along the sash, and will effectually exclude it.

Take especial care that the carpet does not wrinkle about the door, or in any other way prevent its shutting. I have seen some extremely awkward things occur from the neglect of this precaution. A relative of mine, who was of a very neat and systematic disposition, observed upon one occasion that there was a great crease in the carpet of his sitting-room at an hotel where he went to stay; and being of a practical turn of mind, he got out his own little hammer, and with the aid of a tack or two, soon set matters to rights. It happened, however, that the waiter was in the habit of overcoming difficulties by making a rush at the door; and as he followed this plan an hour later, when carrying in a heavy tray, the consequences were disastrous, for the door flew open with the greatest ease, and tray and waiter came tumbling into the room together.

You should make sure, also, that the bolt and lock of the door are in proper order. Many persons cannot sleep easily unless their door is fastened; and it is pleasanter for the hostess to expend a few pence upon the mending of a lock or bolt, than to hear her guest, at dead of night, dragging a heavy box or table, or chest of drawers, or some other unwieldy thing, across the floor of the chamber, to barricade the door against imaginary disturbances.

Ascertain, likewise, that there are night-lights, matches, and a substantial taper left in the room--as also writing materials, pins, hair-pins--if the expected guest be a lady--perfume, and a few amusing magazines or other specimens of light literature, as well as the Book of books; for some persons waken early, and enjoy a brief spell of reading before getting up.

These may perhaps appear very minute details to go into, but believe me the chamber in which they have been thoroughly attended to--no matter how plain and unpretentious it may be--will prove infinitely more comfortable than the most luxuriously furnished room in which they have been overlooked.

It is an excellent plan, in a limited household, to have various matters connected with housekeeping in readiness before the guest arrives. A good supply of fresh table-napkins; a number of knives, forks, and spoons arranged in a sideboard drawer in the dining-room; a few plates and glasses within the locker, in order to obviate the necessity for continually ringing the bell; a supply of sweets made; and a good marketing laid in. Many persons deem this an impossibility in warm weather; but few things are so, if properly managed. There are many kinds of sweets that will keep good for days; even those in the manufacture of which milk has been employed, will not sour if the milk be first boiled and slightly flavoured, or if condensed milk be used in place of fresh. Of course, a great deal depends also upon keeping such things in a perfectly cool atmosphere.

With regard to meat, a joint may be preserved for many days by wrapping it loosely in a fine cloth wrung out of vinegar, and hanging it in a draught of air. If the weather be very warm, the cloth must be remoistened twice, or even thrice a day. Tinned provisions are excellent in summer, and are invaluable in cases of emergency; tongues, curries, and soups being amongst the best of the eatables thus preserved.

A breakfast-table, to be comfortably set, should have a separate tea or coffee equipage for each individual, except in cases where the family is very large; then one may be made to serve for two persons. In like manner, no dinner-table can be said to be properly appointed where there is any handing about of salt-cellars, water-bottles, or other necessaries; nor can there be any excuse for it in these days of cheapness, when very neat little salt-cellars of moulded glass can be had for a penny apiece. I have even seen some as low as half that price and yet quite presentable.

If in the winter-time a visitor comes to stay in your house, inquire early whether he prefers a fire in his bedroom at night, or a hot jar laid into the bed. If the latter, so much the better; it not only economises the coals, but is an immense saving of trouble to the housemaid in the mornings, as she has not then an additional grate to make up.

During the stay of your guest, if a lady, do not suffer her to pay anything towards the expenses of cabs, trains, or laundry, neither to defray the cost of her own concert or theatre tickets. Whilst in your house, she is, or ought to be, a member of your family, and it is not worth while, for the sake of a trifling additional outlay, to do anything which bears upon it the smallest stamp of meanness. If, however, the guest be a gentleman, there may--under certain circumstances--be some little relaxation of the rule; but where a lady is concerned, it cannot be too stringently adhered to.

Opinions vary as to the propriety of inviting a departing visitor to remain longer. The hostess should, I think, be guided by circumstances and surroundings. A lady cannot well press a gentleman to stay, unless he be a special friend or relative, or that it is her husband's desire that he should do so. It is, however, quite usual to ask a lady to extend her visit a few days beyond the time fixed by her for departure. Not to do so would appear in most cases inhospitable, or at all events coldly formal, which amounts to much the same thing. It is an excellent plan, however, when giving an invitation, to name the time that the recipient of it is intended to remain. 'We shall expect you to come to us for a fortnight;' or, 'Stay with us from Monday to Thursday,' will enable the guest to know precisely the limit to which his visit ought to be prolonged.

Make it a rule never to introduce any subject that could be unpleasant or embarrassing to a visitor. Avoid strictly the smallest allusion to household worries, as also questions of politics and religion; and if your household be, unhappily, one in which family jars are at times wont to figure, banish all such entirely out of view, for the time at least, if not for all time, as nothing can possibly be more painful to a guest than witnessing bickerings upon subjects with which he has no sort of sympathy. A visitor, remember, can have but one feeling upon all such dreary occasions: namely, an intense desire to get well out of the way with all convenient speed.

Be careful, also, that your guest shall see nothing of your share of household duties or drudgery, otherwise he, or she, will be made to feel excessively uncomfortable. A hostess who presides over a limited establishment will have many duties to perform, and countless little matters to engage her attention and need her helping hand; but a visitor should not on any account be permitted to witness these things. A well-bred orderly hostess will get her work done quietly and without fuss, nor will she ever exhibit that bustling, anxious demeanour which is the characteristic of so many really kind and otherwise excellent entertainers.

It will not be out of place here to speak a warning word to ladies--mistresses of households--who allow their overwhelming anxiety respecting the success of the dinner preparations to appear on their countenances during the progress of the meal. Which of us is unfamiliar with the flushed face, eager eyes, and look of tortured suspense with which some hostesses regard the carrying in of the various dishes? I am now, of course, speaking of plain, old-fashioned family dinners, where the joints and sweets are laid upon the table. The hostess may be, and probably is, engaged in conversation with the guest who occupies the seat on her right or left hand, as the case may be; but the preoccupied manner, the wandering thoughts, the painful effort at appearing interested in whatever topic may be under discussion, are only too apparent--as are likewise the harassed look if, on the lifting of the covers, anything is discovered to be wrong, and the palpable look of relief if, on the other hand, there seems to be no reasonable ground for apprehension or complaint. All such facial reflexes of the soul can and ought to be avoided. They are frequently the result of nervousness, and are in such cases a misfortune, yet one which is quite curable and capable of being easily overcome. A hostess who cannot preserve her serenity upon even the most crucial occasions, is lacking in one of the most essential qualities of an entertainer. The thoughtless spilling of her best wine, the soiling of her whitest tablecloth, nay, even the smashing of a whole trayful of her best old family china, should not cause one muscle of her countenance to change.

On the other hand, an affected ignorance respecting the contents of the day's bill of fare is at times almost as fatal as the opposite extreme. I was myself present at a dinner-party at which one of the untutored stable-helpers had been brought in, on an emergency, to assist. 'What are these, John?' inquired the languid hostess, as John tremblingly thrust forward a dish of tartlets just under her right elbow. 'I don't know ma'am, raally,' he replied; 'but I think they're tuppence apiece!'

I shall conclude this portion of my subject by remarking, that if a hostess has a lady-visitor in her house and does not keep a carriage, she ought, when the guest is about to depart, to make arrangements that a cab or other vehicle shall be in waiting at the door in good time, to convey the visitor to train, boat, or whatever else may lead to her destination. Gentlemen are usually understood to see after such matters for themselves.

IN ALL SHADES.

BY GRANT ALLEN,

In spite of his vigorous dislike for Tom Dupuy, Harry Noel continued to stop on at Orange Grove for some weeks together, retained there irresistibly by the potent spell of Nora's presence. He couldn't tear himself away from Nora. And Nora, too, though she could never conquer her instinctive prejudice against the dark young Englishman--a prejudice that seemed to be almost ingrained in her very nature--couldn't help feeling on her side, also, that it was very pleasant to have Harry Noel staying in the house with her; he was such a relief and change after Tom Dupuy and the other sugar-growing young gentlemen of Trinidad! He had some other ideas in his head beside vacuum pans and saccharometers and centrifugals; he could talk about something else besides the crop and the cutting and the boiling. Harry was careful not to recur for the present to the subject of their last conversation at Southampton; he left that important issue aside for a while, till Nora had time to make his acquaintance for herself afresh. A year had passed since she came to Trinidad; she might have changed her mind meanwhile. At nineteen or twenty, one's views often undergo a rapid expansion. In any case, it would be best to let her have a little time to get to know him better. In his own heart, Harry Noel had inklings of a certain not wholly unbecoming consciousness that he cut a very decent figure indeed in Nora's eyes, by the side of the awkward, sugar-growing young men of Trinidad.

One afternoon, a week or two later, he was out riding among the plains with Nora, attended behind by the negro groom, when they happened to pass the same corner where he had already met Louis Delgado. The old man was standing there again, cutlass in hand--the cutlass is the common agricultural implement and rural jack-of-all-trades of the West Indies, answering to plough, harrow, hoe, spade, reaping-hook, rake, and pruning-knife in England--and as Nora passed, he dropped her a grudging, half-satirical salutation, something between a bow and a courtesy, as is the primitive custom of the country.

'A very murderous-looking weapon, the thing that fellow's got in his hand,' Harry Noel said, in passing, to his pretty companion as they turned the corner. 'What on earth does he want to do with it, I wonder?'

'Oh, that!' Nora exclaimed carelessly, glancing back at it in an unconcerned fashion. 'That's only a cutlass. All our people work with cutlasses, you know. He's merely going to hoe up the canes with it.'

'Nasty things for the niggers to have in their hands, in case there should ever be any row in the island,' Harry murmured half aloud; for the sight of the wild-looking old man ran strangely in his head, and he couldn't help thinking to himself how much damage could easily be done by a sturdy negro with one of those rude and formidable weapons.

'Yes,' Nora answered with a childish laugh, 'those are just what they always hack us to pieces with, you know, whenever there comes a negro rising. Mr Hawthorn says there's very likely to be one soon. He thinks the negroes are ripe for rebellion. He knows more about them than any one else, you see; and he's thoroughly in the confidence of a great many of them, and he says they're almost all fearfully disaffected. That old man Delgado there, in particular--he's a shocking old man altogether. He hates papa and Tom Dupuy; and I believe if ever he got the chance, he'd cut every one of our throats in cold blood as soon as look at us.'

'I trust to goodness he won't get the chance, then,' Harry ejaculated earnestly. 'He seems a most uncivil, ill-conditioned, independent sort of a fellow altogether. I dropped my whip on the road by chance the very first afternoon I came here, and I asked this same man to pick it up for me; and, would you believe it, the old wretch wouldn't stoop to hand the thing to me; he told me I might just jump off my horse and pick it up for myself, if I wanted to get it! Now, you know, a labourer in England, though he's a white man like one's self, would never have dared to answer me that way. He'd have stooped down and picked it up instinctively, the moment he was asked to by any gentleman.'

'Mr Hawthorn says,' Nora answered, smiling, 'that our negroes here are a great deal more independent, and have a great deal more sense of freedom than English country-people, because they were emancipated straight off all in one day, and were told at once: "Now, from this time forth, you're every bit as free as your masters;" whereas the English peasants, he says, were never regularly emancipated at all, but only slowly and unconsciously came out of serfdom, so that there never was any one day when they felt to themselves that they had become freemen. I'm not quite sure whether that's exactly how he puts it, but I think it is. Anyhow, I know it's a fact that all one's negro women-servants out here are a great deal more independent and saucy than the white maids used to be over in England.'

'Independence,' Harry remarked, cracking his short whip with a sharp snap, 'is a very noble quality, considered in the abstract; but when it comes to taking it in the concrete, I should much prefer for my part not to have it in my own servants.'

Louis Delgado, standing behind, and gazing with a malevolent gleam in his cold dark eyes after the retreating buckra figures, beckoned in silence with his skinny hand to the black groom, who came back immediately and unhesitatingly, as if in prompt obedience to some superior officer.

'You is number forty-tree, I tink,' the old man said, looking at the groom closely. 'Yes, yes, dat's your number. Tell me; you know who is dis buckra from Englan'?'

'Dem callin' him Mistah Noel, sah,' the black groom answered, touching the brim of his hat respectfully.

'Yes, yes, I know him name; I know dat already,' Delgado answered with an impatient gesture. 'But what I want to know is jest dis--can you find out for me from de house-serbants, or anybody up at Orange Grove, where him fader an' him mudder come from? I want to know all about him.'

'Missy Rosina find dat out for me,' the groom answered, grinning broadly. 'Missy Rosina is de young le-ady's waitin'-maid; an' de young le-ady, him tell Rosina pretty well eberyting. Rosina, she is Isaac Pourtal?s' new sweetheart.'

Delgado nodded in instantaneous acquiescence. 'All right, number forty-tree,' he answered, cutting him short carelessly. 'Ride after buckra, an' say no more about it. I get it all out ob him now, surely. I know Missy Rosina well, for true. I gib him de lub of Isaac Pourtal?s wit me obeah, I tellin' you. Send Missy Rosina to me dis ebenin'. I has plenty ting I want to talk about wit her.'

OLD CITY TREES.

It might seem to many, at first sight, almost ludicrous to be directed to search for poetry in that most prosaic of all places, the Old City of London. The busy cry of 'commerce,' which all day long deafens the ear and deadens the finer senses, excludes all thoughts beyond those which tend to the discovery of the state of the various markets--the price of stocks, the rate of exchange at Paris, Berlin, or St Petersburg--the condition, in fact, of all the monetary and mercantile affairs in the world. Yet if these 'toilers' had a moment to spare, and would look around them and reflect, they would find that there are spots in the City which have inspired many a poet.

Starting for a 'walk down Fleet Street,' and entering at the Middle Temple gate, we come upon a scene which has been immortalised by Shakspeare--the scene of the original factions of York and Lancaster. In this garden, Plantagenet says:

'Since you are tongue-tied, and so loath to speak, In dumb significance proclaim your thoughts: Let him that is a true-born gentleman, And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.'

To which Somerset replies:

'Let him that is no coward, nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.'

The fountain's low singing is heard on the wind, Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind: Some to grieve, some to gladden; around them they cast The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past. Away in the distance is heard the vast sound From the streets of the city that compass it round, Like the echo of fountain's or ocean's deep call; Yet the fountain's low singing is heard over all.

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