Part 11 (2/2)
Look at those long-faced Christians coming home from church, says Find-Fault; ”it is enough to make one sick--gloomy, morose-looking beings. I wonder do they think there is any religion in that? The fact is, religion is played out.” Now, Find-Fault _wants_ religion to be played out, so he looks at it always through that pair of spectacles.
If he sees a mistake in that direction, he never thinks, as in other cases, of making reasonable allowance for it. He can understand how really good men may have narrow views of business, or of politics, or of any such secular matters; but if they blunder through narrowness of view on the _religious_ question, he immediately sets them down as hypocrites and pretenders. Now I believe that there is many a ”Worthy the Lamb” being sung heartily in heaven to-day, by those mistaken Christians who thought it right to groan and sigh all the time they were on earth. It is a pity, to be sure, especially in view of such people as Find-Fault, that they had not occasionally given us a cheerful chirp before they went, but ”religion” still lives all the same.
Then Find-Fault is not very consistent, even on his own showing.
”_There's_ a pretty minister for you,” he says, as he comes out of the Rev. Mr. Spring-morning's church; ”there's a pretty minister for you--making his congregation smile during the services! A clergyman shouldn't let himself down that way. It is undignified.” You tell him that the clergyman in question believes in a cheerful religion, and wishes to do away with the long-faced Christianity which brings religion into disrepute with just such people as himself. Finding himself in a corner, he only gives you his stereotyped answer, that ”religion is played out, anyhow.”
Find-Fault isn't a bad man: it only pleases him to be thought so. The other day, in speaking of a man who made great efforts to overcome intemperate habits, and failed, he said, ”Poor fellow! somebody ought to take hold and help him to help himself.” But, mind you, he never thinks of applying the same rule to a church-member for whom Satan, in a moment of weakness, is too strong; no matter how sincere his repentance, he only says, ”_there's your religion again!_”
Not long since, when a man of very bad character was requested by church-members and clergymen to give up his disreputable way of living, Find-Fault said, ”Now just see those Christians taking the bread out of that poor devil's mouth, and expecting him to sustain nature on praying and singing.”
Afterward, when a purse was made up for just such a person, that he might be able to defy want, and the better to struggle for honesty, Find-Fault remarked, sneeringly, ”Reform, indeed! what fellow like that _wouldn't_ reform, even fifty times a year, if the bait of a well-filled purse were put under his nose.”
Now what is the use of talking to a man who applies common sense to every subject but that of religion?--who has no doubt that genuine money is in circulation although he has a counterfeit dollar in his pocket, but still persists in denying the existence of true religion because he sometimes meets a hypocrite. Oh, pshaw! None so blind as they who _wont_ see. None so hard to convince as they who are predetermined _not_ to be convinced, come what will.
Would it not be well for the s.e.xtons of our churches, to take the _creak_ out of their Sunday shoes, by wearing them once or twice on a week-day? Some of the most important points in a clergyman's discourse are often lost through the music of the s.e.xton's shoes. A pair of soft slippers, or easy boots, might be raised on subscription and presented to this functionary. Also, if he would not go out in the vestibule to smoke, during service, it would be a relief to many lovers of pure air. Both these suggestions apply equally well to some of the paris.h.i.+oners.
_AUTOGRAPH-HUNTERS._
If there is an intolerable nuisance, it is your persistent autograph-hunter--your man or woman who keeps a stereotyped formula of compliment on hand, ”their collection not complete without your distinguished name,” &c.; sending it all over the country, to eminent and _notorious_ individuals alike, to swell their precious ”collection,” as they call it. Now, in the outset, I wish to except requests for this purpose from personal friends, to whom it is always a pleasure to say Yes; but to those who torment you from mercenary motives or from mere curiosity, as they would bottle up an odd insect for their shelf, to amuse an idle hour, I confess to little sympathy.
Nay more, I am unprincipled enough, having long been a martyr, always to pocket the stamp they send, and throw the request in the waste-paper basket. I can conceive that invalids, or very young school-boys or girls, might amuse themselves in this manner; but how a sane adult, in the rush and hurry and turmoil of the maelstrom-life of 1868, can find a moment for such nonsense, or can expect _you_ to find a moment for it, is beyond my comprehension. Now, a lock of hair has some significance--at least, I hope that man thought so, who received from me a curl clipped from a poodle-dog, which at this moment may be labelled with my name. It will be all the same a hundred years hence, as I remarked when I forwarded it to him.
Your autograph-hunter has a funny way of acknowledging ”the intrusion,” and then going on to pile up the agony by asking, beside your own autograph, that you would ”favor him with any from distinguished individuals that you may happen to have in your possession, for which he--or she--will be much obliged,” etc.; and I have no doubt they will when I send them!
Now, I know this sounds unamiable; but there is a point when endurance comes to an end, and that is where persistent impertinence begins. Why don't they go to my friend Jack Smith? _He_ is eminent. He will write autographs all day and all night for anybody who wants one, because he considers it a compliment, which I don't, as autographs go; and because Henry Clay never refused--and that would be the very reason I should; and because Jack has the chronic weakness of always saying Yes, when he should say No, and _vice versa_. I am afraid I shall have to buy my postage-stamps after this onslaught, instead of having them found by autograph-hunters, as I have had for some time; but I shall get off cheaply at that, and save temper, time, and ink beside. The mischief of expressing one's opinion on this and kindred subjects, in print, is this: that the rhinoceros-fellows you mean to hit always dodge it, in favor of some kind-hearted, sensitive soul whose feelings you wouldn't wound for a bushel of autographs, though you should have to sit up all night to write them. I didn't mean _you_ at all, my dear sir or madam, because I know _you_ really like me, good-for-nothing as I am; and, after all, it may be that I am only ”riled” by that ”furniture-polish man,” who looked so much like a clergyman that Betty mistook him for one, and thought I really must go down if I were busy, and whose nose I should like to have anointed with his miserable ”polish,” for wasting one good hour of the morning, trying it on my furniture.
_THE ETIQUETTE OF HOTEL PIAZZAS._
I am not aware that any one has treated this momentous subject. This being the case, permit me to inquire what are the rights of persons occupying rooms on the ground-floors of hotels, or boarding-houses, with windows opening upon the piazzas of the same. Or, in other words, _have_ they any exclusive right to that part of the piazza directly fronting their own windows? May they remonstrate if, while sitting at their window reading or writing, a person draws a chair in front and commences singing ”Pop goes the Weasel,” with variations; or whistles ”Yankee Doodle,” for an hour; or _reads aloud_ to a companion some blood-and-thunder novel? Or worse, when a gentleman(?) draws a chair in front of the window, and with his heels on the pillar of the piazza, and his head close to your window, lights an odious pipe, and commences filling your room with its vileness, compelling your immediate retreat, because he prefers the spot opposite to your window to the smoker's end of the piazza: in such case, is it in order for one to request his speedy exit? Is it piazza-etiquette for strangers, who have ascertained ”that that is _her_ room” to lean close to the window-sill, the better to observe the habits of the animal inside?
May one, in such circ.u.mstances, in self-defence, close a blind, or drop a curtain, without forfeiting the good opinion of inquiring minds?
Would it be proper, in those who engage piazza-rooms, first to inquire of the landlord if he himself is a smoker, the better to calculate one's chances of sympathy in case of tobacco intruders?
There are alleviations, I am not unaware, to the occupants of piazza-rooms. For instance, when one's blinds are closed upon the unwary, it is interesting to hear a narrative of oneself from the stranger within the gates. Many facts in your history, of which you were before entirely ignorant, are thus brought to your notice, without subscribing to any paper. It is also edifying to learn that your friend, ”Mrs. Jones, gives her husband fits;” that ”Mr. Smith is a horrible brute, in his own room, to his wife, although always ready to pick up gracefully the handkerchief of any other lady, and return it with the most complimentary little speeches.” It is also amusing to know that Mrs. Jenkins' hair is or is not her own; likewise, her complexion. Edifying, also, are statistics about family expenses, and the manner of expending holiday money so as to get the most fun out of it. But when one young man reposes love-confidences in another, beneath your lattice, _then_, my sisters, hold your breath and your sides!--for then shall you know a depth of stupidity in measuring feminine tactics which should richly ent.i.tle its owner to a free pa.s.s into any Lunatic Asylum in the land.
As this is a many-sided subject, let me inquire, were you, the occupant of a piazza-room, ever awakened at the gray dawn, from lovely slumber, by the dragging of chairs and stools across it, and the scratching of mops and brooms? Or were you ever forced to lie in a perspiration of agony, at twelve o'clock at night, while some enterprising individual, in the parlor opposite your door, played with one hand, the inspiring tune of ”Lanigan's Ball,” or rattled discordantly through ”I love but Thee”?
Lest you should forget it, let me repeat the question with which I started. Have occupants of piazza-rooms any exclusive rights in the piece of piazza directly fronting their own windows? If Congress has not adjourned, perhaps it will stop pulling noses to answer.
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