CHAPTER XXXIX.

What Has Become of the Old Ladies?

WAS reading that sweet idyl of homely life, "Margaret Ogilvy," this morning, and I said to myself, "What has become of the dainty old ladies we used to meet?"

My mother never varied the form of her dress for forty years. She was comparatively a young woman when she adopted gray and black dresses, never deviating from those quiet and sombre colors. She was an old and venerable woman when she fell asleep and put on garments of immortality. To the last she wore a soft fleecy cap, a muslin kerchief about her neck crossed in front, a gown with the skirt gathered in fullness and fastened to the waist, with no flounces or furbelows. Other women of her period dressed as she did. But to-day the aged matron draws her thinning locks into a tight little knot at the back of her head, or wears false hair, with never a softening cap about her sweet and faded face. She is dressed as her juniors are, and not to her advantage.

This is how Margaret Ogilvy was dressed. It is early in the morning, mind, and she has just come out of her room.

"She is up now and dressed in her thick maroon wrapper. Over her shoulders is a shawl, and on her head a mutch. Oh, that I could sing the praise of that white mutch (and the dirge of the elaborate black cap), from the day when she called witchcraft to her aid and made it out of snowflakes, and the dear worn hands that washed it tenderly in a basin, and the starching of it, and the fingeriron for its exquisite frills that looked like curls of sugar, and the sweet bands with which it tied beneath the chin. The honored snowy mutch, how I love to see it smiling to me from the doors and windows of the poor; it is always smiling, sometimes may be a wavering wistful smile as if a snowdrop or a teardrop lay hidden among the frilis. My mother begins the day with her New Testament in her hands, an old volume with its loose pages beautifully refixed, and its covers sewn and resewn by her, so that you would say it can never fall to pieces. Other books she read in the ordinary manner, but this one differently, her lips moving with each word as if she were reading aloud and her face very solemn. The Testament lies open on her lap, long after she has ceased to read, and the expression of her face has not changed."

It seems to me that nobody who has not had that kind of a dear old saintly mother, the presence as of an angel ever in the house, can win to heaven as easily, as those whose mothers were like mine, and like Margaret Ogilvy. Mothers, dear mothers, do your children see you reading the Bible and brooding over its tender and rich promises? Mothers, dear mothers, are you as simple and true and sincere, and God-fearing as mothers ought to be?

Politeness in Children.

A mother writing in Harpers Bazar prefaces her "talk" under the above heading by telling of reading, not long ago, of a discouraged and despairing mother who said to her children, "You ain't got no manners, and I declare I can't beat none into you."

Now, the course pursued by this mother was not more unwise, and but little more vulgar, than that pursued by some parents in the higher walks of life in their attempts to teach their children to be polite. As politeness is the expression of kindness and good will, it cannot be whipped nor scolded into children. It cannot be put on or off at will, like a garment. It must be largely the result of example in the case of children. The imitative faculty is strong in a child, and, if father and mother are habitually polite to each other and to every one else, the child will imitate this beautiful trait and be polite also.

The writer recalls without pleasure a visit in a hɔme in which the mother very properly classed good manners among the cardinal virtues of life, and she was determined that her children should be "little ladies and gentlemen." Her methods of achieving this result were astonishing, in view of her intelligence and of her position in life. No sooner were we seated at the dinner table than she began to instruct the children in this wise:

"Edith, sit up straight. It is vulgar to lounge at the table, above all places. Harry, take your elbows from the table. How often have I told you that it was rude to put your elbows on the table? Is it possible, Harold, that you are eating mashed potatoes with a spoon? I have told you over and over again just what was the proper use of the spoon at the table."

In the parlor it was: "Edith, sit erect! Harry, don't pass in front of Mr. H- without an apology! Harold, you forgot to say Thank you.' Mamma wants her little boys and girls to be polite."

Now we are all more or less familiar with this painful method of instructing children in the art of politeness. It is possible that it was the misfortune of some readers of this to have received this sort of instruction in the days of their own childhood. If so, they can testify to the sense of humiliation and anger that filled

their childish breasts when the attention of strangers was directed to them.

They

felt shy, awkward, and painfully self-conscious in the presence of visitors, and the arrival of guests was looked forward to with fear and dread, because it meant public exposure of the child's defects.

This method would imply that good breeding was confined altogether to the external things of life, and that if children ate properly and gave proper replies when spoken to, and bowed at the right time, and in the right way they had achieved the highest forms of politeness.

Henry Ward Beecher said that "politeness is a religious duty, and should be a part of religious training." The law of politeness applies to men and women quite as much as to children; and if courtesy and kindness and sweetness are the natural expression and attitude of the parents, these graces will naturally manifest themselves in the child.

One evening I happened to enter a room where several young people, with books and work, were sitting around the lamp. The young man with the lexicon and the grammar on the table before him, was the busiest of the group, but he instantly arose and remained standing until I had taken my seat.

The little action was automatic; the habit of this family is to practice small courtesies, and the boys have been trained from childhood to pay deference to a woman. They always rise whenever a lady, their mother, sister, friend or the guest of the house, comes into the room where they are at work; they place chairs gallantly and gracefully for ladies at the dinner table; and take off their hats when they meet their mother on the street, and never kiss her with a hat on; in saying good morning or good evening to her, it is hat in hand. Her bundles are carried, her way is made easy, a beautiful politeness waits for her word in the domestic discussion, and refrains from interrupting her even in the most heated argument.

Neither mother nor sister goes out after dark without an escort. One of the boys can always go out of his way, or find it in his way, to see her safely to a friend's door, or to the meeting which she wishes to attend. Most winning and sweet is the air of good breeding which these young men have acquired, which they wear with an unconscious grace.

Equally charming are the girls in the home I speak of; gentle, soft-spoken, appreciative, considerate, reverential. To old people they are tender, to children kind, to each other lovely.

One cannot too sedulously look after the small courtesies in one's conduct, and, if one be charged with the management of the household, in the accustomed ways of the family. Habits count for everything here, and example is better than precept.

Forty years ago all small people were carefully instructed in the formalities of life, and one of the things especially insisted upon was that they should

Yes, ma'am,' No, ma'am,"

Yes

invariably, in addressing their elders, say sir," and "No, sir."

A well-bred child in a later period than that always rose when older persons entered the room, and remained standing till told to take a seat. It is observed by Augustus Hare in his lately published autobiography that his mother in her girlhood not only stood when in the room with her father, but even accorded that honor to his empty chair if she were in the room with it. In our period a welltrained boy rises when his mother or other woman enters a room, and stands till she is seated. A little girl, too, is taught to be soft of voice and gentle in movement, and to slip a cushion behind the back of a friend, to urge on a guest the most comfortable seat, to adjust screens against window glare and fire-light, and to avoid interruption and contradiction. But "sir" and "ma'am" are not now in vogue for children, being considered the appropriate form of address for servants and for those of inferior position. Children are in no sense inferiors in their homes. They are socially on the same plane with their parents, and it is fitting that they should be treated with courtesy as well as practice it.

A child should be taught to say "Yes, mother," "Yes, father," "Yes, Mrs. Smith," "No, Mr. Jones." It is always elegant to repeat the name of the person you address. "Mother" and "father" are preferred at present to any affectionate diminutive for the speech of even little children, and " mamma " and "papa" (not momma and poppa) are in the second place in favor. Singularly, "daddy" and "mammy "have just now established their claims to be heard in the drawing-room, though of old the laborer's cottage was their accustomed place.

To train a child in the conventionalities of his own generation is certainly advisable. Only by the automatic practice of every-day forms during the years of childhood can man or woman hope for the unconscious ease which in maturity is the first flower of good manners.

Reciprocity.

Two ladies settled themselves comfortably at a small restaurant table and prepared to enjoy their lunch together.

"It is always a treat to lunch with you, Louise," the older woman said, because you are sure to be here on time, and you never seem tired to death, even after a morning of shopping."

"But I'm tired to death this time," Louise replied, "shopping isn't a circumstance to servant hunting."

"You don't mean that Maggie is leaving? " Mrs. Rust asked, sympa

thetically.