House and Home Papers: Seventh EditionStowe, Harriet Beecher
General
House and Home Papers: Seventh Edition
Stowe, Harriet Beecher
Home economics
suits us better than any we can hire; in fact, when we do hire, we are
discontented and uncomfortable,—for who will do for us what we will do
for ourselves? But when we have company! there’s the rub, to get out all
our best things and put them back,—to cook the meals and wash the dishes
in-gloriously,—and to make all appear as if we didn’t do it, and had
servants like other people.
There, after all, is the rub. A want of hardy self-respect,—an
unwillingness to face with dignity the actual facts and necessities of
our situation in life,—this, after all, is the worst and most dangerous
feature of the case. It is the same sort of pride which makes Smilax
think he must hire a waiter in white gloves, and get up a circuitous
dinner-party on English principles, to entertain a friend from England.
Because the friend in England lives in such and such a style, he must
make believe for a day that he lives so too, when in fact it is a
whirlwind in his domestic establishment equal to a removal or a fire,
and threatens the total extinction of Mrs. Smilax. Now there are two
principles of hospitality that people are very apt to overlook. One is,
that their guests like to be made at home, and treated with confidence;
and another is, that people are always interested in the details of a
way of life that is new to them. The Englishman comes to America as
weary of his old, easy, family-coach life as you can be of yours; he
wants to see something new under the sun,—something American; and
forthwith we all bestir ourselves to give him something as near as we
can fancy exactly like what he is already tired of. So city-people come
to the country, not to sit in the best parlor, and to see the nearest
imitation of city-life, but to lie on the hay-mow, to swing in the barn,
to form intimacy with the pigs, chickens, and ducks, and to eat baked
potatoes exactly on the critical moment when they are done, from the
oven of the cooking-stove,—and we remark, _en passant_, that nobody has
ever truly eaten a baked potato, unless he has seized it at that precise
and fortunate moment.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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