A Lesson in Civility.
A few days ago, says a correspondent, a laughable incident occurred to disturb the quiet of the hospitable Berkshire household where I am visiting. My genial host, who is a fine specimen of the old school gentleman, sat on the sunny piazza in his farming rig, smoking his favorite clay pipe, when a stylish team dashed up the drive with a great flourish, and one of the two male bipeds who occupied the carriage called out, as they drew up before the door, “Hallo, old fellow! Is this oaks?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Oaks, coolly, somewhat astonished at the salutation. “Well, then,” throwing the reins to the supposed menial, and jumping out, “this is the place, but what anybody ever built such a great ark of a house for, up here among the hills, beats me. Here, you, put up my horses and rub ‘em down and feed ‘em well, and see you don’t half do it, and then show us the fishing-pond or brook, or whatever it is, where them trout live, and the woods where we shall find them pigeons we’ve heard so much about.” And they strode through the open door into the sitting room. Both were dressed in real sporting costume, one equipped with rifle and game-bag, the other with fishing-rod, tackle and basket, looking, with all their fanciful accoutrements, much more appropriate to figure in a tableau than for actual service in the field. Mr. Oaks called some one to care for the team, and went himself to show them the way to the sporting grounds, coming back exceedingly amused to find us all rather indignant.
“They have ordered dinner to be ready at precisely 2,” he said, “with the proviso, that while you are about it, you shall get them something fit to eat.”
“And what shall I do about it?” asked Jennie, my host’s daughter.
“Oh! Have everything ready for them in good shape, and treat them as well as you can.”
The order was carried out to the letter. They came back, tired and hungry, with nothing of any consequence in the way of game; blustered round, swore at their guide for not showing them the right place; ordered brandy and water, and indulged in a little more profane language when told that there was nothing of the kind in the house; did ample justice to the dinner; called Miss Jennie “Betty” and “Bridget” when she went in with the desert, as her father insisted she should, and asked “if she had ever been to tunn, or seen the steam keers.” After dinner they lounged around, smoked cigars and expectorated on the carpet, and at last called out to their host, “Look here, old two hundred and seventy-five, get our team, and be quick about it. It is deuced mean for us to come away out here and not get any fish, and not see Oaks after we’ve heard so much about his droll stories; but I suppose you can tell us what our bill is, old avoirdupois.”
“You are quite welcome to what you have had,” was the reply, “as this is not a hotel, and I am William Oaks, as I could have told you some time ago had you inquired for the master of the house.”
You never saw two fellows so crestfallen. They stammered over no end of incoherent apologies of how they had often seen fish and game at the station, ten miles away, which the fortunate possessors said came from Oaks’, and had many times seen parties going to and from the same place, and had jumped at the conclusion that it was a public house. Mr. Oaks accepted their apologies in the peculiarly happy and graceful manner which renders him so popular, and told them a little story, very much to the point, upon the beauty of civility, and as Miss Jennie came down stairs just then, dressed in a heavy black silk visiting suit, he called to her, and as she came forward, introduced her with his old-fashioned courtly grace as, “My daughter, gentlemen! The mistress of her old father’s house, and the pride of his heart.” They awkwardly, sprang into the carriage which was waiting and drove rapidly down the mountain road. A friend coming in soon after had met and recognized them in the ravine, so that our curiosity in regard to their names and occupation was gratified.
The Eaton [OH] Democrat 8 June 1871: p. 1
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: “Two male bipeds.” No doubt of the “sula sula” or “Red-faced Boobies” species.
Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes
You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.