How to Behave: A Pocket Manual of Republican Etiquette, and Guide to Correct Personal Habits / Embracing an Exposition of the Principles of Good Manners; Useful Hints on the Care of the Person, Eating, Drinking, Exercise, Habits, Dress, Self-culture, and Behavior at Home; the Etiquette of Salutations, Introductions, Receptions, Visits, Dinners, Evening Parties, Conversation, Letters, Presents, Weddings, Funerals, the Street, the Church, Places of Amusement, Traveling, Etc., with Illustrative Anecdotes, a Chapter on Love and Courtship, and Rules of Order for Debating Societies

by Samuel R. Wells

I.—ELDER BLUNT AND SISTER SCRUB.

he house of the excellent Squire Scrub was the itinerant's home; and a right sweet, pleasant home it would have been but for a certain unfortunate weakness of the every other way excellent Sister Scrub. The weakness I allude to was, or at least it was suspected to be, the love of praise. Now the good sister was really worthy of high praise, and she often received it; but she had a way of disparaging herself and her performances which some people thought was intended to invite praise. No housewife kept her floors looking so clean and her walls so well whitewashed as she. Every board was scrubbed and scoured till further scrubbing and scouring would have been labor wasted. No one could look on her white ash floor and not admire the polish her industry gave it. The "Squire" was a good provider, and Sister Scrub was an excellent cook; and so their table groaned under a burden of good things on all occasions when good cheer was demanded. And yet you could never enter the house and sit half an hour without being reminded that "Husband held Court yesterday, and she couldn't keep the house decent." If you sat down to eat with them, she was sorry she "hadn't anything fit to eat." She had been scrubbing, or washing, or ironing, or she had been half sick, and she hadn't got such and such things that she ought to have. Nor did it matter how bountiful or how well prepared the repast really was, there was always something deficient, the want of which furnished a text for a disparaging discourse on the occasion. I remember once that we sat down to a table that a king might have been happy to enjoy. There was the light snow-white bread; there were the potatoes reeking in butter; there were chickens swimming in gravy; there were the onions and the turnips, and I was sure Sister Scrub had gratified her ambition for once. We sat down, and a blessing was asked; instantly the good sister began; she was afraid her coffee was too much burned, or that the water had been smoked, or that she hadn't roasted the chicken enough. There ought to have been some salad, and it was too bad that there was nothing nice to offer us.

We, of course, endured those unjustifiable apologies as well as the could, simply remarking that everything was really nice, and proving by our acts that the repast was tempting to our appetites.

I will now introduce another actor to the reader—Elder Blunt, the circuit preacher. Elder Blunt was a good man. His religion was of the most genuine, experimental kind. He was a very plain man. He, like Mr. Wesley, would no more dare to preach a fine sermon than wear a fine coat. He was celebrated for his common-sense way of exhibiting the principles of religion. He would speak just what he thought, and as he felt. He somehow got the name of being an eccentric preacher, as every man, I believe, does who never prevaricates, and always acts and speaks as he thinks. Somehow or other, Elder Blunt had heard of Sister Scrub, and that infirmity of hers, and he resolved to cure her. On his first round he stopped at "Squire Scrub's," as all other itinerants had done before him. John, the young man, took the elder's horse and put him in the stable, and the preacher entered the house. He was shown into the best room, and soon felt very much at home. He expected to hear something in due time disparaging the domestic arrangements, but he heard it sooner than he expected. This time, if Sister Scrub could be credited, her house was all upside down; it wasn't fit to stay in, and she was sadly mortified to be caught in such a plight. The elder looked all around the room, as if to observe the terrible disorder, but he said not a word. By-and-by the dinner was ready, and the elder sat down with the family to a well spread table. Here, again, Sister Scrub found everything faulty; the coffee wasn't fit to drink, and she hadn't anything fit to eat. The elder lifted his dark eye to her face; for a moment he seemed to penetrate her very soul with his austere gaze; then slowly rising from the table, he said, "Brother Scrub, I want my horse immediately; I must leave!"

"Why, Brother Blunt, what is the matter?"

"Matter? Why, sir, your house isn't fit to stay in, and you haven't anything fit to eat or drink, and I won't stay."

Both the "Squire" and his lady were confounded. This was a piece of eccentricity entirely unlooked for. They were stupefied. But the elder was gone. He wouldn't stay in a house not fit to stay in, and where there wasn't anything fit to eat and drink.

Poor Sister Scrub! She wept like a child at her folly. She "knew it would be all over town," she said, "and everybody would be laughing at her." And then, how should she meet the blunt, honest elder again? "She hadn't meant anything by what she had said." Ah! she never thought how wicked it was to say so much that didn't mean anything.

The upshot of the whole matter was, that Sister Scrub "saw herself as others saw her." She ceased making apologies, and became a wiser and better Christian. Elder Blunt always puts up there, always finds everything as it should be, and, with all his eccentricities, is thought by the family the most agreeable, as he is acknowledged by everybody to be the most consistent, of men.—Rev. J. V. Watson.