“We felt the attempt was an exceedingly great undertaking at first, but as each one had a certain part allotted to her, and was allowed to gather all the ideas she pleased from research, and use them in her own way—fearing no accusation of plagiarism—we found it was not so difficult after all.”
IS CRIME INTERESTING?
The newspaper reader, for one or another reason, regards crime as important news because he is full of morbid curiosity regarding whatever is abnormal in human conduct. A crime is something strange and fascinating because passions play through it, and secret places in human life are uncovered by it. It interests us because we are human, with strange forces of evil coming up now and again into consciousness and suggesting our brotherhood to the thief and the murderer. Many a man reads in a story of defalcation, things he has himself done without being found out. Many a woman reads in the story of a murder, passages from her own life where she also might have taken the fatal step beyond the line of safety. Try as much as we may, we cannot divest ourselves of the curiosity and the unconscious sympathy which make us look over the crime record with more interest than we give to any other part of a newspaper.
The newspapers are reproached for publishing all about crimes; but the average reader, perhaps we might say the best reader, peruses even the details with absorbing interest. He may be ashamed of himself for his curiosity, but he has the curiosity. The fact is not complimentary to us, and we lash the press when we know we ought to lash ourselves. For the reason just given, the remedy for the daily feast of passion and blood is not an easy one to find. A newspaper needs great merits to be able to omit the crime record; and though it should be accepted without that record, many a subscriber of it would look for the record elsewhere. The remedy is difficult because the public has to cure itself—the newspaper can not cure it—of the desire to know “the evil that is in the world through lust.” The world, the flesh and the devil take up a commanding position in our anxieties, solicitudes, curiosities, and sympathies. We must be a great deal better as a people before we shall be content to live in ignorance of any badness which breaks through the calm surface of life and rises into a billow of crime. It is true that the curiosity may be educated out of us—not entirely, but in large degree—and yet it is also true that we do not display any serious desire to be so educated. We want this kind of news. We want to know at least the motives of the crimes, how they were committed and whether they were punished or not. The newspaper may give us these outline facts discreetly and briefly, but the mass of us will secretly hunger for more. The moral of the business may be left to the pulpit; it is tolerably plain to the pews.
A DRAWBACK TO SOCIAL LIFE.
To one examining the society notes of the various cities, it is very evident that never before were we, who are in society, living so sumptuously as at present. Our dinners have become banquets, our teas feasts. The magnificence, the notoriety, the cost, are astounding. One involuntarily rubs his eyes and looks to see some gallant dissolving pearls for his liege lady. This elaborate effort to feast one’s guests is not only prevalent among the millionaires and epicureans of our cities, it is a feature of entertaining which prevails even in small communities. In a village of some six hundred people, well known to us, we have had the opportunity to study the effect of extravagant hospitality upon the society. The people almost without exception are well-to-do, well educated, congenial, a set in every way suited to form a pleasant society. Among them are a few wealthy families. In such a town one would expect to find almost ideal social life—full of good will, of pleasant thought, new amusements, not overcrowded, thoroughly enjoyable; but to our surprise we found very little. A few evenings out, a few questions, and we understand the cause. At a small party given by a leading lady, we were astounded to be called out to a table loaded with every conceivable delicacy; meats, salads, cakes, creams, fruits in every variety. The supper was a work of art, a mammoth undertaking, and it had been prepared by the lady herself and her one servant, with such assistance as is to be found in a small village, off the railroad. Further experience taught us that when any one entertained friends there such refreshments were considered necessary. The effects upon the social life of the town were disastrous. Where there was the possibility of most delightful companionships there was an absolute dearth of social gatherings. A lady of culture remarked: “I can not entertain, simply because I can not afford it. If it were possible I should receive weekly, but our customs demand such outlays for all social affairs that I am obliged to deny myself what otherwise would be a pleasure.” Another, a lady of wealth remarked: “I am handicapped in my social life by the extravagant habits of our people. What I would be glad to do, were I in a city where I could obtain efficient help, it is impossible to do with our servants. I can not prepare my own dinners, and our town requires such extensive preparations for even a small company, that I have ceased entertaining.” But even this feature is not the worst. Social life is virtually killed when the table becomes the feature of the evening, when on the merits of pastry and salads depends the social status of the family. The hostess comes to her guest’s room, worn with the care of the thousand details of a great dinner. The possibility of friction or failure destroys the ease, the mirth, the abandon, that makes her charm. Her spirit oftentimes is contagious, and her guests, too, feel the responsibility which oppresses her. It comes to be true that the most elaborate dinner-givers are the poorest entertainers, that instead of new ideas, pleasant memories and the ring of music, all one carries away from the house where they have been feasted is indigestion and their menu card.
This extravagance is a feature of social life which sensible people can not afford to countenance. There is too great danger that by it the truly desirable and helpful features will be injured; that while epicureans will support the elegance, people of simple habits will be driven in a measure from society; that social life will be changed to feasting, and conversation, wit and music placed a step below eating and drinking.