Our forbears said: “Come in and take pot-luck with us.”
An old Virginian told me that, as a boy, he was a visitor in a country house in the central part of the state, when a carriage drove up to the gate, and James Madison, then president of the United States, alighted. The lady of the manor was sitting upon the front porch, a bit of needle-work in hand. She arose, cordial and dignified, to receive her guest. As her chief butler, a far more consequential personage than his mistress, bustled out with a footman or two at his heels to see what could be done for the distinguished arrival, she said to him in a gentle “aside,” audible to the boy visitor: “James! see that a plate is put upon the table for Mr. Madison.”
Southern hospitality was a proverb then and for many a year thereafter. In her book, “The Voice of the People,” Miss Glasgow tells a story, which I can certify is not exaggerated, of an old aunt who came to her nephew’s house on a visit of a week and stayed twenty years, guarded by the viewless, but potent, ægis of hospitality. A plate was put upon the table for the poor relation in town and country house in that lavish land, as freely as for the chief magistrate, and was filled as bountifully.
When relative, acquaintance or stranger tarried but a night, the householder, in the homely speech of his fathers, asked in gentle sarcasm, “if he had come for a chunk of fire?”
In his father’s day, lucifer matches were unknown. When the fire went out upon the kitchen hearth of plantation or cabin, a swift runner was sent across fields to borrow a live brand from the nearest neighbor. He must hurry back before it went out.
We invite people to come to us at a stated time and for a given period. When the time is up, we tell them graciously that we have enjoyed their visit, and hope we shall meet again before long. When the carriage that takes them to the station is out of sight, we say, “That is well over!” and make a note to that effect in our visiting book.
Leaving the general view of our subject for individual illustration:—
If satirists and grumbling wives are to be believed, a husband can hardly do a more imprudent thing than to bring home an unexpected guest to dinner, or luncheon, or supper.
The ill-used wife contends that he always does this—as if with malice aforethought—at the most inconvenient times and seasons. From her standpoint he might have recollected—it seems incredible that he could have forgotten—that it is washing or ironing day, or Thursday, which is the cook’s afternoon out, and that the housemaid is not equal to a regular dinner. When the mistress has planned to have a “pick-up” composite of the substantial meal required by a man after his day’s work, and the tea and toast which are supposed to meet the temporal needs of the feminine system—the apparition of an impromptu guest, and that guest a man, is like a boulder rolled upon the track before the domestic engine. The train is derailed, conductor and engineer “rattled,” and badly shaken up.
Our housewife has reason on her side, and a good deal of it. It is all very fine to say, she urges, that her table should always be neat and orderly; that what is nice enough for her husband in the way of food and appointments should content the president, should he chance to drop in. Everybody sings that song in the same key, and it is stale bosh! For everybody knows that in the best regulated families we do make special provision for company. John comprehends that the best china can not be used every day, if we would have it remain even “good.” The second-best is excellent in quality, and pretty. Yet what housekeeper is superior to the wish to show outsiders that she has a Minton fish set; Coalport meat dishes and plates; silver vegetable dishes; Sèvres after-dinner coffee-cups? To set out her table as tastefully as she can afford to do is an offering due to the stranger within her gates—a visible token of hospitable intent. She is, in a measure, defrauded in all this when a surprise-visit is sprung upon her.