Caper-Sauce: A Volume of Chit-Chat about Men, Women, and Things.

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Fern Fanny. Caper-Sauce: A Volume of Chit-Chat about Men, Women, and Things.

PREFACE

EDITORS

MY NOTION OF MUSIC

"BUDDING SPRING" – IN THE CITY

A PEEP AT BOSTON

BLACKWELL'S ISLAND

SHALL WE HAVE MALE OR FEMALE CLERKS?

UNKNOWN ACQUAINTANCES

LIFE AND ITS MYSTERIES

MRS. WASHINGTON'S ETERNAL KNITTING

THE WOMAN QUESTION

TWO KINDS OF WIVES

UNDERTAKERS' SIGNS ON CHURCHES

A VOICE FROM THE SKATING POND

THE SIN OF BEING SICK

ARE MINISTERS SERFS?

BLAMING PROVIDENCE FOR OUR OWN FAULTS

A CHAPTER ON NURSES

DO AMERICAN WOMEN LOVE NATURE?

RAINY-DAY PLEASURES

CHIT-CHAT WITH SOME OF MY CORRESPONDENTS

MY LIKING FOR PRETTY THINGS

UNSOUGHT HAPPINESS

DIGNITY OF HUMAN NATURE

ALL ABOUT DOCTORS

LETTER TO HENRY WARD BEECHER

THE AMENITIES OF THE TABLE

MANY MEN OF MANY MINDS

MY NOTION OF A WALKING COMPANION

MEN TEACHERS IN GIRLS' SCHOOLS

MY CALL ON "DEXTER."

THE POETRY OF WORK

CAN'T KEEP A HOTEL

NEW CLOTHES

HOW I READ THE MORNING PAPERS

BETTY'S SOLILOQUY

MY DREADFUL BUMP OF ORDER

"EVERY FAMILY SHOULD HAVE IT."

GETTING TO RIGHTS

MODERN MARTYRS

WRITING "COMPOSITIONS."

NICE LITTLE TEA-PARTIES

A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

WOMEN'S NEED OF RECREATION

THE GOOD OLD HYMNS

A STRANGER IN GOTHAM

MY JOURNEY TO QUEBEC AND BACK AGAIN

IDLE HOURS AT OUR OWN EMERALD ISLE, THE GEM OF THE SEA

SOME CITY SIGHTS

DOG-DAYS IN THE MOUNTAINS

SPRING IN THE CITY

WAIFS

TACT

THE INFIRMITIES OF GENIUS

A TRIP TO THE CAATSKILLS

THE TRIP TO BROMPTON

LAKE GEORGE REVISITED

COOKERY AND TAILORING

UP THE HUDSON

"WHY DON'T I LECTURE?"

IN THE CARS

PETTING

MY GRIEVANCE

CEMETERY MUSINGS

THE SCRUBBING-BRUSH MANIA

SAUCE FOR THE GANDER

MY FIRST CONVERT

COUNTRY HOUSEWIVES

FIRST MORNING IN THE COUNTRY

CONSCIENCE KILLING

THE CRY OF A VICTIM

STONES FOR BREAD

Отрывок из книги

I am not disposed to pity Editors. On the whole, I think they have a very good time. That national sugar-plum for American boys, "Maybe, my son, you will be one day President," might be changed advantageously for "My son, you may live some day to be an Editor." As for the present President, if he can sleep o' nights, he can live through anything! I repeat it, Editors have a good time, no matter what they say to the contrary. In the first place, I know that the position of an editor, if honorably filled, is second to none in this country. He need envy no one his influential power; would that in many cases it were more conscientiously wielded. If an Editor is an ignorant man, it is his own fault, no matter from what small beginnings he may have risen. Coming in contact, as he does, with information every instant, on all the absorbing topics of the day, it is next to impossible he should not be well informed. Read he must, whether he will or not. Think on what he has read he must; tell his subscribers, in words, what he thinks about it, and reflect and decide upon the submitted thoughts of others for his columns, he must. Hence the mind of an Editor is, or may be, a perfect Encyclopedia of information.

Of course he has his peculiar botherations; it would be a blessing if his subscription list were large enough for him to say just what he pleases right and left, without fear or favor. It would be a blessing if his subscribers would always pay punctually, without dunning. It would be a blessing, when he uses superhuman efforts to please them, if they never would find fault or grumble, for the sake of grumbling. It would be a blessing if they wouldn't stay so long when they come in to see him "just a minute," and he is in a frenzied hurry to say do go, and can't. It would be a blessing (to those who apply) if he could publish and pay for, at the valuation of the writers, all the immortal trash that is offered. It would be a blessing if other editors, "who can see nothing in his paper," wouldn't steal his articles constantly – editorial and contributed – without credit.

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Now, gentlemen Editors, crowd what else you may out of your papers, but don't crowd out the poetry, or think it of small consequence. Take the affidavit of one who has seen the clipped verses from your papers hid away in pocket-books, tucked away in needle-cases, speared upon pin-cushions, pinned up on toilet glasses, and murmured over in the mystic hour of twilight, just before "John comes home to tea;" and always have a bit of poetry in your columns for her who has so potent a voice in the choice of a family paper. I publicly promulgate this bit of wisdom, though I am very well aware that you will pass it off for your own, and neither credit me nor my book for it!

A word on a practice too common in some newspapers. I refer to the flippant manner in which the misfortunes and misdemeanors of certain classes, brought to the notice of our courts, are reported for the amusement of the community at large. Surely, it is melancholy enough that a drunken mother should be picked up in the gutter with her unconscious babe; or a young girl, scarcely in her teens, be found guilty of theft; or, that a husband and father should beat or murder her whom he had sworn to cherish, without narrating it after this heartless fashion. For instance:

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