The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1880-06-22
The American Holiday.

Here is the Summer holiday again. What
shall we do with it9 th t-
1t is not more than dozen years ago since
hard-worked New Yorker or Philadelphian
with small income made up his mind that
the Summer holiday, which was an indulgence
to his well-to-do neghbor, was necessity for
himself-as much of a necessity in the work Of
the year as the hours of sleep are in the work
of the day. So far so good. Now that he il
convinced of that he takes his holiday; but he
is not yet used to it He carries the luxary un-
easily; it diseomforts him; he does not know
how to use it. Having but the one chance to
be idle in the year, he is captious about the
idleness, and scared lest he may not enjoy ev-
cry moment of it.
He knows what he wants very well. He and
his wife and children are talking about this at
this very moment in hundred thousand
places He will tell you that he is not hard to
please. There are certain essentials, to be
sure, which he must have when he leaves
home for enjoyment; sublime scenery, pure
air, no mosquitoes, plenty of game, milk, fruit
and eggs, congenial society, spring mattresses,
well-cooked meals, and little to pay at the end
| OF the week-give him these, and he is sats-
| after he has gone, how he was cheated while
| he was there, afford him matter for grumbling
| from May until September.
Now his French or German cousin over the
sea has hundred holidays in the year. He
| knows how to bring the flavor out of every
| drop in the orange. He drifts into idleness
| easily, without thought. When his fete comes
he goes, for few francs, with his sweetheart
| or wife, mile or two out of town. They joke
| and laugh The sun shines, the wind blows
/ is n ic 1na huf thav
| joke and laugh all the same. They criticise
| nothing. How good it all is!
| But as for our American, corn-husk bed,
| or mosquito in the woods, will overturn a
| whole Summers airy fabric of happiness. In
his anxiety lest he should not seize the best
| chance of enjoyment, he is apt to follow the
| largest crowd. He goes to Niagara, to Cape
May, the Adirondacks, or tosome of the count
less paper mansions or hot farmhouses in the
| suburbs of the cities. He tells you that his
| object is rest and freedom, but the chances are
| that he leaves both behind in his house in
| town. There he could wear his old slippers;
| he chose his own companions: he held such
| habits and opinions as suited him; he was the
Macdonald, and where he sat was the head of
the table. But in every one Of these Summer
homes society tramples him down. 1t is often
little clique Of which he never heard before,
without father, mother, or descent" He
| may laugh at il as vulgar and ignorant, but it
is master of the position; he is not. in the hot
test months of the year, when even the beasts
in the field lie down to rest, it forces upon him
a hurly y-burly of fashion-gossip, dress, outlay
and weariness which at home he can manage
to shut outside of his own door. He goes back,
as rule, to his shop or office, his gas-ppes and
family table, unrefreshed, and glad that the
holiday is over. But, after all, he goes with
the crowd the next year. The average Ameri-
can is afraid not to move with the crowd.
The history of all summering places is alike.
An adventurous artist usually ventures into a
new field, and whispers his discovery to his
friends. Scenery is well nigh as popular a
hobby Just now as household decoration. At
ter him come pell-mell the would-be aesthetics,
and later the mere fashionabes, as the flock
follows the tinkle of the bell-wether, and up
go the mammoth hotels, as fast as mushrooms
spring on May morning on betramped sheep
walks-Rebecca Harding Davis, in Harper's
Magazine for July.