 CHAPTER XXIX I have no experiences of my own to relate on this subject. But I could fill a book with the experiences of my friends. How many poor widows, in the hope of sustaining their families and educating their children, have tried the elusive, and at best, doubtful experiment of taking borders to find themselves, in a year or two or three, hopelessly involved in debt, a lifetime of labour would fail to cancel. Many, from pride, resort to this means of getting a living because, why I never could comprehend, taking borders is thought to be more genteel than needlework or keeping a small store for the sale of fancy articles. The experience of one of my friends, a Miss Turner, who in the earlier days of her sad widowhood, found it needful to make personal effort for the sustenance of her family I will here relate. Many who find themselves in trying positions like hers may, in reviewing her mistakes, be saved from similar ones themselves. I don't know what we shall do, exclaimed Miss Turner, about six months after the death of her husband, while pondering sadly over the prospect before her. She had one daughter, about twenty, and two sons who were both under ten years of age. Up to this time she had never known the dread of want. Her husband had been able to provide well for his family, and they moved in a very respectable and somewhat showy circle. But on his death his affairs were found to be much involved, and when settled there was left for the widow and children only about the sum of four thousand dollars, besides the household furniture, which was very handsome. This sad falling off in her prospects had been communicated to Mrs. Turner a short time before by the administrator on the estate, and its effect was to alarm and sadden her extremely. She knew nothing of business, and yet was painfully conscious that four thousand dollars would be but a trifle to what she would need for her family, and that effort in some direction was now absolutely necessary. But besides her ignorance of any calling by which money could be made, she had a superabundance of false pride, and shrunk from what she was pleased to consider, the odium attached to a woman who had to engage in business. Under these circumstances she had a poor enough prospect before her. The exclamation, as above recorded, was made in the presence of Mary Turner, her daughter, a well-educated girl who had less of that false pride which obscured her mother's perceptions of right. After a few moments silence the latter said, �And yet we must do something, mother! I know that, Mary, too well, but I know of nothing that we can do. Suppose we open a little dry goods-store,� Mary, others seem to do well at it and we might. You know we have a great many friends. �Don't think of it, Mary. We could not expose ourselves in that way. I know that it would not be pleasant, mother, but then we must do something. It must be something besides that, Mary. I can't listen to it. It's only a vulgar class of women who keep stores. I am willing to take in sewing, mother, but then all I could earn would go but a little way towards keeping the family. I don't suppose I could even pay the rent, and that, you know, is four hundred dollars.� �Too true,� Mrs. Turner said despondingly. �Suppose I open a school,� suggested Mary. �Oh no, no, my head would never stand the noise and confusion, and anyway I never did like a school. Then I don't know what we shall do unless we take some borders.� �A little more genteel, but even that is low enough.� �Then suppose, mother, we look for a lower rent and try to live more economically. I will take in sewing and we can try for a while and see how we get along.� �Oh no, indeed, child, that would never do. We must keep up appearances or we shall lose our place in society. You know that it is absolutely necessary for you and your brothers that we should maintain our position. � �As for me, mother,� said Mary in a serious tone, �I would not have you to take a thought in that direction, and it seems to me that our true position is the one where we can live most comfortably according to our means.� �You don't know anything about it, child,� Mrs. Turner replied, in a positive tone. Mary was silenced for the time, but a banishment of the subject did not in any way lessen the difficulties. Thoughts of these soon again became apparent in words, and the most natural form of these was a sentence. �I don't know what we shall do,� uttered by the mother in a tone of deep despondency. �Suppose we take a few borders?� Mary urged about three weeks after the conversation just alluded to. �No, Mary, we would be too much exposed, and then it would come very hard on you, for you know that I cannot stand much fatigue,� Mrs. Turner replied slowly and sadly. �Oh, as to that,� said Mary with animation, �I'll take all the burden off of you.� �Indeed, child, I cannot think of it,� Mrs. Turner replied positively, and again the subject was dismissed. But it was soon again recurred to, and after the suggestion and disapproval of many plans, Mary again said, �Indeed, mother, I don't see what we will do unless we take a few borders. It's the only thing at all respectable that I can think of,� Mrs. Turner said despondingly, �and I'm afraid it's the best we can do. I think we had better try it, mother, don't you?� �Well, perhaps we had, Mary. There are four rooms that we can spare, and these ought to bring us in something handsome. What ought we to charge? About three dollars and a half for young men and ten dollars for a man and his wife. If we could get four married couples for the four rooms, that would be forty dollars a week, which would be pretty good,� said Mary, warming at the thought. �Yes, if we could marry, we might manage pretty well, but most married people have children, and they are such an annoyance that I wouldn't have them in the house. You will have to depend mainly on the young men.� It was probably three weeks after this that an advertisement running thus appeared in one of the newspapers. Boarding five or six gentile young men, or a few gentlemen, and their wives, can be accommodated with boarding at number blank Cedar Street, Terms Moderate. In the course of the following day a man called and asked the terms for himself and wife, �Ten dollars,� said Mrs. Turner. �That's too high, is it not?� remarked the man. �We cannot take you for less. Have you a pleasant room vacant? You can have your choice of the finest in the house. Can I look at them, madame? Certainly, sir, and the stranger was taken through Mrs. Turner's beautifully furnished chambers.� �Well, this is certainly a temptation,� said the man, pausing and looking around the front chamber on the second floor. �And you have named your lowest terms?� �Yes, sir, the lowest.� �Well, it's higher than I have been paying, but this looks too comfortable. I suppose we will have to strike a bargain.� �Shall be pleased to accommodate you, sir. We will come then to more mourning. Very well, sir.� And the stranger departed. �So much for a beginning,� said Mrs. Turner, evidently gratified. �He seems to be much of a gentleman. If his wife is like him they will make things very agreeable, I am sure.� �I hope she is,� said Mary. On the next morning the new boarders made their appearance, and the lady proved as affable and as interesting as the husband. �I always pay quarterly. This is the custom in all the boarding houses I have been in, but if your rules are otherwise why I just say so, it makes no difference to me.� remarked the new boarder, �In the blandest man are imaginable.� �Just suit yourself about that, Mr. Cameron. It is altogether immaterial. Mrs. Turner replied, smiling, �I am in no particular want of money.� �Mr. Cameron bowed lower and smiled more blandly, if possible, than before.� �You have just opened a boarding house, I suppose, madame?� he said. �Yes, sir. I am a new beginner at the business. Oh, well, I must try and make you know in all I can. You will find Mrs. Cameron here a sociable kind of a woman, and if I can serve you at any time, be sure to command me.� �You are too kind,� Mrs. Turner responded, much pleased, to have found in her first boarders such excellent, good-hearted people. In a few days a couple of young men made application and were received, and now commenced the serious duties of the new undertaking. Mary had to assume the whole care of the house. She had to attend the markets and oversee the kitchen and also to make with her own hands all the pastry. Still she had a willing heart, and this lightened much of the heavy burden now imposed upon her. �How do you like your new boarding house?� asked a friend of one of the young men who had applied and been received. This was about two weeks after his entrance into Mrs. Turner's house. �Elegant� responded the young man, giving his countenance a peculiar and knowing expression. �Indeed, but are you an earnest? I am that. Why, we live on the very fat of the land.� �Sure, you must be joking. Whoever heard of the fat of the land being found in a boarding house, they can't afford it. I don't care myself whether they can afford it or not, but we do live elegantly. I wouldn't ask to sit down to a better table. �What kind of a room have you, and what kind of a bed?� �Good enough for a Lord. Nonsense. No, but I am in earnest, as I will prove to you. I sleep on as fine a bed as ever I saw, laid on a richly carved mahogany bedstead, with beautiful curtains. The floor is covered with a Brussels carpet, nearly new and of a rich pattern. There is in the room a mahogany wardrobe, an elegant piece of furniture, a marble top dressing-bureau, and a mahogany wash stand with a marble slab. Now, if you don't call that a touch above a common boarding-house, you've been more fortunate than I have been until lately.� �Are there any vacancies there, Tom? There is another bed in my room. Well, just tell them to-night that I'll be there to-morrow morning. Very well. And I know of a couple more that'll add to the mess if there is room. It's a large house, and I believe they have room yet to spare. A week more passed, and the house had its complement, six young men and the polite gentleman and his wife. This promised an income of thirty-one dollars per week. As an offset to this, a careful examination into the weekly expenditure would have shown a statement something like the following. Marketing, twelve dollars. Groceries, flour, and etc., ten dollars. Rent, eight dollars. Servants, higher cook. Chamber maid and black boy, four dollars. Fuel and incidental expenses, six. In all, forty dollars per week. Besides this, their own clothes and the schooling of the two boys did not cost less than at the rate of three hundred dollars per annum. But neither Mrs. Turner nor Mary ever thought that any such calculation was necessary. They charged what other boarding housekeepers charged and thought, of course, that they must make a good living. But in no boarding house, even where much higher prices were obtained was so much piled upon the table. Everything in its season was to be found there, without regard to prices. Of course, the boarders were delighted and complimented Mrs. Turner upon the excellent fare which they received. Mr. and Mrs. Cameron continued as affable and interesting as when they first came into the house. But the first quarter passed away and nothing was said about their bill, and Mrs. Turner never thought of giving them a polite hint. Two of her young men were also remiss in this respect, but they were much gentlemanly, polite, attentive individuals that, of course, nothing could be said. I believe I've never had your bill, Mrs. Turner, have I? Mr. Cameron said to her one evening, when about six months had passed. No, I've never thought of handing it in, but it's no difference I'm not in want of money. Yes, but it ought to be paid. I'll bring you up a check from the counting room in a few days. Suited your own convenience, Mr. Cameron, answered Mrs. Turner in an indifferent tone. Oh, it's perfectly convenient at all times, but knowing that you were not in want of it has made me negligent. This was all that was said on the subject for another quarter, during which time the two young men eluded to as being in arrears went off, cheating the widow out of fifty dollars each. But nothing was said about it to the other borders, and none of them knew of the wrong that had been sustained. Their places did not fill up, and the promised weekly income was reduced to twenty-four dollars. At the end of the third quarter Mr. Cameron, again recollected, that he had neglected to bring up a check from the counting room and blamed himself for his thoughtlessness. I'm so full of business, said he, that I sometimes neglect these little things. But it's a downright shame, Mr. Cameron, when it's so easy for you to draw off a check and put it into your pocket, remarked his wife. Oh, it's not a particle of difference. Mrs. Turner volunteered to say, smiling, though to tell the truth she would much rather have had the money. Well, I'll try and bear it in mind this very night, and Mr. Cameron heard away as business pressed. The morning after Mr. Cameron's fourth quarter expired he walked out as usual with his wife before breakfast, but when all assembled at the table they had not. Something very uncommon for them returned. I wonder what keeps Mr. and Mrs. Cameron, remarked Mrs. Turner. Why? I saw them leave in the steamboat for their south this morning, said one of the boarders. You must be mistaken, Mrs. Turner replied. Oh, no, ma'am, not at all. I saw them and conversed with them before the boat started. They told me that they were going on as far as Washington. Very strange, ejaculated Mrs. Turner. They said nothing to me about it. I hope they don't owe you anything, remarked one of the boarders. What did they do? Not much, ma'am, I hope. Over five hundred dollars. Oh, that is too bad. How could you trust a man like Mr. Cameron to such an amount? Why, surely, said Mrs. Turner, he is a respectable and a responsible merchant, and I was in no want of the money. Indeed, Mrs. Turner, he is no such thing. Then what is he? He is one of your gentlemen about town and lives, I suppose, by gambling. At least, such is the reputation he bears. I thought you perfectly understood this. How cruelly I have been deceived, said Mrs. Turner, unable to command her feelings, and rising she left the table in charge of Mary. On examining Mr. and Mrs. Cameron's room their trunk was found, but it was empty. The owners of it, of course, came not back to claim their property. The result of this year's experience in keeping boarders was an income of just $886 in money and a loss of $600 set off against an expense of $2,380. Thus was Mrs. Turner worse off by $1,494 at the end of the year than she was when she commenced keeping boarders. But she made no estimates and had not the most remote idea of how the matter stood. Whenever she wanted money she drew upon the amount placed to her credit in bank by the administrator and her husband's estate, vainly imagining that it would all come back through the boarders. All that she was supposed to be lost of the first year's business were the $600 out of which she had been cheated. Resolving to be more circumspect in the future another year was entered upon, but she could not help seeing that Mary was suffering from hard labour and close confinement, and it pained her exceedingly. One day she said to her a few weeks after they had entered upon the second year, I am afraid Mary this is too hard for you. You begin to look pale and thin. You must spare yourself more. I believe I do need a little rest, mother, said Mary, but if I don't look after things nobody will and then we should soon have our boarders dissatisfied. That is too true, Mary. But I wouldn't mind it so much, mother, if I thought we were getting ahead, but I am afraid we are not. What makes you think so, child? You know we have lost $600 already and that is a great deal of money. True, Mary, but we must be more careful in future. We will soon make that up, I am sure. I hope so, Mary responded with a sigh. She did not herself feel so sanguine of making it up. Still she had not entered into any calculation of income and expense, leaving that to her mother and supposing that all was right as a matter of course. As they continued to set an excellent table they kept up pretty regularly their compliments of boarders. The end of the second year would have shown this result if a calculation had been made. Cash, income, $1,306, lost by boarders, $150, whole expenses, $2,000. Consequently, they were worse off at the end of the year by $694, or in the two years $2,188 by keeping boarders. And now poor Mrs. Turner was startled on receiving her bank book from the bank settled up to find that her $4,000 had dwindled down to $1,812. She could not at first believe her senses, but there were all her checks regularly entered and to dash even the hope that there was a mistake, there were the canceled checks also bearing her own signature. Mary, what shall we do? Was her despairing question as the full truth became distinct to her mind. You say we have sunk more than $2,000 in two years? Yes, my child. And have had all our hard labor for nothing? Mary continued and her voice trembled as she thought of how much she had gone through in that time. Yes, something must be wrong, mother. Let us do what we should have done at first to make a careful estimate of our expenses. Well, it costs us just $10 each week for marketing. And I know that our groceries are at least that including flour and that you see makes $20, and we only get $28 for our eight boarders. Our rent will bring our expenses up to that. And then there are servants' wages, fuel, our own clothes, and the boys' schooling, besides what we lose every year and the hundred little expenses which cannot be enumerated. Bless me, Mary, no wonder we have gone behind hand. Indeed, mother, it is not. We have acted very blindly, Mary. Yes, we have, but we must do so no longer. Let us give up our boarders and move into a smaller house. But what shall we do, Mary? Our money will soon dwindle away. We must do something for a living, mother. That is true. But if we cannot now see what we shall do, that is no reason why we should go on as we are. Our rent, you know, takes away from us $8 a week. We can get a house large enough for our own purposes at $3 a week, or $150 a year. I am sure, thus saving $5 a week there, and that money would buy all the plain food our whole family would eat. But it will never do, Mary, for us to go to moving into a little bit of a pigeon-box of a house. Mother, if we don't get into a cheaper house and husband our resources, we shall soon have no house to live in," said Mary, with unwanted energy. Well, child, perhaps you are right, but I can't bear the thought of it, Mrs. Turner replied, and anyhow I can't see what we are going to do then. We ought to do what we see to be right, mother, had we not? Mary asked, looking affectionately into her mother's face. I suppose so, Mary. Won't it be right for us to reduce our expenses and make the most of what we have left? It certainly will, Mary. Then let us do what seems to be right and we shall see further, I am sure, as soon as we have acted. Thus urged, Mrs. Turner consented to relinquish her borders and to move into a small house at a rent very considerably reduced. Many articles of furniture they were obliged to dispose of, and this added to their little fund some five hundred dollars. About two months after they were fairly settled, Mary said to her mother, I've been thinking a good deal lately, mother, about getting into something that would bring us in a living. Well, child, what conclusion have you come to? You don't like the idea of setting up a little store? No, Mary, it is too exposing. Nor of keeping a school? No. Well, what do you think of my learning the dressmaking business? Nonsense, Mary. But mother, I could learn in six months, and then we could set up the business, and I am sure we could do well. Almost everyone who sets up dressmaking gets along. There was always something low to me in the idea of a milliner or Manchua maker, and I cannot bear the thought of your being one. Mrs. Turner replied in a decided tone. You know what Pope says, mother, honor and shame from no condition rise, act while you're part, they're all they honor lies. Yes, but that is poetry, child. And song is but the eloquence of truth someone has beautifully said, responded Mary smiling. The mother was silent, and Mary, whose mind had never imbibed fully her mother's false notions continued. I am sure there can be no wrong in my making dresses. Someone must make them, and it is the end we have in view, it seems to me, that determines the character of an action. If I, for the sake of procuring an honest living for my mother, my little brothers and myself, am willing to devote my time to dressmaking instead of sitting in idleness and suffering James and Willie to be put out among strangers, then the calling is to me honorable. My aim is honorable and the means are honest. Is it not so, mother? Yes, I suppose it is so, but then there was always something so degrading to me in the idea of being nothing but a dressmaker. Just at that moment a young man named Martin, who had lived with them during the last year of their experiment in keeping borders called in to see them. He kept a store in the city and was reputed to be well off. He had uniformly manifested an interest in Mrs. Turner and her family and was much liked by them. After he was seated Mrs. Turner said to him, I am trying Mr. Martin to beat a strange notion out of Mary's head. She has been endeavouring to persuade me to let her learn the dressmaking business. The young man seemed a little surprised at this communication and Mary evinced a momentary confusion when it was made. He said, however, very promptly and pleasantly turning to Mary. I suppose you have a good reason for it, Miss Mary. I think I have, Mr. Martin, she replied, smiling, we cannot live and educate James and William unless we have a regular income, and I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that what we have cannot last long nor to another, that I am the only one in the family from whom any regular income can be expected. And you are willing to devote yourself to incessant toil night and day for this purpose. Certainly I am, Mary replied with a quiet, cheerful smile. But it will never do, Mr. Martin will it, Mrs. Turner remarked. Why not, Mrs. Turner? Because it is not altogether respectable. I do not see anything disrespectful in the business, but with Mary's motive for entering into it, something highly respectable and honourable. Mr. Martin replied with unusual earnestness. Mrs. Turner was silenced. And you really think of learning the business and then setting it up? said Mr. Martin, turning to Mary with a manifest interest which she felt rather than perceived. Certainly I do, if mother does not positively object. Then I wish you all success and your praiseworthy undertaking, and may the end you have in view support you amid the weirsome toil. There was a peculiar feeling in Mr. Martin's tone that touched the heart of Mary, she knew not why, but certain it was that she felt doubly nerved for the task she had proposed herself. As Mr. Martin went at his way homeward that evening, he thought of Mary Turner with an interest new to him. He had never been a great deal in her company while he bordered with her mother, because Mary was always too busy about household affairs to be much in the parlor. But what little he had seen of her made him like her as a friend. He also liked Mrs. Turner and had from these reasons frequently called in to see them since their removal. After going into his room, on his return home that evening, he sat down and remained for some time in a musing attitude. A length he got up and took a few turns across the floor, and again seated himself saying as he did so, if that's the stuff she's made of she's worth looking after. From this period Mr. Martin called to see Mrs. Turner more frequently, and as Mary who had promptly entered upon the duties of a dressmaker's apprentice came home every evening, he had as many opportunities of being with her and conversing with her as he desired. Amiable accomplished and intelligent, she failed not to make unconsciously to herself a decided impression upon the young man's heart, nor could she conceal from herself that she was happier in his company than she was at any other time. Week after week and month after month passed quickly away, and Mary was rapidly acquiring a skill in the art she was learning, rarely obtained by any. After the end of four months she could turn off a dress equal to anyone in the workroom. But this constant application was making sad inroads upon her health. For two years she had been engaged in active and laborious duties, even beyond her strength. The change from this condition to the perfectly sedentary was more than her constitution could bear up under, especially as she was compelled to bend over her needle regularly from ten to twelve hours each day. As the time for the expiration of her term of service approached, she felt her strength to be fast failing her. Her cheek had become paler and thinner, her step more languid and her appetite was almost entirely gone. These indications of failing health were not unobserved by Mr. Martin. But not having made up his mind definitely that she was precisely the woman he wanted for his wife, he could not interfere to prevent her continuance at the business which was too evidently destroying her health. But every time he saw her, his interest in her became tenderer. If no one steps forward and saves her, he would sometimes say to himself, as he gazed with saddened feelings upon her colorless cheek, she will fall a victim in the very bloom of womanhood. And Mary herself saw the sad prospect before her. She told no one of the pain in her side, nor of the sickening sensation of weakness and weariness that daily oppressed her. But she toiled on and on, hoping to feel better soon. At last her probation ended, but the determined and ambitious spirit that had kept her up now gave way. Martin knew the day when her apprenticeship expired and without asking why followed the impulse that prompted him and called upon her in the evening. Is anything the matter, Mrs. Turner? He asked, with a feeling of alarm on entering the house and catching a glance at the expression of that lady's countenance. Oh yes, Mr. Martin, Mary is extremely ill, she replied in evident, painful anxiety. What ails her? He asked, showing equal concern. I do not know, Mr. Martin. She came home this evening and as soon as she reached her chamber fainted away. I sent for the doctor immediately, and he says that she must be kept very quiet and that he will be here very early in the morning again. I am afraid she has overworked herself. Indeed, I am sure she has. For many weeks back I have noticed her altered appearance and loss of appetite. It was in vain that I urged her to spare herself for a few weeks and to make up the time afterwards. She steadily urged the necessity of getting into business as soon as possible and would not give up. She has sacrificed herself, Mr. Martin, I very much fear, to her devotion to the family. And Mrs. Turner burst into tears. We need not say how sad and depressed Martin was on turning away from the house without the chance of seeing Mary under the idea too of her dangerous illness. He called about ten o'clock the next morning and learned that she was no better, that the doctor had been there and pronounced her in a low nervous fever. Strict injunctions had been left that no one should be admitted to her room but the necessary attendants. Regularly every morning and evening Martin called to ask after Mary for the space of fifteen days and always received the sad information that she was no better. His feelings had now become intensely excited. He blamed himself for having favoured the idea of Mary's going to learn a trade. How easily I might have prevented it, he said to himself, how blind I was to her true worth, how much suffering and toil I might have saved her. On the evening of the sixteenth day he received the glad intelligence that Mary was better. That although greatly emaciated and feeble as an infant, a decidedly healthy action had taken place and the doctor expressed confident hopes of her recovery. May I not see her, Mrs. Turner? he asked earnestly. Not yet, Mr. Martin, the doctor is positive in his directions to have her kept perfectly quiet. Martin had, of course, to acquiesce but with great reluctance. For five days more he continued to call in twice every day and each time found her slightly improved. May I not see her now? he again asked at the end of these additional days of anxious self-denial. If you will not talk to her, said Mrs. Turner. Martin promised and was shown up to her chamber. His heart sickened as he approached the bedside and looked upon the thin white, almost expressionless face and sunken eyes of her who was now the ruler of his affections. He took her hand that returned a feeble, almost imperceptible pressure but did not trust himself to utter her name. She hardly seemed conscious of his presence and he soon turned away, sad, very sad, yet full of hope for her recovery. The healthy action continued and in a week Mary could bear conversation. As soon as she could begin to sit up, Martin passed every evening with her and seeing as he now did with different eyes, he perceived in her a hundred things to admire that had before escaped his notice. Recovering rapidly in a month she was fully restored to health and looked better than she had for years. Just about this time as Martin was making up his mind to declare himself her lover, he was surprised on entering their parlor one evening to find on the table a large brass door plate with the words Mary Turner, fancy dressmaker, engraved upon it. Why, what are you going to do with this, Mary? He asked, forgetting that she did not know his peculiar thoughts about her. I am going to commence my business, she replied in a quiet tone. I have learned a trade and now I must turn it if possible to some good account. But your health won't bear it, Mary, he urged. Don't you know that you made yourself sick by your close application in learning your trade? I do, Mr. Martin, but still you know why I learned my trade. Mr. Martin paused for a few moments and then looking into her face said, Yes, I know the reason, Mary, and I always admired your noble independence in acting as you did. Nay! And he took her hand. If you will permit me to say so. Have loved you ever since I had a true appreciation of your character. May I hope for a return of kindred fillings. Mary Turner's face became instantly crimson with burning blushes, but she did not withdraw her hand. A brief silence in suit during which the only sounds audible to the ears of each was the beating of their own hearts. Martin at length said, Have I ought to hope, Mary? You know, Mr. Martin, she replied in a voice that slightly trembled, that I have duties to perform beyond myself. However much my feelings may be interested, these cannot be set aside. Under present circumstances my hand is not my own to give. But your duties will become mine, Mary, and most gladly will I assume them. Only give me your hand, and in return I will give you a home for all you love, and you can do for them just as your heart desires. Will you now be mine? If my mother object not, she said, bursting into tears. Of course the mother had no objection to urge, and in a few weeks they were married. It was perhaps three months after this event that the now happy family were seated in a beautifully furnished parlor, large enough to suit even Mrs. Turner's ideas. Something had turned their thoughts on the past, and Mary alluded to their sad experience in keeping borders. You did not lose much, did you? asked her husband. We sunk over two thousand dollars, Mary replied. Is it possible? You paid rather dear than for your experience in keeping a boarding house. So I then thought, Mary answered, looking into his face with a smile, but I believe it was money well laid out, what you call a good investment. How so? Mary stooped down to the ear of her husband, who sat a little behind her mother and whispered, You are dull dear, I got you by it, didn't I? His young wife's cheek was very convenient, and his lips touched it almost involuntarily. What is that, Mary? asked her mother, turning towards them, for she had heard her remark and was waiting for the explanation. Oh, nothing, mother, it was only some of my fun. You seem quite full of fun lately, said Mrs. Turner, with a quiet smile of satisfaction, and again bent her eyes upon the book she was reading. End of CHAPTER XXIX CHAPTER XXXXX, two ways with domestics, of trials and confessions of a housekeeper. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper, by T. S. Arthur. CHAPTER XXXX, two ways with domestics. Ah, good morning, dear, I'm really glad to see you, said Helen Armitage, to her young friend Fanny Milner, as the latter came in to sit an hour with her. I just wanted a little sunshine. There ought to be plenty of sunshine here. Returned Fanny, smiling. You always seem happy, and so does your mother and sister Mary, whenever I meet you abroad. Abroad or at home makes quite a difference, Fanny. Precious little sunshine have we here. Not a day passes over our heads, that we are not thrown into hot water about something or other, with our abominable servants. I declare, I never saw the like, and it grows worse and worse every day. Indeed, that is bad, sure enough, but can't you remedy this defect in some way? We try hard enough, dear knows. I believe we have had no less than six cooks and as many chambermaids in the last three months, but change only makes the matter worse. Sometimes they are so idle and dirty that we cannot tolerate them for a week, and then again they are so ill-natured and downright saucy that no one can venture to speak to them. As Helen Armitage said this, she arose from her chair and walking deliberately across the room, rang the parlor bell, and then quietly walked back again and resumed her seat, continuing her remarks, as she did so, upon the exhaustless theme she had introduced. In a little while a domestic entered. That door has been left open by someone, the young lady said in a half-fixed tone of authority, and with a glance of reproof as she pointed to the door of the back parlor leading into the passage. The servant turned quickly away, muttering as she did so, and left the parlor slamming the door after her with a sudden indignant jerk. You see that! remarked Helen, the color deepening on her cheeks and her voice indicating a good deal of inward disturbance. That's just the way we are served by nine out of ten of the people we get about us. They neglect everything, and then, when reminded of their duty, flirt and grumble and fling about just as you saw that girl do this moment. I'll ring for her again and make her shut that door she ought to do, the insolent creature. Helen was rising when Fanny laid her hand on her arm and set in a quiet persuasive tone. No, no, don't, Helen. She is out of temper and will only retort angrily at further reproof, the better ways to pass over these things as if you did not notice them. And let them ride over as rough shud as they most certainly will. The fact is, with all our efforts to make them know and keep their places, we find it impossible to gain any true subordination in the house. We never have any trouble of this kind, Fanny said. You must be very fortunate, then. I don't know as to that. I never recollect an instance in which a domestic opposed my mother or failed to obey cheerfully any request, and we have had several in our house within my recollection, at least half a dozen. Half a dozen? Oh, dear, we have half a dozen a month sometimes. Come, let us go up to my room. I have some new prints to show you. They are exquisite. My father bought them for me last week. The two young ladies ascended to Helen's chamber in the third story, but the book of prints was not to be found there. It is in the parlor I recollect now, said Helen, ringing the bell as she spoke with a quick strong jerk. In about three or four minutes, and just as the young lady's patience was exhausted and her fingers were beginning to itch for another pull at the bell-rope, the tardy waiting woman appeared. Hannah, go down into the parlor and bring me off of the piano a book you will find there. It is a broad flat book with loose sheets in it. This was said in a tone of authority. The domestic turned away without speaking and went downstairs. In a little while she came back and handed Helen a book, answering the description given, but it was a portfolio of music. Oh no, not this! said she with a curl of the lip and an impatient tossing of her head. How stupid you are, Hannah! The book I want contains prints, and this is only a music book. There, take it back and bring me the book of prints. Hannah took the book, and muttering as she went out returned to the parlor down two long flights of stairs and laid it upon the piano. If you want the pictures you may get them yourself, Miss, you've got more time to run up and downstairs than I have. As she said this Hannah left the parlor, and the book of prints lying upon the piano, and went back to the chamber she had been engaged in cleaning up when called away by Helen's bell. It was not long after she had resumed her occupation before the bell sounded loudly through the passages. Hannah smiled bitterly and with an air of resolution as she listened to the iron summons. Pull away to your heart's content, Miss, she said half audibly. When you call me again, take care and know what you want me for. I've got something else to do besides running up and downstairs to bring you pictures. Why didn't you look at them while you were in the parlor, or take them up with you if you wanted them in your chamber? Did you ever see the like? ejaculated Helen deeply disturbed at finding both her direction and her subsequent summons unattended to. That's just the way we are constantly served by these abominable creatures. Two or three heavy jerks at the bell-robe followed these remarks. Pull away, it's good exercise for you, muttered Hannah to herself, and this was all the notice she took of the incensed young lady who was finally compelled to go downstairs and get the prints herself. But she was so much disturbed and caused Fanny to feel so unpleasantly that neither of them had any real enjoyment in examining the beautiful pictures. After these had been turned over and remarked upon for some time, and they had spent an hour in conversation, the bell was again rung. Hannah, who came with her usual reluctance, was directed to prepare some lemonade and bring it up with cake. This she did after a good deal of delay for which she was grumbled at by Helen. After the cake had been eaten and the lemonade drank, Hannah was again summoned to remove the waiter. This was performed with the same ill-grace that every other service had been rendered. I declare, these servants worry me almost to death. Helen again broke forth. This is just the way I am served, whenever I have a visitor. It is always the time Hannah takes to be ill-natured and show off her obliging, ugly temper. Fanny made no reply to this, but she had her own thoughts. It was plain enough to her mind that her friend had only herself to blame for the annoyance she suffered. After witnessing one or two more petty contentions with the domestic, Fanny went away, her friend promising at her particular request to come and spend a day with her early in the ensuing week. It can do no harm and may do good for us to draw aside for an instant the veil that screened from general observation, the domestic economy of the Armitage family. They were well enough off, in the world as regards wealth, but rather poorly off in respect to self-government, and that domestic wisdom which arranges all parts of a household in just subordination, and thus prevents collisions or encroachments of one portion upon another. With them a servant was looked upon as a machine who had nothing to do but to obey all commands. As to the rights of servants in a household that was something of which they had never dreamed. Of course constant rebellion, or the most unwillingly performed duties, was the undeviating attendant upon their domestic economy. It was a maxim with Mrs. Armitage never to indulge or favour one of her people in the smallest matter. She had never done so in her life, she said, that she had got any thanks for it. It always made them presumptuous and dissatisfied. The more you did for them, the more they expected and soon came to demand as a right what had been at first granted as a favour. Mrs. Armitage was, in a word, one of those petty domestic tyrants who rule with the rod of apparent authority. Perfect submission she deemed the only true order in a household. Of course true order she never could gain, for such a thing as perfect submission to arbitrary rule among domestics in this country never has and never will be yielded. The law of kindness and consideration is the only true law, and where this is not efficient, none other will or can be. As for Mrs. Armitage and her daughters, each one of whom bore herself towards the domestics with an air of imperiousness and dictation, they never reflected before requiring a service, whether such a service would not be felt as burdensome in the extreme, and therefore whether it might not be dispensed with at the time. Without regard to what might be going on in the kitchen, the parlor or chamber, bells were rung and servants required to leave their half-finished meals, or to break away in the midst of important duties that had to be done by a certain time to attend to some trifling matter which, in fact, should never have been assigned to a domestic at all. Under this system it was no wonder that a constant succession of complaints against servants should be made by the Armitages. How could it be otherwise? Flesh and blood could not patiently bear the trials to which these people were subjected. Nor was it any wonder that frequent changes took place or that they were only able to retain the most inferior class of servants and then only for short periods. There are a few, perhaps, who cannot refer among their acquaintances to a family like the Armitages. They may ordinarily be known by their constant complaints about servants and their dictatorial way of speaking whenever they happen to call upon them for the performance of any duty. In pleasing contrast to them were the Milner's. Let us go with Helen in her visit to Fanny. When the day came which she had promised to spend with her young friend, Helen, after getting out of patience with a chambermaid for her tardy attendance upon her, and indulging her daily murmurs against servants, at last emerged into the street and took her way towards the dwelling of Mr. Milner. It was a bright day and her spirits soon rose superior to the little annoyances that had fretted her for the past hour. When she met Fanny she was in the best possible humour, and so seemed the tidy domestic who had admitted her, for she looked very cheerful and smiled as she opened the door. How different from our grumbling slovenly set! Helen could not help remarking to herself as she passed in. Fanny welcomed her with genuine, courteality, and the two young ladies were soon engaged in pleasant conversation. After exhausting various themes they turned to music and played and sang together for half an hour. I believe I have some new prints that you have never seen, said Fanny on their leaving the piano, and she looked around for the portfolio of engravings but could not find it. Oh! now I remember! It is upstairs. Excuse me for a minute, and I will run and get it. As Fanny said this she glided from the room. In a few minutes she returned with the book of prints. Pardon me, Fanny, but why didn't you call a servant to get the portfolio for you? You have them in the house to wait upon you. Oh! as to that, returned Fanny. I always prefer to wait upon myself when I can and so remain independent. And besides the girls are all busy ironing, and I would not call them off from their work for anything that I could do myself. Ironing day is a pretty hard day for all of them, for our family is large, and mother always likes her work done well. But if you adopt that system you'll soon have them grumbling at the nearest trifle you may be compelled to ask them to do. So far from that, Helen, I never make a request of any domestic in the house that is not instantly and cheerfully met. To make you sensible of the good effects of the system I pursue of not asking to be waited on when I can help myself, I will mention that as I came down just now with these engravings in my hand I met our chambermaid on the stairs with a basket of clothes in her hands. There now, Miss Fanny, she said half reprovingly, why didn't she call me to get that for you and not leave your company in the parlor? There is no reluctance about her, you see. She knows that I spare her whenever I can and she's willing to oblige me whenever she can do so. Truly she must be the eighth wonder of the world, said Helen, in laughing surprise. Who ever heard of a servant that asked as a favour to be permitted to serve you, all of which I or saw or heard, cared only to get out of doing everything and strove to be asked to subligeing as possible? It is related. Of the good Oberlin, replied Fanny, that he was asked one day by an old female servant who had been in his house for many years whether there were servants in heaven. On his inquiring the reason for so singular a question he received in substance, says reply, heaven will be no heaven to me, unless I have the privilege of ministering to your wants and comfort there as I have the privilege of doing here. I want to be your servant even in heaven. Now why, Helen, do you suppose that faithful old servant was so strongly attached to Oberlin? Because, I presume, he had been uniformly kind to her. No doubt, that was the principal reason, and that, I presume, is the reason why there is no domestic in our house who will not, at any time, do for me cheerfully and with a seeming pleasure, anything I ask of her. I am sure I never spoke cross to one of them in my life, and I make it a point never to ask them to do for me what I can readily do for myself. Your mother must be very fortunate in her selection of servants. There, I presume, lies a secret. We never had one who could bear the least consideration. Indeed, ma makes it a rule on no count to grant a servant any indulgences whatever. It only spoils them, she says. You must keep them right down to it, or they soon get good for nothing. My mother's system is very different, Fanny said, and we have no trouble. The young ladies then commenced examining the prince after which Fanny asked to be excused a moment. In a little while she returned with a small waiter of refreshments. Helen did not remark upon this, and Fanny made new allusion to the fact of not having called a servant from the kitchen to do what she could so easily do herself. A book next engaged their attention and occupied them until dinner time. At the table, a tidy domestic waited with cheerful alacrity, so different from the sulky, slow attendance at home. Some water, Rachel, if you please. Or Rachel, step down and bring up some hot potatoes. Or here, Rachel, with a pleasant smile, you have forgotten the salt spoons, were forms of addressing a waiter upon the table so different from what Helen had ever heard, that she listened to them with utter amazement, and she was no less surprised to see, with what cheerful alacrity every direction or rather request was obeyed. After they all rose from the table and had retired to the parlor, a pleasant conversation took place in which no allusions whatever were made to the dreadful annoyance of servants, an almost unvarying subject of discourse at Mr. Armitage's, after the conclusion of nearly every badly-cooked, ill-served meal. A discourse too often overheard by some one of the domestics and retailed in the kitchen, two breed confirmed ill-will and a spirit of opposition towards the principle members of the family. Nearly half an hour had passed from the time they had risen from the table, when a younger sister of Fanny's who was going out to a little afternoon party asked if Rachel might not be called up from the kitchen to get something for her. No, my dear, not until she has finished her dinner, was the mild reply of Mrs. Milner. But it won't take her over a minute, mother, and I am in a hurry. I can't help it, my dear, you will have to wait. Rachel must not be disturbed at her meals. You should have thought of this before dinner. You know I have always tried to impress upon your mind that there are certain hours in which domestics must not be called upon to do anything, unless of serious importance. They have their rights as well as we have, and it is just as wrong for us to encroach upon their rights, as it is for them to encroach upon ours. Never mind, mother, I will wait, the little girl said cheerfully, but I thought it was such a trifle and would have taken her only a minute. It is true, my dear, that is but a trifle, still even trifles of this kind we should form the habit of avoiding, for they may seriously annoy at a time when we dream not that they are thought of for a moment. Think how, just as you had seated yourself at the table, tired and hungry, you would like to be called away, your food scarcely tasted, to perform some task, the urgency of which to you, at least, was very questionable. I was wrong, I know, mother. The child replied, and you were right. All this was new and strange doctrine to Helen, Armitage, that she was unable to see, from the manner in which Mrs. Milner represented the subject, that it was true doctrine. As this became clear to her mind, she saw with painful distinctness the error that had thrown this order into every part of her mother's household, and more than this she inwardly resolved that so far as her action was concerned, a new order of things should take place. In this she was in earnest so much so that she made some allusion to the difference of things at home to what they were at Mrs. Milner's, and frankly confessed that she had not acted upon the kind and considerate principles that seemed to govern all in this well-ordered family. My dear child, Mrs. Milner said to her with affectionate earnestness in reply to this allusion. Depend upon it, four-fifths of the bad domestics are made so by injudicious treatment. They are for the most part ignorant of almost everything and too often particularly of their duties in a family. Instead of being born with, instructed and treated with consideration, they are scolded, driven and found fault with. Kind words they too rarely receive, and no one can well and cheerfully perform all that is required of her as a domestic, if she is never spoken to kindly, never considered, never born with patiently. It is in our power to make a great deal of work for our servants that is altogether unnecessary, and, of course, in our power to save them many steps and many moments of time. If we are in the chambers and wish a servant for anything, and she is down in the kitchen engaged, it is always well to think twice before we ring for her once. It may be that we do not really want attendance of any one, or can just as well wait until some errand has brought her upstairs. Then there are various little things in which we can help ourselves and ought to do it. It is unpardonable, I think, for a lady to ring for a servant to come up one or two pairs of stairs merely to hand her a drink when all she has to do is cross the room and get it for herself, or for a young lady to require a servant to attend to all her little wants when she can and ought to help herself, even if it takes her from the third story to the kitchen half a dozen times a day. Above all, domestics should never be scolded. If reproof is necessary, let it be administered in a calm, mild voice, and the reasons shown why the act complained of is wrong. This is the only way in which any good is done. I wish my mother could only learn that, said Helen mentally, as Mrs. Milner ceased speaking. When she returned home it was with a deeply formed resolution never again to speak reprovenly to any of her mother's domestics, never to order them to do anything for her, and never to require them to wait upon her when she could just as well help herself. In this she proved firm. The consequence was an entire change in Hannah's deportment towards her, and a cheerful performance by her of everything she asked her to do. This could not be but observed by her mother, and it induced her to modify, to some extent, her way of treating her servants. The result was salutary, and now she has far less trouble with them than she ever had in her life. All she finds are not so worthless as she had deemed them. I close my volume of rambling sketches with a chapter more didactic and serious. The duties of the housekeeper and mother usually unite in the same person, but difficult and perplexing as is the former relation, how light and easy are all its claims compared with those of the latter. Among my readers are many mothers. Let us for a little while hold counsel together. To the mind of a mother who loves her children, no subject can have so deep an interest as that which has respect to the well-being of her offspring. Young mothers especially feel the need, the great need of the hints and helps to be derived from others' experiences. To them the duty of rightly guiding, forming and developing the young mind is altogether new one. At every step they feel their incompetence and are troubled at their want of success. A young married friend, the mother of two active little boys, said to me, one day earnestly, Oh, I think sometimes that I would give the world if I only could see clearly what was my duty towards my children. I tried to guide them aright. I tried to keep them from all improper influences, but rank weeds continually spring up with the flowers I have planted. How shall I extirpate these without injuring the others? How many a young mother thus thinks and feels. It is indeed a great responsibility that rests upon her. With the most constant and careful attention she will find the task of keeping out the weeds a hard one, but let her not become weary or discouraged. The enemy is ever seeking to sew tears amid her wheat, and he will do it if she sleep at her post. Constant care, good precept, and above all, good example who'll do much. The gardener whose eye is ever over and whose hand is ever busy in his garden accomplishes much. The measure of his success may be seen if the eye rests for but a moment on the garden of his neighbor, the sluggard. Even if a weed springs here and there it is quickly plucked up and never suffered to obstruct or weaken the growth of asculent plants. A mall may enter stealthily, marring the beauty of a flowerbed and disturbing the roots of some garden favorite, but through the careful husbandman's well-set enclosure no beasts find an entrance. So it will be with the watchful, conscientious mother. She will sew fence around her children from external dangers and allurements that destructive beasts will be kept out, and she will at the same time cultivate the garden of their good affections and extirpate the weeds that her children may grow up in moral health and beauty. All this can be done, but the right path must be seen before we can walk in it. Every mother feels as the one I have alluded to, but some, while they feel as deeply, have not the clear perceptions of what is right that others have. Much has been written on the subject of guiding and governing children. Much that is good and much that is of doubtful utility. I will here present from the pen of an English lady whose work has not, we believe, been reprinted in this country a most excellent series of precepts. They deserve to be written in letters of gold and hung up in every nursery. She says, The moment a child is born into the world, a mother's duties commence, and of all those which God has allotted to mortals, there are none so important as those which devolve upon a mother. More fuel and helpless than anything else of living creatures is an infant in the first days of its existence, unable to minister to its own wants, unable even to make those wants known. A feeble cry which indicates suffering, but not what or where the pain is, is all it can utter. But to meet these weakness and in capacity on the part of the infant, God has implanted in the heart of the mother a yearning affection to her offspring so that she feels this almost inanimate being to be a part of herself, and every cry of pain acts as a dagger to her own heart. And to humanity alone of all the tribes of animated beings has a power been given to nullify this feeling. Beast, bird, and insect attend to the wants of their offspring, accordingly as those wants require much or little assiduity. But a woman, if she will, can drug and stupify this feeling. She can commit the charge of her child to dependents and servants, and need only to take care of that enough is provided to meet that child's wants, but need not see herself that those wants are actually met. But a woman who does this is far, very far from doing her duty. Who is so fit to watch over the wants of infancy as she who gave that infant birth? Can a mother suppose that if she can so stifle those sensibilities which prompt her to provide for the wants of her children, servants, and dependents in whom no such sensibilities exist will be very solicitous about their charge? How many of the infant's cries will be unattended to which would at once have made their way to the heart of a mother, and therefore how many of the child's wants will in consequence remain uncared for? No one can understand so well the wants of a child as a mother. No one is ever so ready to meet those wants as she, and therefore to none but a mother under ordinary circumstances should the entire charge of a child be committed. And in all countries in which luxury has not so far attained the ascendancy, that in order to partake of its pleasures a mother will desert her offspring, the cares and trials of maternal love are entered upon as the sweetest of enjoyments and the greatest of pleasures. It was a noble saying of a queen of France that none should share with her the privileges of a mother, and if the same sentiment found its way into every heart a very different aspect would soon be produced. How many, through ill treatment and neglect in childhood, carry the marks to their dying day in weak and sickly constitutions? How many more in a distorted body and crippled limbs? These are but the two short consequences of the neglect of a mother, and consequent upon that, the neglect of servants who, feeling the child a burden, lessen their own trouble, and many a mother who, perhaps, now that her child has grown up, weeps bitter tears over his infirmities, might have saved his pain and her own sorrow by attending to his wants and infancy. Can a mother forget her sucking child? Asks the inspired penman in a way that it would seem to be so great an anomaly as almost to amount to an impossibility. Yet modern luxury not only proves that such a thing can be done, but it is one even of common occurrence. But if done, surely some great stake must be pending, something on which life and property are concerned that a mother can thus forget the child of her bosom. Alas, no! The child is neglected that no interruption may take place in the mother's stream of pleasure, for the blandishments of the theatre or the excitements of the dance is a child left to the charge of those who have nothing of love for it, no sympathy for its sufferings, no joyousness in sharing in its pleasures. A woman forfeits all claim to the sacred character of a mother if she abandoned her offspring to the entire care of others. For ere she can do this, she must have stifled all the best feelings of her nature and become worse than the infidel, for she gives freely to the stranger and neglects her own. Therefore should a woman if she would fulfill her duty make her child her first care. It is not necessary that her whole time should be spent in attending to its wants, but it is necessary that so much of the time should be spent that nothing should be neglected which could add to the child's comfort and happiness, and not only is it needful that a woman should show a motherly fondness for her child, so that she should attend its wants and be solicitous for its welfare. It is also necessary that she should know how those wants are best to be provided for, and how that welfare is best to be consulted, for to the natural feelings which prompt animals to provide for their offspring, to humanities added the noble gift of reason, so that thought and solicitude are not merely the effects of blind instinct, but the produce of a higher and nobler faculty. As we have already averted to this point, we shall only say that without a knowledge of how the physical wants of a child are to be met in the best manner, a mother cannot be said to be performing her duty for the kindness which is bestowed may be but the result of natural feeling which it would be far harder to resist than to fulfill, whereas the want of knowledge may have resulted from ignorance and idleness, and the loss of this knowledge will never be made up by natural kindness and love. It will be like trying to work without hands, or to see when the eyes are blinded. But there is yet a higher duty devolving upon women. She has to attend to the mental and moral wants of her offspring, as well as to the physical, and helpless as we are born into the world if reference be made to our physical wants. We are yet more helpless if reference be made to our mental and moral. We come into the world with evil passions, perverted faculties, and unholy dispositions, for let what will be said of the blandness and attractiveness of children there are in those young hearts the seeds of evil and it needs but that a note be taken of what passes in the everyday life of a child to convince that all is not so amiable as at first sight appears, but that the heart hides dark deformity, had strong passions and vicious thoughts, and to a mother's lot it falls to be the instructress of her children, their guide and pattern, and she fails in her duty when she fails in either of these points. But it may be said that the requirement is greater than humanity can perform and that it would need angelic purity to be able fully to meet it, for who shall say that she is so perfect that no inconsistencies shall appear between what she teaches and what she practices. It would be indeed to suppose mother is more than human to think that their instructions should be perfect. The best of mothers are liable to err, and the love a mother has for her child may tempt her frequently to pass over faults which she knows ought to be corrected. But making due allowance for human incompetency and human weakness still will a mother be bound to the utmost of her power to be the instructress of her child equally by the lessons she inculcates and the pattern she exhibits. There is indeed too much neglect shown in the instruction of children. Mothers seem to think that if amiable qualities are shown in the exterior no instruction is necessary for the heart, but this is a most futile attempt to make children virtuous. It is like attempting to purify water halfway down the stream and leaving it still foul at the source. The heart should be the first thing instructed, a motive and a reason should be given for every requirement. A motive and a reason should be given for every abstinence called for, and when the heart is made to love virtue the actions will be those of virtue, for it is the heart which is the great mover of all actions, and the moment a child can distinguish between a smile and a frown from that moment should instruction commence, and instruction suited indeed to infantine capacities but which should be enlarged as the child's capacities expand. It is very bad policy to suffer the first years of a child's life to pass without instruction, for if good be not written on the mind there is sure to be evil. It is a mother's duty to watch the expanding intellect of her child and to suit her instructions accordingly. It is equally so to learn its disposition to study its wishes, its hopes, and its fears, and to direct, control, and point them to noble aims and ends. Oh, not alone is it needful that a mother be solicitous for the health and happiness of her child on earth, a far higher and more important thought should engage her attention, concerned for her child as an immortal and unaccountable being. To all who bear the endearing name of mother thus would we speak, that child with whom you are so fondly playing, whose happy and smiling countenance might serve for the representation of a cherub and whose merry laugh rings joyously and free. Yes, that blooming child notwithstanding all these pleasing and attractive smiles has a heart prone to evil. To you it is committed to be the teacher of that child, and on that teaching will mainly, if not entirely, depend its future happiness or misery, not of a few brief years, not of a lifetime, but of eternity, for though a dying creature it is still immortal, and the happiness or misery of that immortality depends upon your instruction. Will you neglect or refuse to be your child's teacher? Shall the world and its pleasures draw off your attention from your duty when so much is at stake? Or will you leave your child to glean knowledge as best it can, thus imbibing all principles and all habits, most of them on wholesome and many poisonous? You can decide. You, the mother. You gave it life. You may make that life a blessing or a curse, as you inculcate good or evil. For if through your neglect or through a bad example, you let evil passions obtain an ascendancy, that child may grow into a desolate and immoral man. His career may be one of debauchery and profaneness. And then when he comes to die, in the agonies of remorse, in the delirium of a conscious stricken spirit, he may gasp out his last breath with a curse on your head, for having given him life, but not a disposition to use it aright, so that his has been a life of shame and disgrace here, and will be one of misery hereafter. That child's character is yet untainted, with you that decision rests. His destiny is in your hands. He may have dispositions the most dark and foul, falseness, hatred and revenge, but you may prevent their growth. He may have dispositions the most bland and attractive. You can so order it that contact with the world shall never sully them. Yes, you the mother can prevent the evil and nurture the good. You can teach that child, you can rear it, discipline it. You can make your offspring so love you, that the memory of your piety shall prevent their wickedness, and the hallowed recollection of your goodness stimulate their own. And equally in your power is it to neglect your child, by suffering pleasure to lure you by following the follies of fashion, or by the charm of those baubles which the world presents to the eye, but keeps from your grasp. You may neglect your child. But you have neglected a plain and positive duty, a duty which is engraven on your heart and wound into your nature, and a duty neglected is sure sooner or later to come back again as an avenger to punish, while on the other hand a duty performed to the best of the ability returns back to the performer laden with a blessing. But it may be said how our children to be trained in order that happiness may be the result. It is quite impossible to lay down rules for the management of children, since those which would serve for guidance in regulating the conduct of one child would work the worst results when applied to another. But we mention a few particulars. The grand secret in the management of children is to treat them as reasonable beings. We see that they are governed by hope, fear, and love. These feelings then should be made the instruments by which their education is conducted. Whenever it is possible, and it is very rarely that it is not, a reason should be given for every requirement and a motive for the undertaking any task. This would lead the child to see that nothing was demanded out of caprice or whim, but that it was a requirement involving happiness as well as duty. This method would also teach the child to reverence and respect the parent. She would be regarded as possessed of superior knowledge, and he would the more readily undertake demands for which he could see no reason, from a knowledge that no commands of which he understood the design were ever unreasonable. The manner of behaving to children should be one of kindness, though marked by decision of character. An over fondness should never allow a mother to gratify her child in anything unreasonable, and after having once refused a request, which she should not do hastily or unadvisedly, no coaxing or tears should divert her from her purpose. For if she gives way, the child will at once understand that he has a power over his mother, and will resort to the same expedient whenever occasion may require. And a worse evil than this is, that respect for the parent will be lost, and the child, in place of yielding readily to her wishes, will try means of trick and evasion to elude them. In order to really manage a child well, a mother should become a child herself. She should enter into its hopes and fears, and share its joys and sorrows. She should bend down her mind to that of her offspring, so as to be pleased with all those trivial actions which give it pleasure, and to sorrow over those which bring it pain. This would secure a love firm and ardent, and at the same time lasting, for as a child advanced in strength of intellect so might the mother, until the child grew old enough to understand the ties which bound them, and then by making him a friend she would bind him to her for life. There are none of the human race so sagacious and keen-sighted as children. They seem to understand intuitively a person's disposition, and they quickly notice any discrepancies or inconsistencies of conduct. On this point should particular attention be paid that there be nothing practiced to cheat the child. Underhand means are frequently resorted to to persuade a child to perform or abstain from some particular duty or object, but in a very short time it will be found out, and the child has been taught a lesson in deception which it will not fail to use when occasion requires. And under this head might be included all that petty species of deceit used towards children, whether to mislead their apprehension or to divert their attention. If anything be improper for a child to know or do, better tell him so at once, than resort to an underhand expedient. If a reason can be given for requiring the abstinence it should, but if not tell the child that the reason is such that he could not comprehend it and he will remain satisfied. But if trick or scheming be resorted to, the child will have learned the two improper lessons of first being cunning, and then telling a falsehood to avoid it. In whatever way you wish to act upon a child always propose the highest and noblest motive. This will generally be a motive which centers in God. Thus in teaching a child to speak the truth it should be proposed, not so much out of obedience to parents as out of obedience to God, and in all requirements the love and fear of God should be prominently set forth. A child is born with feelings of religion, and if these feelings are properly called forth the actions will generally have a tendency to good. Thus with a child whose disposition is to deceive a mother has no hold upon such and one, for the child will soon perceive that his mother cannot follow him everywhere, and that he can commit with impunity many actions of deceit. But impress the child with the truth that a being is watching these actions, and that though done with the greatest cunning they cannot be committed with impunity, and it is more than probable that they will never be committed at all. A temptation may be thrown in the way of such a child, but it will not be powerful enough to overcome the feeling that the action is watched. That child may eagerly pent to perform the forbidden action, or to partake of the forbidden pleasure, but he will not be able to rid himself of the feeling that it cannot be done without being observed. He will stand in a state of anxiety, and steal a glance around in order to see the being he feels is looking upon him, and every breeze at murmurs will be a voice to chide him, and every leaf at whistles will seem a footstep, and never will he be able to break the restraint for wherever he goes and whatever he does, he will feel that his actions are watched by one who will punish the bad and reward the good. And in the same way might this be applied to all dispositions and feelings. How cheering is it to a timid child to be told that at no time is he left alone, but that the being who made everything preserves and keeps everything, and that nothing can happen but by his permission. This is to disarm fear of its terrors, and to implant a confidence in the mind for the child will feel that while his actions are good, he is under the protection of an almighty parent. In the same way in stimulating a child to the performance of a duty, the end proposed should be the favor of God. This would ensure the duty being entered upon with a right spirit, not merely for the sake of show and effect, but springing from the heart and the mind and at the same time, it would prevent anything of hypocrisy. If it were only the estimation of the world which was to be regarded, a child could soon understand that the applause would be gained by the mere exterior performance, be the motive what it might, but when the motive is centered in God, it is readily understood that the feeling must be genuine. Otherwise, whatever the world may say, God will look upon it as unworthy and base. We believe it would be found to work the best results if all the actions of a child were made thus to depend upon their harmony with the will of God, for it would give a sacredness to every action, make every motive a high and holy one, and harmonize the thoughts of the heart with the actions of the life. But in this mode of teaching it is essentially necessary that a mother should herself be an example of the truth she teaches. It will be worse than useless to teach a child that God is always at hand, and spieth out all our ways if she act as though she did not believe in the existence of a deity. In the same way will it hold good of every requirement. It will be vain to teach a child that lying is a great crime in God's sight when a mother in her own words shows no regard to truth, and equally so of all other passions and feelings. It is idle to teach a child that pride, hatred, revenge, anger are unholy passions if a mother's own conduct displays either of them. How useless is it to teach that vanity should never be indulged in when a mother delights in display? Such instruction, as this, is like the web of penlobe unpicked as fast as done. The greatest reverence is due to a child and previously to becoming a teacher a mother should learn this hardest of all lessons, no thyself. Without this instruction she gives her children will at best prove very imperfect. It is quite useless to teach children to reverence anything. When a mother's conduct shows that practically, at least, she has no belief in the truths she inculcates. And a very hard requirement this is, but it is a requirement absolutely necessary if education is meant to be anything more than nominal. The finest lesson on the beauty of truth is enforced by a mother, never herself saying what is false for children pay great regard to consistency, and very soon detect any discrepancies between that which is taught and that which is practiced. The best method of inculcating truth on the minds of children is by analogy and illustration. They cannot follow an argument though they readily understand a comparison and by a judicious arrangement everything either animate or inanimate might be made to become a teacher. What lesson on industry would be so likely to be instructive as that gathered from a beehive? The longest dissertation on the evils of idleness and the advantages of industry would not prove half so beneficial as directing the observation to the movements of the bee that ever active insect which without the aid of reason exercises prudence and foresight and provides against the wants of winter. A child will readily understand such instruction as this and will blush to be found spending precious hours in idleness. And in the same way with other duties whether to God or mankind the fowls of the air and the flowers of the field might be made profitable teachers. And the child would wherever he went be surrounded with instruction. This mode of teaching has this special recommendation. It raises up no evil passions and a child which would display an evil temper by being reproved in words will feel no such ranker at a lesson being inculcated in a way like this. This instruction will also be much longer remembered than one delivered in words for as much as the object upon which the instruction is based would be continually presented to the eye. And we believe almost all duties might be inculcated in this manner. Thus humility by the lily, patience by the spider, affection by the dove, love to parents by the stork all might be rendered teachers and in a way never to be forgotten. And that this mode of teaching is the best we have the example of Christ himself who almost invariably enforced his instructions by an illusion to some created thing. What for instance was so likely to teach man dependence upon God as a reference to the ravens and the lilies which without the aid of reason had their wants cared for. And in the same way with children what is so likely to teach them their duties as a reference to the varied things in nature with whose uses and habits they are well acquainted. God should be the object upon which the child's thoughts are taught to dwell for the minds even of children turn to the beautiful and the beautiful is the divine. All thoughts and actions should be raised to this standard and the child would raise above the feelings of self gratification and vanity and the panting for applause to the favor and love of God. Thus should religion be the great and the first thing taught and a mother should be careful that neither in her own actions nor in the motives she holds out to her children should there be anything inimical or contrary to religion. And by this course the best and happiest results may be expected to follow. The perverse and headstrong passions of the human hearts are so many that numerous instructions may seem to be useless and a mother may have often to sigh over her child as she sees him allowing evil habits to obtain the mastery or unholy dispositions to reign in his heart. But as we have before said we do not think that the instruction will be lost but that a time will come when she will reap the fruits of her toil, care and anxiety. Such then is the duty of woman as a mother to tend and watch over the wants of her child, to guard it in health, to nurse it in sickness, to be solicitous for it in all the changes of life and to prevent as much as possible those many ills to which flesh is air from assailing her fondly cherished offspring. It is also her province to instruct her children in those duties which will fall to their lot both as reasonable and as immortal creatures and by so doing she will make her own life happy, leave to her children a happy heritage on earth and a prospect of a higher one in heaven. But if a mother neglect her duty she will reap the fruits of her own negligence in the ingratitude of her children and in gratitude which will bring a double pain to her from the thought that her own neglect was the cause of its growth as an eagle with an arrow in his heart might be supposed to feel an agony above that of pain on seeing the shaft now draining its life's blood feathered from its own wing. Mrs. Child in her excellent Mother's Book, a volume that should be in the hands of every woman who has assumed the responsibilities of a parent, gives some valuable suggestions on the subject of governing children. I make a single extract and with it close my present rambling work, she says. Some children from errors in early management get possessed with the idea that they may have everything. They even tease for things it would be impossible to give them. A child properly managed will seldom ask twice for what you have once told him he should not have. But if you have the care of one who has acquired this habit, the best way to cure him of it is never to give him what he asks for, whether his request is proper or not, but at the same time be careful to give him such things as he likes, provided they are proper for him, when he does not ask for them. This will soon break him of the habit of teasing. I have said much in praise of gentleness, I cannot say too much. Its effects are beyond calculation both on the affections and the understanding. The victims of oppression and abuse are generally stupid as well as selfish and hard hearted. How can we wander at it? They are all the time excited to evil passions and nobody encourages what is good in them. We might as well expect flowers to grow amid the cold and storm of winter. But gentleness important as it is, is not all that is required in education. There should be united with it firmness, great firmness. Commands should be reasonable and given in perfect kindness, but once given it should be known that they must be obeyed. I heard a lady once say, For my part I cannot be so very strict with my children. I love them too much to punish them every time they disobey me. I will relate a scene which took place in her family. She had but one domestic and at the time to which I allude she was very busy preparing for company. Her children knew by experience that when she was in a hurry she would indulge them in anything for the sake of having them out of the way. George began, Mother I want a piece of minced pie. The answer was it is nearly bedtime and minced pie will hurt you. You shall have a piece of cake if you will sit down and be still. The boy ate his cake and liking the system of being hired to sit still he soon began again. Mother I want a piece of minced pie. The old answer was repeated the child stood his ground. Mother I want a piece of minced pie. I want a piece. I want a piece. Was repeated incessantly. Will you leave off teasing if I give you a piece? Yes I will certainly true. A small piece was given and soon devoured. With his mouth half full he began again. I want another piece. I want another piece. No George I shall not give you another mouthful. Go sit down you naughty boy. You always act the worst when I am going to have company. George continued his teasing and at last said if you don't give me another piece I'll roar. This threat not being attended to he kept his word upon this. The mother seized him by the shoulder shook him angrily saying hold your tongue you naughty boy. I will if you will give me another piece of pie said he. Another small piece was given him after he had promised that he certainly would not tease any more. As soon as he had eaten it he of course began again and with the additional threat. If you don't give me a piece I will roar after the company comes so loud that they can all hear me. The end of all this was that the boy had his sound weeping was put to bed and could not sleep all night because the minced pie made his stomach ache. What an accumulation of evils in this little scene. His health injured his promises broken with impunity. His mother's promises broken the knowledge gained that he could always vex her when she was in a hurry and that he could gain what he would by teasing. He always acted upon the same plan afterward for he only once in a while when he made his mother very angry got a whipping but he was always sure to obtain what he asked for if he teased her long enough. His mother told him the plain truth when she said the minced pie would hurt him but he did not know whether it was a truth or whether she only said it to put him off for he knew that she did sometimes deceive. When she gave him the pie he had reason to suppose it was not true it would hurt him else why should a kind mother give it to her child. Had she told him that if he asked a second time she would put him to bed directly and had she kept her promise in spite of entreaties she would have saved him a whipping and herself a great deal of unnecessary trouble. And who can calculate all the whippings and all the troubles she would have spared herself in him. I do not remember ever being in her house half a day without witnessing some scene of contention with the children. Now let me introduce you to another acquaintance. She was in precisely the same situation having a comfortable income and one domestic but her children were much more numerous and she had had very limited advantages for education. Yet she managed her family better than any woman I ever saw or ever expect to see again. I will relate a scene I witnessed there by a way of contrast to the one I have just described. Myself and several friends once entered her parlor unexpectedly just as a family were seated at the supper table. A little girl about four years old was obliged to be removed to make room for us. Her mother assured her she should have her supper in a little while if she was a good girl. The child cried and the guests insisted that room should be made for her at table. No, said the mother, I have told her she must wait and if she cries I shall be obliged to send her to bed. If she is a good little girl she shall have her supper directly. The child could not make up her mind to obey and her mother let her out of the room and gave orders that she should be put to bed without supper. When my friend returned her husband said, Hannah, that was a hard case. The poor child lost her supper and was agitated by the presence of strangers. I could hardly keep from taking her on my knee and giving her some supper. Poor little thing. But I never will interfere with your management and much as it went against my feelings I entirely approve of what you have done. It cost me a struggle, replied his wife, but I know it is for the good of the child to be taught that I mean exactly what I say. This family was the most harmonious affectionate happy family I ever knew. The children were managed as easily as a flock of lambs. After a few unsuccessful attempts at disobedience when very young they gave it up entirely and always cheerfully acted from the conviction that their mother knew best. This family was governed with great strictness firmness was united with gentleness. The indulgent mother who said she loved her children too much to punish them was actually obliged to punish them ten times as much as a strict mother did. End of Chapter 31 Mother's Tooty. This is also the end of the book Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper. Read by Cain Day of Bahatrack.com.