THE
  SCHOOLMASTER’S TRUNK

  CONTAINING

  _Papers on Home-Life in Tweenit_

  BY
  MRS. A. M. DIAZ

  _ILLUSTRATED_

  [Illustration]

  BOSTON

  JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY
  (LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS OSGOOD & CO.)
  1875




  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
  JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
  In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

  BOSTON:
  RAND, AVERY, & CO., STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS.




NOTE.


The papers here collected were originally published in “Hearth and
Home,” under the title of “Papers found in the Schoolmaster’s Trunk.”
They embody observations made from actual life by a teacher residing in
a country village. In reproducing them, it was thought best to retain
at least a portion of the original title.

                                                                A. M. D.




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.
                                            PAGE
  THE SLAVES OF THE ROLLING-PIN                5


  CHAPTER II.

  A WORD TO THE MEN-FOLKS                     13


  CHAPTER III.

  CONCERNING COMMON THINGS                    21


  CHAPTER IV.

  THE SEWING-CIRCLE, HOW IT WAS STARTED       29


  CHAPTER V.

  NOTES TAKEN AT THE SEWING-CIRCLE            36


  CHAPTER VI.

  PEBBLES, OR DIAMONDS?                       42


  CHAPTER VII.

  KINDLING-WOOD                               49


  CHAPTER VIII.

  MR. MCKIMBER RISES TO EXPLAIN               57


  CHAPTER IX.

  “TURN ’EM OFF!”                             63


  CHAPTER X.

  A LOOK AHEAD                                70


  CHAPTER XI.

  FENNEL PAYNE AND ADELINE                    78


  CHAPTER XII.

  NEW INVENTION WANTED                        86


  CHAPTER XIII.

  A TALK IN THE SCHOOLHOUSE                   94


  CHAPTER XIV.

  AN ENTERTAINING MEETING                    102


  CHAPTER XV.

  THE WRITER FACES HIS OWN MUSIC             110




THE SCHOOLMASTER’S TRUNK.




I.

THE SLAVES OF THE ROLLING-PIN.


Pies again! Always pies! One, two, three, four, this is the fifth time,
within, say, ten days or a fortnight, that, to my knowledge, pies have
stood in the way of better things.

First, my hostess, Mrs. Fennel, could not leave to take a ride with
me a few mornings ago, because “we are entirely out of--pies.” Mrs.
Fennel, poor woman, is far from well, and what with husband, grown-up
boys, and two small children, not to mention myself as boarder, she has
a large family to cook for, and only her daughter Martha to help do the
work. That breezy morning-ride would have raised her spirits; it would
have put new life into her: but--pies. (This is one time.) Then Miss
Martha, who is fond of reading, declined the loan of my library-book
the other day on account of having to help her mother make--pies. (Two
times.) Last evening she could not run up on the hill to see the sun
set, because they were trying to get the meat and apple ready over
night for--pies. (Three times.) When poor Mrs. Fennel was taken off her
work the other day by one of her frequent ill-turns, Mrs. Melendy came
in with offers of assistance.

[Illustration]

“Now I can stay just two hours by the clock,” said Mrs. Melendy in her
sprightly way; “and what shall I take hold of first? Shall I tidy up
the room, read to you, bathe your head, make you some good gruel? Or,
else, shall I take hold of the mending, or see to the dinner, or what?”

Mrs. Fennel raised her languid lids, and faintly murmured, “Out of
pies.”

“Dear me!” cried breezy Mrs. Melendy, “I know what that feeling is well
enough; and ’tis a dreadful feeling! Why, I should no more dare to set
out a meal’s victuals without pie than I should dare to fly! For my
husband, he must have his piece o’ pie to top off with, whatever’s on
the table.” And the sympathizing sister bared her willing arms, and
wrestled womanfully with the rolling-pin, I know not how long.

The fifth time was this morning. While sitting in the room adjoining
the kitchen, the doors being open between, I heard Martha ask her
mother why they could not take a magazine. “I do long for something to
read!” said she; “and all we have is just one newspaper a week.”

“Oh! we couldn’t get much reading-time,” said Mrs. Fennel. “If ’tisn’t
one thing, ’tis another, and sometimes both. There’s your father, now,
coming with the raisins. These pies will take about all the forenoon.”
Miss Martha afterward spoke to her father about the magazine.

“We can’t afford to spend money on readin’,” he answered, in his usual
drawling monotone: “costs a sight to live. Now, if we didn’t raise our
own pork, we should be hard pushed to git short’nin’ for our pies.”

Such constant reiteration had made me desperate. I strode to the
doorway. “And why _must_ we have _pies_?” I demanded in tones of
smothered indignation. “Why not bread and butter, with fruits or sauce,
instead? Why not drop pies out of the work altogether? Yes, drop them
out of the world.” Miss Martha was the first to recover from the shock
of this startling proposition. “Our men-folks couldn’t get along
without pies, Mr. McKimber,” she said.

“Pie-crust does make a slave of a woman, though,” said Mrs. Fennel.
“There’s nothin’ harder than standin’ on your feet all the forenoon,
rollin’ of it out.”

“Denno ’bout doin’ without pie,” drawled Mr. Fennel. “’Pears if bread’n
sarse’d be a mighty poor show for somethin’ to eat.”

“’Twould take off the heft of the cookin’,” said Mrs. Fennel
thoughtfully; “but” (with a sigh) “you couldn’t satisfy the men-folks.”

I rushed to my chamber in despair. Pie, then, is one of the household
gods in Tweenit. But what can I do about it? Something must be
done. Suppose I write an “Appeal to Women,” and read it at the
sewing-circle, pretending it was taken from a newspaper published
in--well, in Alaska, or Australia, or the Orkney Islands. We gentlemen
are expected to help along the entertainment in some way.

Hark, now, to the music of the rolling-pin sounding from below! That
music shall inspire my


                                “APPEAL.

  “My dear friends, this is an age of inquiry. Can any one tell who
  first imprisoned our luscious fruits in a paste of grease and flour,
  baptized the thing with fire, and named it pie? And why is this pie
  a necessity? That is what confounds me. Mothers of families, hard
  pressed with work, consume time and strength in endless struggles
  with the rolling-pin. Fathers of families lengthen their bills to
  shorten their pies. And all this is to what end? The destruction of
  health. Every stroke on the board demands strength which is worse
  than thrown away. Every flake of pastry is so much food which were
  better left uneaten. And as for the time consumed in this kind of
  labor, who shall count the hours which are daily rolled away, and
  chiefly by overburdened women, who complain of ‘no time’ and ‘no
  constitution’?

  “One Saturday forenoon I stood on the hill which commands a view
  of the village. It was ‘baking-day.’ Being a clairvoyant, I looked
  through the roofs of the houses, and saw in every kitchen a weary
  woman, ‘standin’ on her feet,’ rolling, rolling, rolling. Close
  around some stood their own little children, tugging at their skirts,
  pleading for that time and attention which rightfully belonged to
  them. One frail, delicate woman was actually obliged to lie down
  and rest twice before her task was ended. Another, the mother of an
  infant not many months old, accomplished hers with one foot on the
  cradle-rocker.

  “We read of despotic countries where galley-slaves were chained to
  the oar. They, however, after serving their time, went free. Alas for
  poor woman chained to the rolling-pin! Her sentence is for life.

  “We read, too, in ancient story of powerful _genii_, whose control
  over their slaves was absolute; but this terrible _genius_ of the
  household exacts from its slaves an equally prompt obedience. Is
  there one among them who dares assert her freedom?

  “No: their doom is inevitable. Woman is foreordained to roll her life
  away. Is there no escape? No escape. The rolling-board is planted
  squarely in the path of every little daughter; and sooner or later,
  if her life be spared, she will walk up to it. May we not call it an
  altar upon which human sacrifices are performed daily?

  “I observed, on the morning just mentioned, that, in the intervals
  of pastry-making, the _genius of the long-handled spoon_ took
  control, demanding its customary tribute of eggs, sugar, fat, spices,
  &c., demanding, also, the usual outlay of time and strength which
  goes to the compounding of cakes; and thus, with rolling, beating,
  and stirring, the forenoon wore away, leaving in each house its
  accumulation of unwholesome food.

  “You _do_ know, madam, that plain living is better for your children?
  You _would_ like more time to devote to them, or for books, or for
  recreation? Then, pray, why not change all this? Is palate forever to
  rank above brain? Change your creed. Say, ‘I believe in health, in
  books, in out-doors.’ Why don’t you _rise_, slaves? Now is your time.
  Now, when slaves everywhere are demanding their freedom, demand yours.

  “_Company?_ Thanks for teaching me that word. The kind hospitality
  of this social little village of Tweenit enables me to be ‘company’
  myself very frequently. And I am aware that much time is spent in
  the preparation of viands to set before me, which, for variety and
  richness, could not be excelled. Shall I add, that whenever, at the
  bountifully-spread tea-tables, I have attempted to start a rational
  conversation, the attempt usually has been a failure? Books, public
  men, public measures, new ideas, new inventions, new discoveries,
  what is doing for the elevation of women,--on none of these subjects
  had my entertainers a word to offer. Their talk was, almost without
  exception, trivial, not to say gossipy.

  “Therefore, as a member of that institution, which, as everybody
  says, ‘makes a sight of work,’ namely, ‘company,’ I protest. I
  petition for less variety in food, and more culture. And your
  petitioner further prays, that some of the spices and good things be
  left out in cooking, and put into the conversation.”

  “But the ‘men-folks’? Ah, to be sure! Perhaps, after all, it is they
  who need an appeal.”




II.

A WORD TO THE “MEN-FOLKS.”


“What! do without cake entirely?” cries Mr. Livewell in alarm. By no
means, sir! Poor human nature craves something sweet. The trouble lies
in making palate king. In many families this is done at terrible cost
on the part of the woman. I say terrible, because human sacrifice,
in whatever shape, is terrible. And when a woman uses herself up in
cooking, and, as a consequence, dies, or half-dies, what is that but
human sacrifice?

It was a remark made by Mrs. Melendy which first called my attention
to this subject. I had been saying something complimentary of her very
interesting little family.

“Ah, yes! Mr. McKimber,” she answered, “if I only knew how to bring
them up as they ought to be brought up!”

I suggested that children need, more than any thing, a mother’s time
and attention.

“But that’s just what they can’t have,” said she; “for, to tell the
truth, the three meals take about all day, so I have to turn off the
children.”

Mrs. Melendy is the woman whose husband “always wants his piece o’ pie
to top off with.”

I had frequently heard that remark in regard to the “three
meals,”--heard it unconcernedly, as relating to a subject in which I
had no interest. But when it was repeated that day by Mrs. Melendy, and
in that connection, I was suddenly awakened to its full meaning; and
the idea occurred to me that woman might not have been created mainly
for the purpose of getting three meals a day. If she were, thought
I, what a waste! for, certainly, a mere meal-getter might have been
fashioned out of cheaper material.

I am a curious person for following up any subject to which my
attention has been particularly directed; and, in following up this
subject, I have observed closely what goes on daily under the name of
housework; and I find it to be a never-ending succession of steps. Why,
such an everlasting tread-mill would wear out a strong man! Not only
a tread-mill, but a hand-mill, and a head-mill: for hands must keep
time with the feet; and, as to the head, I have often heard Mrs. Fennel
tell Martha she must keep her _mind_ on her work. And, truly, the
calculating and contriving demanded by each day’s operations require
some mind.

Now, I had the idea, before I was awakened by Mrs. Melendy’s remark,
that woman’s work was not of much account,--just a simple matter of
“puttering” about the house. The tempting food which Mrs. Fennel serves
up daily stood for a very small part of the labor which it actually
represents. And, but for that remark, I might have gone on eating the
delicacies spread before me with no more sense of their cost than if
they grew on trees, and were shaken down at meal-times. Since my eyes
have been opened, however, those delicacies taste too strong of the
toil to be relishable; for I see that the rows of pies on the buttery
shelves, the mounds of cake, the stacks of doughnuts, do not come there
by any magical “sleight o’ hand,” but are wrought out of the very
life of poor Mrs. Fennel,--literally, of her very life. This is not
an overstatement, since it is plain to be seen that each day’s labor
makes demands which her strength is unable to meet. I have observed the
languid way in which she drags herself about the house, now and then
dropping upon a chair; have noted, at times,--at “hurried” times,--the
worn, weary, “all gone” expression of her face; and have heard her
take, oh! very often, those “long breaths,” which are sure signs of a
wearing-out.

Yes, the poor woman is killing herself with overwork. And when she
rests, at last, beneath the turf, people will speak of the mysterious
Providence which removed a wife and mother in the midst of her
usefulness.

It is about time, one would think, to put a stop to this woman-killing.
A harsh phrase? It is not more harsh than the truth; for, if lightening
labor will prolong life, insisting upon unnecessary labor is not far
removed from that crime. And this unnecessary labor is insisted upon in
one way or another.

For instance, I have Mrs. Fennel’s own word for it, that pies are “the
heft of the cooking;” have heard her speak of rolling out pastry until
she was “ready to drop,” of beating cake until her arms “hadn’t one
mite of strength left in them.” Yet, to any suggestion that these and
other superfluities be omitted, the answer has invariably been, that
“the men-folks wouldn’t be satisfied without them.”

Mr. Fennel is a very good man; and the boys--young men of eighteen
and twenty--are very good boys. If the direct question were asked Mr.
Fennel, which he most values, his wife’s life, or the nice things she
prepares for the table, he would answer with horror, if he answered
at all, the former. In reality, however, he answers the latter. It is
the same with the boys. The men-folks can’t eat cold bread; therefore
biscuits are rolled out, cut out, and baked, both morning and night;
the men-folks make dependence on their cake; the men-folks must have
their “piece o’ pie to top off with;” the men-folks like to have a pot
of doughnuts to go to.

[Illustration]

Now, all these things may gratify the palate; but the point is, are
they worth the price that is paid for them? I confess that it fairly
makes me shudder, sometimes, to see those strong men sit down at
table, and, with appetites sharpened by out-of-door exercise, sweep
off so unthinkingly and unthankingly the results of Mrs. Fennel’s long
and weary toil. Do they not _taste something_ in those delicacies?
detect a flavoring that was never set down in any grocer’s bill? They
probably do not. Long habit has so accustomed them to the flavor of
this _essence of life_, this compound extract of backache, headache,
exhaustion, prostration, palpitation, that they do not notice its
presence. It would be well for them to do so, however; for it is a
terribly expensive article.

Oh, no! they don’t taste any thing but what may be bought at the
grocer’s, or raised on the farm. If they did, if the cost of all these
dainties were once made clear to our kind-hearted men-folks, they
would not only be satisfied without them, but would beg Mrs. Fennel
to stop cooking them; for neither Mr. Fennel nor the boys are wanting
in affection for her. Whenever, by overwork, she becomes alarmingly
ill, they are ready to harness the horse, and go seven miles for the
doctor at any time of day or night. Mr. Fennel never spends his money
so freely as in medicine for his wife; and the boys seldom come home
from the pastures without bringing her mullein, or some kind of herb,
to dry. “So thoughtful of them!” the dear woman remarks with moistened
eyes, and cheeks faintly flushed. If they could only be so thoughtful
as to consider that rest is better for her than herbs!

All women are not as feeble as Mrs. Fennel? This is true; yet she
represents a large class, and one which is rapidly increasing. Mothers
of families calling themselves well and strong are hard to find. They
too commonly either break down and die, or break down and live. Go into
almost any town, any country village even, where pure air and other
conditions of health abound, and mark in the sharpened, worn, pinched
faces of its elderly women, the effects of overwork and unwholesome
food.

Work is necessary. I believe in it; believe in eating too, and in
eating what “tastes good,” as the phrase is. But to a person of
healthy appetite plain food “tastes good,” and “topping off” is quite
unnecessary. The words “topping off” express the exact truth: implying,
that, when the stomach is already full, something is put on the top.
(By the way, it is doing this, unless the something be very simple,
which spoils the appetite for the next meal.)

No: far be it from me to scorn the pleasures of the palate. I would by
no means consider it wicked to eat, semi-occasionally, a bit of cake;
and there may be times in the year when even pie would be in order. But
I protest against making these things the essentials; against its being
taken for granted, that in whatever press for time,--in sickness and in
health, in strength and in weakness, in sorrow and in joy,--the table
must be spread with this prescribed, though needless, variety of food.

And, as it is the men-folks who are to “be satisfied,” I appeal to them
to “be satisfied” with that which requires less of woman’s labor and of
woman’s life.




III.

CONCERNING COMMON THINGS.


Whoever would be tranquil, let him not investigate. Ever since I
began inquiring into household affairs, my mind has been disturbed by
a doubt--not quite a doubt; call it an uneasiness--as to the mental
superiority of the dominant sex. No, it cannot amount to positive
doubting. That would be to fly in the face of facts. History proves
that the greatest philosophers, the greatest artists, the greatest
writers, the greatest thinkers, have been men. If woman has the ability
to be as great in these directions, why has she not been as great?
There has certainly been time enough,--six thousand years at the lowest
calculation.

Well, then, since facts cannot be disputed, there can be no reasonable
doubt upon this subject; but--No, I won’t say _but_: I won’t admit the
possibility of a _but_. I will only say that it is very puzzling and
very annoying to have one’s daily observations tend to undermine--not
undermine, conflict with--one’s belief. And it may happen, that, if a
man watch too closely what goes on in-doors, the idea will be suggested
to him, that while he prides himself, very likely, on working well at
one trade, a woman may work well at half a dozen, and not pride herself
at all.

Mr. Fennel is a carpenter. Mr. Melendy is a shoemaker. Each is master
of one trade, and only one, and works at that all day. Mr. Fennel
doesn’t stop to mend his shoes. Mr. Melendy doesn’t leave off pegging
to make a new front-door.

Mrs. Fennel is mistress of many trades. Mrs. Fennel is cook, tailoress,
dressmaker, milliner, dyer, housemaid, doctor, and boy’s capmaker;
also, at times, schoolmaster, lawyer, and minister. For she hears the
children’s lessons; she adjusts their quarrels with the judgment of a
judge; and she gives them sermons on morals which contain the gist of
the whole matter.

Of all these occupations, cooking, I observe, ranks the highest. That
is sure of attention: the others take their chance. That is cut out
of the whole cloth: the others get the odds and ends. I have observed
also, in this connection, that the day in-doors resolves itself into
three grand crises, called the three meals. It is surprising, it is
really wonderful, the way these are brought about with every thing else
going on beside. Indeed, this prying into domestic affairs has made me
surprised twice. First, at the amount of physical labor a woman has
to perform; second, that she can carry so many things on her mind at
one time, or rather that her mind can act in so many directions at one
time, and so quickly. This in-doors work seems commonplace enough; to
the fastidious, repugnant even. The same may be said of a mud-puddle.
But dip up a dipperful of the mud, examine it closely, and you will
find it teeming with life. So, examine an hourful of household work,
and you will find it all alive with plans, contrivances, forethoughts,
afterthoughts, happy thoughts, and countless trifling experiences,
minute, it may be, but full of animation. The puddle is often set
in commotion by a passing breeze, or by a stone dropping in. Well,
household work, too, has its breezes of hurry and flurry, besides its
regular trade-winds, which blow morning, noon, and night. And, if
company unexpected isn’t like the stone dropping in, then what is it
like?

This is written, as the scientific people say, from observations taken
on the spot. One day I spent an hour in watching Mrs. Fennel at her
work, and an hour in watching Mr. Fennel at his. Being in a humorous as
well as a scientific frame of mind, I played they were my specimens,
and that the matter under consideration really did belong to some
branch of science, unknown, of course, to a country schoolmaster. I
copy from my note-book:--

“Time, forenoon; place, kitchen.

“Fly, my pencil, fly, like Mrs. Fennel’s feet! Dinner is getting.
It seems now as if every moment were a crisis. What’s that she is
dropping into hot water? Oh! turnip, sliced and peeled. Meat, pudding,
potatoes, squash, beans, &c., require, I see, different lengths of time
in the cooking. But they must be on the table at twelve o’clock, done
just right; some of them mashed, and all of them hot. Think of the
calculation necessary to bring this about! Meanwhile, in the intervals
of lifting the pot-lid, Gussy’s new suit is being ‘cut out of old.’ And
here, again, calculation--that is, _mind_--is required in cutting the
cloth to advantage.

[Illustration]

“Now Mrs. Fennel drops down to take a long breath. ‘How much sugar must
be put into this gooseberry pie?’ Martha asks. ‘Rising one cupful.’
Now a little girl comes of an errand: ‘Mother wants you to write
down how to make corn-starch gruel. Bobby’s sick.’ Mrs. Fennel writes
directions. Now she is ironing. Why not wait till after dinner? Oh,
to be sure! ‘We must iron while we have a fire.’ Now Gussy rushes in
pell-mell to ask if when he carries Emma’s gooseberries for her because
she _asked_ him to, and then stubs his toe, and spills ’em, _he_ ought
to pick ’em up? Now comes Emma, to say that Gussy tried to stub his
toe, because she picked more gooseberries than _he_ did when _he_ went.
Mrs. Fennel adjusts the quarrel; preaches a sermon on envy, truth, and
brotherly love; informs Gussy what Malaga is famous for; tries on his
jacket (telling a story to make him stand still); catches up a rent in
Emma’s dress; trades with a tin-peddler (_mind_ again); and through
all this keeps her eye on the cook-stove; drops things into hot water;
forks things out of hot water; contrives places for saucepans, spiders;
runs round with a long-handled spoon, now with a knife, stirring,
mashing, seasoning, tasting, till at last the moment arrives, and the
men-folks arrive, and the grand crisis of the day is at its climax. But
oh the flurry and excitement of the last fifteen minutes! the watching
the clock, the looking in at the oven, the disappointment when things
that should have risen have fallen! As if this did not happen in life
always!”

The second hour gave less striking results. I found Mr. Fennel planing
and grooving boards. His movements were distinguished by an entire
calmness. There was no hurry, no excitement, to keep his mind on the
snap every moment; no grand climax for which boards, laths, shingles,
nails, and clapboards must be got ready, let come what would. “Too
monotonous,” the notes read, “to be of any special interest.” Had
he dropped his plane for a trowel, the trowel for a paint-brush,
paint-brush for a whitewash-brush, whitewash-brush for a hod of bricks,
or been called upon to slack lime, mix paint, or to give directions
for building a hen-house, the proceedings in the work-shop would no
doubt have been as entertaining as those in the kitchen. But, as far
as hinderances were concerned, Mr. Fennel might have shoved that plane
till doomsday, and with a temper smooth and even as his own boards.

Since that time I have observed carefully other men and other women at
their work; and thus far my observations show that the average mother
of a family requires and uses, in the performance of her daily duties,
higher qualities of mind than does the average father of a family in
the performance of his. Indeed, the more closely I observe, the more
amazed am I at the skill, tact, energy, insight, foresight, judgment,
ability, genius, I may almost say, so often displayed by the former.

Well, and what then? Why, then the question arises, “Is woman, in the
present condition of things, making the best use of all these high
qualities?” This question is not suggested by the fact of her giving
herself up so entirely to her family. Oh, no! most emphatically no.
Children must have their mother. She belongs to them. The best a woman
has, the best an arch-angel has, is none too good for the children. No:
the question is suggested, partly by the “observations” I have been
making, and partly by the recollection of Mrs. Melendy’s remark, that
the “three meals take about all day.” I am glad the sewing-circle
meets here this week; for, by attending to the conversation, I may
learn upon what subjects the minds of at least some fifteen or twenty
women chiefly dwell.

Another question, and a startling one too, is this: “If woman ever has
a chance properly to develop these remarkable qualities of mind, what
is going to become of the mental superiority of the dominant sex?”

No more, no more! My brain is confused, my soul disquieted within me.
Whoever would be tranquil, let him not investigate.




IV.

THE SEWING-CIRCLE.--HOW IT WAS STARTED.


The sewing-circle is in session in the adjoining room. It counts
thirty-two members in all,--a goodly number for a population of only
twenty-five or thirty families. The gathering to-day is not large; a
thunder-storm, and a circus at Elmbridge, conspiring to keep many away.

Mrs. Fennel has been telling me about this sewing-circle, and what
it is trying, or rather is determined, to do. The people of Tweenit
village never had a meeting-house, but have held religious services in
the schoolhouse. Now the women want to change all this. They want to
build a chapel; and for that purpose they mean to raise eight hundred
dollars.

“Eight hundred dollars!” I exclaimed when Mrs. Fennel named the sum.
“Why, there’s hardly as much money in the place!”

“That’s just what the men told us,” she answered; “but we have faith.”

“I should think so,” said I, “and works too.”

The men, it seems, threw cold water at the very beginning.

“Where’s all that money coming from?” “Lumber high!” “Labor high!”
“Saddle the place with debt!” “All nonsense! The old schoolhouse is
good enough!”

And the idea might have been quenched entirely, but for the burning
zeal of two unmarried women,--“Nanny Joe” and “Nanny Moses,” the
daughters respectively of Mr. Joseph Payne and Mr. Moses Payne. They
believed in a chapel. They preached this belief; and many women were
converted. The first convert was Miss Janet (Mr. William Melendy’s
wife, called “Miss Janet,” to distinguish her from four other Mrs.
Melendys). A meeting was called at her house. Before its close, the
wildest enthusiasm prevailed. The men’s objections first were shown
up to be scarecrows, then pelted down with ridicule. A sewing-circle
was formed, which met once a week to sew “slop-work,” and knit toes of
stockings,--heels, too, I think. Oh, yes! “heeled and toed:” that’s
the very expression. In other respects, the stockings were woven. The
circle meant business. Some members met early in the morning, and
worked all day. Ellinor Payne, who is employed in a tailor’s shop at
Piper’s Mills, gave fifteen dollars of her own earnings. The enthusiasm
increased. Did any waver in the faith, influenced by doubting men,
Nanny Joe and Nanny Moses were ready to encourage and sustain. Nanny
Joe and Nanny Moses were eloquent to persuade, ingenious to devise,
skilful to contrive, and untiring in their labors. They fired the
ambition of every woman in the place. They took that chapel (the chapel
that was to be), and resolved it into its constituent parts,--its
doors, windows, timbers, boards, nails even, and induced different
individuals to be responsible for, say, a bundle of shingles, a window,
a door, a stick of timber. Young and old caught the fever. Little girls
vied with each other in earning panes of glass. Blooming maidens took
upon their shoulders clapboards, laths, and kegs of nails. Matrons bore
bravely their respective burdens of beams, rafters, and flooring; and
one cheerful old grandame, a steadfast knitter, smiled under the weight
of the desk.

The little girls earned their money by running of errands, and picking
huckleberries, and making patchwork cradle-quilts to sell. The older
ones also picked huckleberries. When the season was at its height, the
circle met in the pastures, and picked its pecks and its bushels. The
berries were sent to Piper’s Mills to be sold. If there were no other
way of sending them, Nanny Joe and Nanny Moses would take Mr. David’s
old red horse and go themselves. Mr. David Melendy committed himself
at the very beginning, by a promise, which, though made in jest, was
claimed in terrible earnest, as the old man found to his cost.

“I’ll agree to find horse and cart to cart all the work they’ll get,”
said Mr. David sarcastically, when he first heard of the sewing-circle.
His narrow vision took in Tweenit village only, where each family
generally does its own needlework. But there were eyes of a wider
range,--far-seeing eyes, which saw the “store” at Piper’s Mills,
whereat were left weekly, by an agent from the city, huge bundles
of slop-work and stocking-work for the sewers and knitters of that
neighborhood. The sewing-circle obtained one of these bundles, and did
its work so well that the agent not only promised it more bundles, but
heaped bundles upon it; so that Nanny Joe had frequent opportunities
of going to Mr. David, and saying, with a mischievous twinkle of her
laughing black eyes, “More work to cart, Mr. Melendy!”

“Wal, wal, Nancy,” that victim of his own jest would reply, “I’ll
stan’ by my word. But you must help me ketch him.”

[Illustration]

This is not so very difficult a task; for that fat old horse of his
would as soon be caught as not to be. Whether he goes or stands still
is all one to him, and nearly so to his driver. For calmness, for
meekness, for sublime indifference, Mr. David’s animal would take the
medal. As may be imagined, he is a very _even_ horse to drive; never
allows himself to be disturbed by outside influences, but jogs heavily
on, with a flop and a plunge, unmoved by word or blow.

“Speak of the ancient Nicholas,” says the proverb, “and you will see
his horns.” And, in confirmation of it, behold this identical animal
now approaching the house, shaking all over at every flop, as if he
were a horse of jelly. Nanny Joe and Nanny Moses have just driven from
Piper’s Mills with some bundles of work. Nanny Moses holds up a letter.
Her fair, round face reminds me of Mrs. Fennel’s favorite expression,
“Smiling as a basket of chips.” Thirty-seven or thirty-eight they say
is her age. They also say that she holds her own pretty well, which is
saying a good deal; for “her own” must weigh a hundred and fifty, at
the least. Anybody might know those two would be intimate, they are so
unlike. Nanny Joe is tall, slender; has coal-black hair, coal-black
eyes, a sallow complexion, and a chin unnecessarily long. She is
pleasing and sprightly; her friend, pleasing and quiet.

Now joyful shouts uprise. There is money in the letter. David Melendy,
junior, has sent twenty dollars. These women leave no stone unturned. A
few months ago, one of them, while on a visit to the city, called upon
all Tweenit-born individuals there residing, and by appealing to their
pride, their generosity, or their piety, as suited each case, obtained
various sums to help the cause along. Tweenitites dwelling afar, amid
Sitka’s snows or California’s golden sands, were appealed to through
the United-States mail; and the letter just received is in answer to
one of those appeals. It comes from Sitka; and Nanny Joe says the
money is the profits arising from a rise in white bears. I was present
the other day at the reading of a letter addressed to one Mr. Ezra
Fennel, which must stir the depths of Mr. Ezra Fennel’s heart, if not
of his pocket-book. Men’s money, after all? Well, so is the gold in a
gold-mine the gold-mine’s gold. There is a great deal in knowing how to
work a mine, and a great deal in knowing how to work a pocket-book.

Now that the Sitka excitement is over, and the circle is subsiding into
its natural state, I will take a few notes of the conversation. They
may throw some light on the subject of my present inquiries. Woman, I
perceive, displays mind enough, both at home and abroad; and now I want
to find out upon what kind of subjects her mind ordinarily dwells.




V.

NOTES TAKEN AT THE SEWING-CIRCLE.


Not as a listener, but as an investigator, investigating the very
important subject of domestic affairs. Why not call it a scientific
subject? Why not found a small science of my own here in this
out-of-the-way place? The wise ones, the ones that own the big
sciences, won’t know any thing about it; and, if they do, they
won’t try to get mine away from me, having so many heavenly bodies,
motive-powers, the forces of Nature, and, in fact, all created things,
to attend to.

My science has the forces of Nature in it too (human nature), and a
motive-power. Their motive-powers act on machinery; mine acts on human
beings. It is the power by which woman “carries on the family;” and
I have seen for myself that there is a “power of it” used in some
families; also that it can be _turned on_, as the factory people say,
in other directions; in that of chapel-building, for instance. Give
it a name; call it mind-power; for it is a combination of some of the
highest mental qualities. Not fully developed, though; oh, no! scarcely
begun to be developed yet.

It being settled, then, that woman does possess this motive-power
which belongs to _my_ science, and which I have named mind-power, the
question next arises, Is she doing all she can with it? Is none of it
running to waste? What ideas, apart from household affairs, take up
her mind mostly? It was to obtain light on this last question, that I
resolved to pay attention to the talk at the sewing-circle. I wished to
take the level, the mental level, of its members. Their conversation,
by revealing what subjects chiefly occupy woman’s thoughts, I believed,
would give me some idea of how much she is accomplishing with this
mind-power of hers.

True, Tweenit is only one village; but it is, probably, much like other
villages, and its sewing-circle like other sewing-circles.


NOTES OF CONVERSATION.

  AUNT JINNY UNDER THE HILL.--Aunt Jinny Piper. Destitute old woman. Much
  given to rheumatism. Mainly dependent on charity. Might make things go
  further. No calculation. Slack. Cloth given her not cut to advantage.
  Mouldy bread in her cupboard. Wore an apron forenoons good enough to
  wear afternoons. Used white pocket handkerchiefs: why not a square
  piece of old calico? Grandchild visits her too often. _They say_ she
  _makes_ her rheumatism.

  [Illustration]

  AUNT JINNY DOWN AT THE CRICK.--Another Aunt Jinny Piper. Unmarried.
  Well off. Chests full of sheets and pillow-cases. Stingy. Got enough
  of every thing. Might clothe Aunt Jinny under the hill just as well
  as not. Ought to give land to build chapel on. Great for beating down
  prices. Paid man that spaded up her garden in pumpkins. Pumpkins
  overran two cents: told man he must bring back the skins and insides
  for her pig, to make it all square.

  PLANNING.--“Forecasting” your work. Lying awake nights to plan how next
  day’s baking shall be worked in between the ironing or house-cleaning.
  Babies make it so you can’t carry out your plans. Best not to take much
  notice of young children, so they’ll bear “turning off.”

  MIS SUSAN.--Mis Susan, wife of Mr. Henry Melendy. Lives in Pickerel
  Brook neighborhood. Has traded shawls with a peddler, and got a green
  one. Don’t see what Mis Susan wants of a green shawl. Shouldn’t think
  ’twould be becoming to her. Her shawl was a beautiful shawl. Hadn’t had
  it a great while. Guess she’ll be sorry. Don’t believe this one’s all
  wool.

  SPRING O’ THE YEAR.--Always want something sour in the spring o’ the
  year. Man that brings along “Archangel Bitters” to sell. Some say your
  gall runs into your liver; more likely your liver runs into your gall.
  How does anybody know? Dread spring o’ the year. Brings so much work!
  Nothing to make pies of. Feel lost without pies. Vinegar, mince-pies
  better’n no mince-pies. Soak your cracker in your vinegar. Chop your
  raisins. Makes beautiful pies, if you take pains. What _my_ husband
  likes, and what _my_ husband likes. Children ditto. My Ella B. won’t
  touch molasses gingerbread. My Tommy’ll eat his weight in it. My Abner
  could sit up all night to eat sausage-meat. Sight o’ work to make
  sausage-meat. Sight o’ work to cook calf’s head. Wants “good sweet
  pork” with it. Calves’ brains make beautiful sauce. (Various recipes
  omitted.)

  HENRY T.--Henry T. Rogers. Young man. Began business in the city, and
  failed. Henry T. always held his head up high. Would have to come down.
  High-strung all that family were. _They say_ he has bad habits. _They
  say_ extravagance did it. _They say_ (remainder in whispers).

  FRED AND MARION.--A pair of lovers. _They say_ they’ve broken off.
  _They say_ she’s written him a letter. _They say_ he goes with another
  girl. Dreadful thing to Marion. Probably wear her into a consumption.
  _They say_ she cries all night. ’Course she’ll send back his presents.
  Gold ring, worth how much? Some of his presents worn out, Wonder how
  his father’s property’ll be divided.

  FENNEL PAYNE AND ADELINE.--Fennel Payne, a young married man, distantly
  related to the Fennels and the Paynes. Has wife (Adeline) and small
  child. Adeline stuck up. Always was stuck up. Has strange notions.
  Both of ’em have strange notions. Spent five dollars for a picture.
  No great things of a picture. Adeline sits down to read in the
  daytime. They go to take walks together. Go up on the hill and sit down
  sometimes. Funny actions for married folks.

  HOW ARE YOU GOING TO HAVE YOUR DRESS MADE?--(Notes omitted. Reason,
  unfamiliarity with terms used.)

The above is a small part of what was taken down in my note-book.

Summary of observations made up to date in Tweenit Village:--

First, that woman works hard physically, works very hard, and with not
much respite.

Second, that in “carrying on the family” (this is a very common phrase
here),--in “carrying on the family,” and in various ways, she displays
mental qualities of a high order.

Third, that in working so hard, or in as far as she works so hard,
merely to gratify the palate, she is spending herself physically for an
unworthy end.

Fourth, that her mind-power is running to waste in the same direction;
also in other directions, as is shown by the not very high tone of her
conversation.




VI.

PEBBLES, OR DIAMONDS?


I “dreamed a dream that was not all a dream,”--dreamed of seeing a vast
company of women, a multitude whom no man could number, all earnestly
engaged in picking up--pebbles. Gems of priceless value lay scattered
everywhere around; but these were passed by unnoticed. “Foolish
creatures! Why don’t they leave the pebbles, and take the diamonds?” I
cried.

There was a reason for my dreaming such a dream. I went to Piper’s
Mills the other day, to carry a bundle of “circle-work” for Nanny Joe.
I took Mr. David’s horse, and, while there, called on an acquaintance
of mine,--Mrs. Royal. A couple of her neighbors had dropped in to tea
that afternoon; and I was cordially invited to stay.

“If you don’t mind being the only gentleman,” said Mrs. Royal. I
replied most gallantly that it would give me the greatest pleasure to
be placed in so enviable a minority; all the while saying to myself
most “scientifically,” _Three new specimens. Observe mental habits.
Compare with those of sewing-circle members. More light on domestic
science._ (_My science has a name now._)

I knew something of Mrs. Royal and her friends; and that they differed
in many respects from the majority of women. When, therefore, the
tea-table talk began, I prepared to listen with interest, believing
that my new specimens, though of the same class as my Tweenit
friends,--that is, neither poorer nor richer,--would prove to be a
different species.

The talk ran first on

  TEA-ROSES.--So fragrant! so beautiful! Beautiful? Why, the beauty
  of even one half-opened bud was too much to take in. Article in the
  newspapers speaking of a beauty which makes “sense ache.” Damask-roses
  going out of fashion. Wild roses in June reddening the wayside banks.
  Fragrance of the sweet-brier, of the trailing arbutus. Flowers of
  spring, and their haunts. Pleasure of giving and of receiving flowers.

  ANECDOTES OF THE FLOWER-MISSIONS IN THE CITIES.--Beautiful “mission,”
  that of sending flowers to the sick-beds of the poor. What is being
  done in various places for the poor, the ignorant, the degraded, and
  the friendless. It is beginning to be understood that we are all of one
  family. Will the time ever come when this family feeling shall unite
  the nations?

  THE WAR-SPIRIT.--How shall it be done away? Influence of
  battle-pictures and battle-stories on the young. Some of the principal
  studies in schools and colleges are histories of battles. Pictures of
  military commanders in almost every house. How does all this affect the
  coming of the time when swords shall be beaten into ploughshares?

  IMPORTANCE OF BRINGING GOOD INFLUENCES TO BEAR ON CHILDREN.--Obedience
  from children. How to secure it, and at the same time encourage in them
  a proper degree of self-reliance. Best ways of developing the good that
  is in children. Educating the heart as well as the head. Importance of
  physical health. When children, as they grow up, “go wrong,” who is
  responsible?

  ALLEN WENTWORTH.--A young man who “went wrong.” Dissipated. Inherited
  love of drink. Is it for us who inherited no such tendency to condemn
  him? Mental and moral qualities handed down. Shall the “born good”
  despise the “born bad”? Allen Wentworth like character in a novel
  recently read by one of the company. Other novels and other characters
  spoken of.

  BOOKS AND AUTHORS GENERALLY.--Funny scenes recounted and laughed at.
  Heroes and heroines discussed. Beautiful passages quoted.

  DESCRIPTIONS OF NATURAL SCENERY.--Woods in spring. In fall. Shadows on
  the grass. Waving of corn and grain. Sunsets. Sunrises.

We remained together for three or four hours, during which time I took
notes, mentally, of the ideas expressed by different members of the
company. I have put these notes upon paper in such a way as to show
pretty nearly the course of the conversation, and how naturally one
thing led to another.

During my ride home I had ample opportunity, thanks to the peculiar
temperament of Mr. David’s horse, of comparing this conversation
with that to which I had listened at the sewing-circle. And what a
difference! Why, that first one was so trivial, so aimless, with its
never-ending gossip, I actually felt myself growing smaller while
hearing it.

And I could but compare the two ways in which the two sets of talkers
handled the same subjects. For instance, “spring o’ the year” was
mentioned by the first merely as a time of house-cleaning, and a
dearth of pie-material. The second talked of spring flowers and spring
birds, of leaves bursting, and swamps awaking. Children were discussed
by the first set, chiefly, I think, with regard to what they liked to
eat, or to whether, individually, they were or were not “hard on their
clothes;” at any rate, there was no interchange of ideas concerning the
right way of bringing them up. The second spoke of children as immortal
beings, the training of whom called for a mother’s best endeavors. Even
in talking about their neighbors there was a difference. Many members
of the sewing-circle seemed rather to enjoy the downfall of Henry
T.,--some even to exult over it. Allen Wentworth, on the contrary, was
tenderly spoken of by Mrs. Royal and her friends; and the causes of his
wrong-doing were thoughtfully considered.

Then, again, there was a difference in the kinds of enjoyment with
which the two sets of people enjoyed their conversations; that of
the last being infinitely higher. “How charming!” “Now, isn’t that
grand!” “What a beautiful idea!” they exclaimed, now and then, as some
heart-stirring passage was repeated. The face of each listener or
speaker would light up with pleasure; and the eyes would tell that her
very soul was enjoying itself. I could but remember, then, Adeline,
Fennel Payne’s wife, who was blamed by some of the circle for “sitting
down to read in the daytime;” as if daytime were only made for rolling
out pastry, sewing dresses, and the like. And when that tea-table talk
ran on flowers and birds, woods, waters, glorious sunsets, and all the
wonderful “out-doors,” I again remembered Fennel Payne and Adeline, and
how they had been ridiculed for “taking walks,” and “sitting down upon
the hill.”

The ridicule, I thought, and still think, should be turned the other
way. They are the ones to be ridiculed, who shut themselves in behind
lath and plaster, and there scrub, sew, and cook, cook, sew, and
scrub, scarcely noticing the wondrous show which each season, in turn,
prepares for them. Flowers may bloom, trees may wave, brooks may
ripple, the whole earth blossom into beauty; but they take no heed. It
really does seem like slighting the gifts which God has bestowed.

There is much to admire and to reverence in these women of Tweenit.
They are, generally speaking, just as bright and just as good as my
friends at Piper’s Mills. The point is, that they do not, or the
majority of them do not, like those friends of mine, get the _best_
out of life. Their energies are spent chiefly on physical, not mental
needs. Their talk is trivial. Nature is almost a dead loss to them.
While others are enjoying, through books, communion with the noblest
minds, they are taken up with the petty concerns of their neighbors.
While others seek for knowledge worth the knowing, they are satisfied
to learn that some “Mis Susan” or other has “swapped shawls.” And
what is true of Tweenit is pretty likely to be true of other places.
Then there is another class, not yet considered, the butterfly class,
who give their attention chiefly to plumage. Ah, there must be a vast
company of women, a multitude whom no man can number, who pick up
pebbles, and leave the diamonds!

[Illustration]

How is it with the “men-folks,” in this respect?




VII.

KINDLING-WOOD.


“Listeners never hear any good of themselves.” It is really unfair,
however, to rank myself in so unworthy a class. No mean listener I, but
an earnest inquirer, seeking light on any and every branch of domestic
science.

Votaries of the great sciences, it is said, while pursuing their
studies with a view to some particular facts or truths, often stumble
upon others which are quite as important. And in like manner a few
days since, while continuing my observations on the mental status
of the women of Tweenit village, did I stumble upon some facts in
regard to the opposite sex, which are really worth attending to, and
which, at the time, reminded me of the proverb about listeners; for
I had the mortification--it was one day when Mrs. Melendy and a few
of the neighbors dropped in to help Mrs. Fennel quilt--of hearing man
discussed in his capacity of light-wood provider.

“Men-folks” as kindling-splitters! Are husbands, sons, and brothers
ready for the question? Have they clear consciences on this point? How
many can fearlessly invoke the spirit of free inquiry?

  “And now you’re married, you must be good,
  And keep your wife in _kindling-wood_,”

runs the old rhyme. A wise injunction, but one not universally
obeyed; that is, if the husbands of Tweenit are representative men in
this respect. The heart-rending experiences which were related that
day!--the anxieties, perplexities, calamities, agonies! all of which
might have been averted by “light wood,” as some of them call it.

One _sufferer_ took a “sight o’ pains” with her cake, “separated” the
eggs, “braided” the sugar and butter; but--it fell. Green pine was its
ruin. Miss Janet’s dumplings “riz right up, light as a feather, the
first of it, but came out soggy; and all for lack of a little flash
under the pot.” Another “had out-of-town company come unexpected one
day; and, because there was no light wood on hand to start up a fire
in the front-room, they had to sit right down in the kitchen, and
see every thing that was going on.” Mrs. Melendy’s (Mary Melendy’s)
Dicky was taken ill in the night; and there was an agonizing delay in
steeping the “seeny,” on account of Mr. Melendy’s having forgotten to
“split the kindling over night.”

And so on, and so on. Men were always apt to forget the kindling,
Mrs. Melendy said, but always expected their dinner, _what_ever; and
expected light victuals from green pine-wood! Light wood made heavy
wood go better. Men didn’t understand how tried a woman was with
worrying over her fire, and with not having things convenient.

Here the talk diverged, and ran upon things convenient that each would
like to have. One wanted a slide-door cut through into the buttery, to
save running all the way round with the dishes; another, an oil-carpet,
to save washing floor; another, netting in every window and outside
door, to save “fighting flies;” another, stationary tubs, with pipes to
let the water in and out, such heavy work, lifting tubs! another would
have a washer and wringer; another, water let into her sink; and still
another wanted her sink-room floor raised up level with the kitchen, it
made her back ache so to keep stepping up and down all the time!

And, from things convenient, they went to things pleasant, that
“’twould be so nice to have!” Among these were mentioned canary-birds,
a melodeon, a magazine, Madame Demorest’s Monthly, a set of handsome
furniture, lots of pictures, a window built out for keeping plants
through the winter, a bathing-room, a set of furs, a whole barrel of
lemons and oranges, a lavender-colored poplin dress; and one of the
company would like to take a little journey.

I observed that these conveniences and pleasures were spoken of in a
jesting, almost sarcastic tone, as if the likelihood of obtaining them
were about equal to that of obtaining the crown-jewels of England. In
regard to the first, the conveniences, “My husband can’t afford it,”
was a phrase used so often, as to set me to thinking, and that quite
seriously. These domestic phrases all have a bearing on my present
studies.

“Can’t afford it!” Now, it is a question well worth considering, what
are the things to be afforded.

In the first place, what is our most precious possession, the best
worth having, the best worth saving? Why, life, to be sure! “All that
a man hath will he give for his life.” “Any thing to save life” is a
remark frequently heard.

The next point that I wish to make is, that a woman who overworks
sacrifices her life. I have heard women speak of being so tired they
could not sleep, but lay all night with “nerves a-trembling,” and
rose in the morning unrefreshed. Now, no human being can live long
in such a condition as that. Well, then, if overwork kills, whatever
saves work saves life. Life is the most precious possession: therefore,
money spent in saving work is money well spent; and the answer to our
question is, that conveniences are the things to be afforded.

But men, that is, many men, do not consider the subject in this
light. Apparently, those women were right in saying that a man “don’t
understand” how “tried” a woman is with not having things convenient.
Apparently, men “don’t understand” that such words as “backache,”
“headache,” “nervous,” “trembling,” mean wearing out.

I recollect several cases in which a husband let himself be importuned
for some “convenience,” week after week, and granted it at last with
the bearing of a person doing an inestimable favor; as if he were an
outside party, having no interest in the affair at all. I believe, that
if Mr. Fennel should provide Mrs. Fennel with “stationary tubs, with
pipes to let the water in and out,”--tubs, mind, in which to wash his
own clothes,--he would consider himself entitled to her everlasting
gratitude. At any rate, I see that whenever a washerwoman is hired,
the money to pay her comes hard, as hard as lifting the tubs does to
Mrs. Fennel and Martha.

[Illustration]

I have a friend, who, after his wife really had been injured by
bringing water from a well, did at last, by reason of her importunity,
put a pump in the sink. And, ever since that great job was
accomplished, whenever she asks for any thing which can possibly be
done without, “that pump” serves as an excuse for refusing. Yes, and
probably “that pump” will be made to throw cold water on dress, carpet,
magazine, or melodeon for many a year to come.

Now, my friend was interested in “that pump” just as much as his wife,
only she never had allowed him to find it out. If, when the pailful he
brought in the morning--and which he “didn’t understand” why it should
not last all day--was used up, if then she had let the dinner stop
cooking, why, that would have made him “understand.” But, instead of
doing this, she went to the well herself, knowing that he would “expect
his dinner, whatever,” to quote Mrs. Melendy.

And observation has shown me that the majority of men, both in Tweenit
and out of Tweenit, expect a great deal of women “whatever.” They
expect a woman will always be good-natured; will keep the whole house
in order; will let nothing be wasted; will bear to be found fault with;
will never find fault; will have the children look neat; will cook
three meals a day; will always have light bread; will wash and iron,
make and mend, entertain company, and, if possible, get along without
hired help. Yet they do not, as a general thing, exert themselves
overmuch to provide her with conveniences, still less with pleasures.
Really, this is something like “expecting light victuals from green
pine-wood”!

And, now I think of it, I wonder if there be not in the lives of
some women too much “green pine;” if some husbands don’t “forget the
kindling” all the way through. Mrs. Melendy said that “light wood”
would make the heavy wood go better. I wonder if a little “light wood”
now and then, in the shape of a pleasure-trip, or of books, music,
conveniences, sets of furs, and pretty things in the house, or even
of an appreciative or commendatory word, would not make woman’s heavy
burden of work go better.




VIII.

MR. MCKIMBER RISES TO EXPLAIN.


Yes, there is too much “green pine” in the lives of some women; but
then, on the other hand, there is equally too much “light wood” in the
lives of others. Mrs. Fennel remarked, in the course of the kindling
conversation, that sometimes her wood-pile would be all “logs and sog,”
and next thing ’twould be all “light stuff,” and that what you want
is to have both together. You want good solid wood to keep the fire
agoing; and you want dry pine to make a flash. I gathered from the
talk, however, that this ideal wood-pile is seldom found in Tweenit.
“If they could all be shaken up together,” said Mrs. Melendy, meaning
wood-piles, “they would all come out about right.” And I suppose it is
somewhat so with the lives of women. Some are mostly “green pine;” and
some are mostly “light stuff:” if they all could be shaken up together,
they all would come out about right.

No concern of mine? Why do I interest myself so much in woman’s life
and woman’s work? Attend to my own affairs? Why, that is just what I am
doing. I have discovered from my late course of reading that woman is
my “affair.” Am I not, as one of the dominant sex, placed in authority
over her? Are not her interests in my keeping? Have I not, with others
like me, to make the laws which govern her? and to see that she obeys
them? and to punish her, if she does not? and to regulate the taxes
on her property? and to say what studies she may pursue, and what
profession, if any, she may adopt?

And, more than all this, I have, to some degree, the care of her
conscience. For instance, if she be doubtful as to the wrongfulness
of her rising to speak in prayer-meeting, or in the pulpit, or on
the platform, it is my province to decide for her. And, as she is
intellectually unable to interpret what the Scriptures have to say on
this point, it is my clearer head, as one of the clearer heads of the
dominant sex, which must bring out the meaning, and place it where
she can see it. And if, after being thus morally and intellectually
enlightened, the Spirit move her so strongly, that she must rise and
speak, then I, with others in authority, must compel her to silence.
Woman? _She_ doesn’t know what is best for herself. _She_ doesn’t
know, in all cases, right from wrong. Fortunately, she has in man an
unerring guide.

My own affairs indeed! It is the affair of all in authority, I should
think, to acquaint themselves with the condition of their subjects,
in order to legislate wisely, and above all justly. Some of those old
Eastern rulers, I believe, used to go among their people in disguise,
for this very purpose. Well, so am I a ruler in disguise, acquainting
myself with the condition of those over whom I am set in authority; and
my disguise is the robe of indifference.

And besides all this, besides being spiritual adviser, instructor, and
ruler, I may (though the idea is amusing, and its fulfilment by no
means probable),--I may, it is not impossible, be a husband also. And
my wife may ask me a question. She will, if she is good; for, if there
be one single plain text of Scripture, it is that which bids a woman,
if she wants to know any thing, ask her husband at home. And I, for
one, mean to take some notice of women, so as to find out beforehand
what manner of questions a wife will be likely to ask, lest, not having
my answers ready, I be brought to shame. By the way, does not educating
women at all rather “go agin that text o’ Scripter,” to use Mr.
David’s expression?

[Illustration]

Now comes still another consideration, and a very serious one. It is
certainly my business to see that woman is fitted for the training of
children, because, in this republican country, women’s sons will all
help to rule the land. Princes of royal households, it is well known,
are cared for from their births with the utmost solicitude. Here every
family is a royal household, and every boy is a prince. Every girl is
not a princess; but she may become the mother of a prince.

Now, who has the charge of all these royal children at the time when
their characters are forming? Who gives the first direction to the
minds of those who will in time control the affairs of our country?
Woman. And it is my business as an American citizen to learn what are
her qualifications for an office of such responsibility.

It was this last consideration which induced me to listen so
attentively to my friends at Piper’s Mills, and to my friends at the
sewing-circle, when the talk ran upon children; for it bore directly
on a theory of mine. I suppose every scientist has a theory connected
with his science. My theory connected with my science is this: that a
mother’s chief duty is the taking care of her children. I believe that
she should prepare herself solemnly for this duty, and that she should
have every possible facility for its performance.

How came I by this theory? I came by it through the newspapers. I
never took up one that did not have news to tell of dishonest clerks,
corrupt officials, of drunkenness, theft, and murder. And I would say
to myself, “Oh, how much badness there is in this dear country! And how
do so many people become so bad?”

And one day I went, with my theory upon me, into Mrs. Fennel’s kitchen,
where I found the women-folk in a state of great consternation.
The cakes were all fried for tea; but the salt had been forgotten.
“Sprinkle some over them,” said I; “’twill strike through, won’t it?”
“Oh, no!” said Mrs. Fennel. “The salt must be mixed into the dough at
the beginning of it.”

“There,” thought I, “that’s the very ‘figure of speech’ I want! Yes,
it comes just right. Let salt stand for goodness, and dough for the
children. The goodness must be mixed in at the beginning of it: it is
too late when the world has baked the dough up into men and women.
It will be of no use then sprinkling it on outside: it won’t strike
through. All this illustrates my theory exactly. Yes, yes, mix it in at
the beginning: that’s it! And mothers must do it.”

This point being settled, there arise three questions; namely, Is she
qualified for this duty? Has she facilities for performing it? Does she
feel that it is her chief duty?




IX.

“TURN ’EM OFF.”


It was because I had my theory under consideration,--the theory of
child-training being the chief duty of a mother,--that I was so much
impressed by our neighbor’s remark concerning the “three meals.” “Now,
how is this?” said I to myself. “If ‘the three meals take about all
day,’ and making and mending, the evening, where is the children’s time
coming from?”

And, indeed, where is it coming from? I see that they get scraps of
attention, when, for instance, as in Mrs. Fennel’s case, a bit of a
sermon is thrown at them now and then in the intervals of cooking, but
not often a good square meal. I see that all things else are attended
to before the children; not meaning before they are clothed and fed,
but before time is taken to talk or read with them. I see that mothers
and children are, in a measure, strangers to each other; that they
have too little opportunity of becoming intimate. I see, that, with
the mothers of Tweenit, life is one prolonged hurry. Feet and hands
are hurrying to “get things done.” The mind is ever on the stretch,
planning how to “get things done,” or fearing things will not “get
done;” and things do not “get done.” One day’s work laps over on to
the next, one week’s on to the next, one month’s, one year’s; and so
there is no pause, no let-down. Rest, quiet, leisure, are here unknown
terms with the mother of a family; yet these are just what a mother
of a family needs, and must have, for accomplishing what I think is
her chief business; for this business of hers requires thought, study,
earnest preparation. It requires the mother. Yes, it requires herself
personally.

But how shall the children of Tweenit get their mothers, or the
mothers their children? No doubt both would enjoy each other’s nearer
acquaintance. I remember hearing Mrs. Melendy talk one day to her
little two or three years old Rosa.

“You ’ittle peshious!” she said. “Mother hasn’t had you in her arms
to-day. Mother _will_ let every thing go, and hold you a _little_
while, _whatever_!”

The child was delighted. Both were delighted. They hugged each other.
They played peekaboo! They took kisses from each other’s lips; and,
oh, what a good time they had! It lasted nearly five minutes. Little
Rosa would fain have been held longer; but mother had too much to do.
The singular part of it was, and the sorrowful part, that Mrs. Melendy
appeared to consider her five minutes’ good time as a stolen pleasure.
It was enjoyed with the feeling that she ought to be doing something
else. I had the curiosity to wait and see what that something else was,
and found it to be lemon-pies.

[Illustration]

How is my theory going to work in Tweenit, if mothers have to steal
time to fondle their children?

I came across a story the other day, which contained an excellent
moral, well conveyed. I carried the book in to Mrs. Melendy, and said
to her, “This story is exactly the thing for your little boys. You
might read it aloud some evening, and talk it over with them.”

“O Mr. McKimber!” said she, “if you only knew how much I’ve got to do!
Why, I can’t sleep nights thinking of it!”

So there it is again. And how is my theory to work in Tweenit, if boys
must go away from home for their amusements, because mothers cannot
even steal time to give them?

And how is it to work in other places, and among other classes? I have
a cousin living in Elmbridge. She keeps help. I made a little visit
there recently, one object of which was to learn whether she does or
does not give to her children the leisure thus obtained. She does not.
She gives it to extras in the way of cooking, extras in the way of
house-adornments, extras in the way of dress. By way of test, I took
my book with me, and presented it with remarks like those addressed to
Mrs. Melendy on a similar occasion. Her answer was almost identical
with that of Mrs. Melendy: “Oh, you don’t know how much I have to do!”

And I did not know. I could form no idea of the labor of flouncing that
“suit.” It had already, she assured me, taken one week’s sitting-down
time. My theory would not work at Cousin Sallie’s. Well, now, thought
I, just for the curiosity of the thing, let me try what are called
the highest circles. There is one family in the highest circles, the
Manchesters, with whom I am on visiting terms. They live in the city.
They keep a cook, chambermaid, parlor-girl, nursery-maid, and usually a
seamstress. As far as work is concerned, Mrs. Manchester’s life is one
prolonged state of leisure. Does she give this leisure to her children?
She does not: she gives it to society. I thought I would try the “book”
in her case, and did so, scarcely able to conceal a smile, as I thought
how little she imagined that an experiment was being made upon her for
the benefit of domestic science. I said a few words, as on the two
former occasions, perhaps enlarging rather more on the desirableness
of mothers giving their children more of themselves. But now came in
society.

“My dear Mr. McKimber, society demands so much! Why, I scarcely have an
hour to call my own!”

And I saw that it was so,--saw that what with shopping, dressing,
dinner-parties, evening-parties, callers, and calling, the “chief duty”
stood a small chance.

Among all classes, then,--among the wealthy, the comfortably off,
and the uncomfortably off,--children are wronged. They are petted,
pampered, furbelowed, amused, but still wronged: they are defrauded of
their mothers. This is a broad statement; and, of course, there are
exceptions. I know myself some thoughtful, careful, prayerful mothers,
who understand their mission, and try to fulfil it. But, as a rule, the
mission is not recognized. As a rule, children are shoved aside. And
this is done in many cases deliberately. Said one of the sewing-circle
members, “It won’t do to notice your children too much: if you do, you
can’t turn ’em off.”

Yes, “Turn ’em off,” is the cry. And turned off they are,--some for
“society,” some for “flounces,” some for “lemon-pies.”

How, then, and where, then, is my theory to work? for mothers,
exceptions excepted, do not even feel that boy-and-girl-training is
their first duty. And, allowing they could be convinced of this, then
comes the question of time. How shall they find time to attend to
it? which is rather an odd question, as it might be supposed that
one’s first duty would have the first claim. Ah, well! it is almost
a hopeless case. The next generation will not be a good generation,
because it will not be started rightly; and it will not be started
rightly, because mothers are not attending to their business; and
mothers are not attending to their business, because they “have no
time,” and because they are not aware that it is their business.

Why do not philanthropists organize a society for the enlightenment of
mothers? That is what the country needs. And when such a society shall
have been organized, and have accomplished its purpose, another must
be started, the object of which shall be to furnish mothers with time:
not by putting more hours into the day, or more days into the week, but
by an easy process which I have in my mind, and which I am willing to
divulge. Its name begins with S. I will note down here that the name
begins with S.

There is a class of mothers not mentioned in these remarks, who
make themselves slaves to their children by trying to gratify all
their whims and wishes. This class need enlightenment as much as any
other, for the kind of attention which children shall receive is a
consideration of the utmost importance.




X.

A LOOK AHEAD.


When the Society for the Enlightenment of Mothers shall have
accomplished its work, and, as a consequence, it has become a
recognized idea in the community that woman’s special duty is to
rightly train her children, then it will be in order to organize that
other society, the object of which shall be to provide mothers with
time for attending to that special duty. And perhaps some of my remote
descendants may be called upon to draft resolutions for said society,
and may be glad to find, among the musty papers of their great, great,
great, many-times-great grandfather, a hint for a beginning, something
like this, for instance:--

  “_Whereas_, Mothers of families are burdened with many cares, and
  whereas their crying want is want of time: therefore.

  “_Resolved_, That, in our view, the necessities of the age demand the
  organization of a society, the object of which shall be the diffusion
  of time among mothers.

  “_Resolved, secondly_, That this society boldly takes its stand on
  the platform of Simplification.

  “_Resolved, thirdly_, That, to effectually disseminate its views,
  this society requires, and shall have, an _organ_.

  “_Resolved, fourthly_, That said organ shall be called ‘The
  Columbian Simplifier and Time-Provider;’ and that writers shall be
  pecuniarily encouraged to illustrate in its columns our grand idea of
  Simplification in its bearing on household duties and on dress.”

There, I leave my great, great, great, many-times-great grandchildren
these hints, with my blessing, and would leave, also, an article for
“The Simplifier,” only for the difficulty of putting myself in a frame
of mind corresponding with so remotely future a state of things,--a
state of things, that is, when the controlling purposes of woman’s life
shall have changed so entirely.

I have a mind to try to do this, and write my article, and have it
read at the sewing-circle; but then it would be premature. These
mothers do not yet recognize their mission; neither do they yet place
mental culture among the must haves. When they do, they will work for
far other than their present aims; not but that many of these are
commendable, but that they stand in the way of better things.

Take ironing, for instance. This forenoon I heard Mrs. Fennel say to
Martha, “Don’t slight the towels. I take just as much pains with a
coarse brown towel as I do with any thing.” Mrs. Fennel prides herself
on having the clothes “look well on the horse,”[A] the tinware bright,
stove polished, tables scoured, towel-fringes combed out nicely, and a
pantry stored with nice things to tempt the appetite. Now, the question
is not, are these ends worth attaining, but are they the principal ones
worth attaining?

I am aware that any insinuation of this kind read at the sewing-circle
would bring a storm about my head at once. “What! slight the ironing?”
“What! not scour the tin?” “What! not keep the stove bright?” Well,
they would certainly have right on their side; and I should have, more
certainly, right on my side. My side being, that, through all the toil
and striving, something higher shall be kept in view, and that this
something higher shall not be forever shoved aside for those other
things lower.

I suppose the Society for the Enlightenment of Mothers will put the
case somewhat in this way,--

“As woman has mind, it may be inferred that to cultivate her mind
should be one special object of woman’s life. That is one statement.
Then, to add another, nothing in the world can be more precious than a
little child. It is no light responsibility, that of giving the first
direction to an immortal soul. Woman, in assuming a duty so sacred,
should feel that its claims rank above all others; that it demands of
her her very best.

“A mother, then, should aim at two special duties; namely, to cultivate
her mind, and to rightly train her children. Though these two are
stated separately, the last really includes the first, since, to
rightly train her children, a mother needs to have every mental faculty
under cultivation. This implies study, reflection, deliberation; and
these imply time. ‘We have no time,’ say these mothers,--‘no time for
books, no time to think, no time to spend with our children.’ Which is
not true, because they have all the time there is, but feel bound to
use it for other purposes.”

Now, here is where the Society for the Diffusion of Time among Mothers
shall take up the work, and show how, by the application of its grand
principle of Simplification to cooking and to dress, the inferior
duties can be made to deliver up their “lion’s share” of time.
Statistical writers in “The Columbian Simplifier” shall state the
exact number of rolling-pin strokes required by an average family in a
year, and the amount of time said strokes will consume, for the purpose
of calculating how many hours and minutes are thus stolen from the two
special objects. The same statistical writer, for a similar purpose,
shall give, in figures, the stitches and minutes required to flounce an
average family for a year. Comic writers will hold up to ridicule, in
“The Simplifier,” elaborate passages from the cook-book, thus handing
them down to posterity, by whom they will be considered as relics of a
barbarous age. Among these passages will no doubt be this one concerning


                             MINCE-PIES.

  “Ten pounds of meat, three pounds of suet, one of currants, three of
  sugar, five of apple, four of raisins, one of citron, a pint of sirup
  of preserved fruit, a quart of wine, salt, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg,
  the juice and pulp of a lemon, the rind chopped fine.”

[Illustration]

Among the illustrations of “The Simplifier” may be, perhaps, one of a
woman at a sewing-machine, half-buried in as yet unruffled ruffling;
musical instruments at the right of her, an easel with its belongings
at the left of her, book-shelves well-filled in front of her. If the
artist be imaginative, he may depict, hovering over their several
emblems, dim, shadowy forms to represent, respectively, the genius of
music, of painting, of literature, each vainly, and sorrowfully because
vainly, beckoning the ruffler away. Or, instead of a woman ruffling,
it may be a woman, chopper in hand, concocting the above-quoted horror
of the cook-book, surrounded, of course, by the various ingredients,
each properly labelled. If the artist be sensational, as well as
imaginative, he may introduce here, instead of the dim and shadowy
figures just now mentioned, the grim and shadowy figure of Death, as
saying with an exultant laugh, “Go on, madam, go on. You are working in
my interests!”

Then will come the essayist. Imagine him thus,--

“Some may ask, Mr. Editor, is it not desirable to live neatly, and
to cook palatable food? Yes. But is it for this alone that woman has
intellect, talent, genius, aspirations? Suppose, now, that one of
these women live forty working-years. At the end of that time she can
look back, and say, ‘I have polished my stove twelve thousand times;
have scoured my knives thirty-six thousand times; have never left one
wrinkle in one coarse towel; have swept the house from garret to cellar
two thousand and eighty times; and I have made unnumbered thousands of
cakes, pies, and hot biscuits.’ Now, without saying any thing against
neatness, or against eating, can that woman, in accomplishing these
ends only, be said to have fulfilled the essential purposes of life?

“The case is something like this. A person is sent on an important
mission, and, being asked if he has performed his mission, replies,
‘Why, no! I had no time. It took all the time to look out for
provisions, brush the dust off my clothes, and polish my boots. These
duties have been faithfully attended to, I am proud to say.’

“Or suppose a sea-captain should devote his energies mainly to keeping
the ship in order and his storeroom supplied, but never steer for
any port. ‘“Cleanliness and good living” is my motto,’ he would say,
pointing exultingly to his well-scrubbed decks and to his well-filled
storeroom. ‘Yes; but it is necessary to get somewhere,’ might properly
be answered.

“Let woman, then, while insisting on neatness, remember her mission.
Let her, sailing on life’s seas, keep the ship in order and wholesomely
provisioned, but at the same time steer for some port.”

The essayist will, of course, bring in those who forget their mission
while picking flowers, chasing butterflies, and blowing bubbles, and
will in various ways show that by simplifying cooking, and simplifying
dress, time may be diffused among mothers.




XI.

FENNEL PAYNE AND ADELINE.


Tweenit is usually in a state of ferment from one cause or another.
Last week it was a quarrel between two neighbors; the week before
it was Aunt Jinny’s (Aunt Jinny under the hill) undertaking to have
company; this week, it is silver-plated knives. Fennel Payne has
bought for Adeline silver-plated knives. “It does beat all!” exclaims
Mrs. Laura, who is now discussing the matter with Mrs. Fennel in an
adjoining room. My prophetic eye sees a day in the far-off future,
when, even in country villages, women’s thoughts will be occupied by
subjects of more importance. Meanwhile, Nature abhorring a vacuum,
gossip flows in, as one may say, like a sea, filling every little creek
and inlet between the solid high lands of housework and needlework.

It is amazing, the relish with which a choice bit of this standard
entertainment is enjoyed. Mrs. Laura comes over on some errand (she is
a stoutly-built woman with a determined cast of countenance), and sits
down by Mrs. Fennel. The talk begins: it grows interesting. They lean
toward each other: there is animation in their faces, a light in their
eyes, feeling in every tone. The announcement of a national calamity
could hardly be received with greater emotion than is this wonderful
news of to-day. “Silver-plated knives? What _do_ you mean?”

It was Fennel Payne and Adeline who were criticised by the
sewing-circle for their way of spending time and money. Indeed, Tweenit
in general disapproves of this couple: it calls them “stuck up.” I
know this cannot be true of Adeline, because she is an intimate friend
of my friend Mrs. Royal of Piper’s Mills, and therefore must have
common-sense, and therefore cannot be “stuck up.” And, as for her
husband, I like the looks of him much, and mean to accept his kind
invitation to “come over.” These two words seem to suffice for all
ordinary complimenting in Tweenit, especially at the breaking-up of a
gathering, when it fairly rains “come overs.” But hark! List! What is
Mrs. Laura saying? “Every day!” “They don’t keep them for company, but
use them every day!” This is the last straw which breaks the back of
forbearance. Purchasing the articles at all was bad enough; but using
them “every day” is atrocious. These two, Fennel Payne and Adeline, are
rare specimens, which must be examined. The interests of my science
demand it. I shall go “over.”


TWO WEEKS LATER.

Well, I have been over several times; and I entirely approve of Fennel
Payne and Adeline. They are a couple in advance of their times,--a
couple worthy to live in the days of “The Columbian Simplifier
and Time-Provider.” They believe in books, in beauty, in social
intercourse, and in out-doors.

I found my friend Mrs. Royal staying there the last time I called.
She is quite enthusiastic about Mr. Fennel Payne, and, finding that I
sympathize in her enthusiasm, has kindly lent me these extracts, copied
from letters which a young friend of hers received from Adeline’s
sister, one Miss Vining. They eulogize Fennel Payne, and, at the same
time, solve the great knife mystery.


EXTRACTS.

... “Pretty scenery, river, meadow, woods beyond. They live up stairs,
have one cooking-room, one sitting-room, two sleeping-rooms, with
garret privileges, and the right to wash in the sink-room, down below,
the second pleasant day after Sunday. Adeline does her own work, and
takes care of little Adeline and Buddy, as they call baby. He is--but,
as the girl in the book says, there never will be a word invented
adequate to describe your sister’s baby. No, there never will. And such
a husband as Adeline has got! Oh, I tell you there are not many Fennel
Paynes in this world! Oh, they two do take such comfort! Why, the very
atmosphere of the house is full of comfort, and you have to breathe it
in.

“Fennel comes home from work at evening, and settles himself down with
an air of intense satisfaction, as if this were for him the only spot
in all the world. Sometimes he undresses Buddy, Adeline, meanwhile,
stepping about, doing up the work, going sideways so as to keep her
eyes on them, and telling over all the cunning things baby and little
Adeline have committed during the day. At last baby’s father, after
fumbling at the nightgown strings, and tying them in a single bow-knot,
covers him over like a cocoon. Then lullaby, hushaby, softly and
gently. Fennel’s low tones are wonderfully sweet; and now and then
Adeline joins in ‘with sweet accord.’ I tell you ’tis such a perfect
taking comfort, it almost brings the tears to my eyes. That baby’s
slumbers ought to be sweet, thus watched and tended. But it is so funny
to see a man try to glide! In Fennel’s tiptoe performances he seems to
be putting himself universally out of joint....

[Illustration]

“Fennel is unwilling to have Adeline do any very bard work. They
live well, but simply; that is, they have the best of bread, meats,
fruit, &c., but no elaborate concoctions which take time to prepare,
and cost money to buy. Fennel says he thinks the right way is to
save on non-essentials, and spend on essentials. Among essentials he
counts books and pictures, especially books that have any bearing on
education. He says, that, as Adeline has little Adeline and Buddy to
bring up, she ought to have the means of preparing herself to do it,
and beautiful things to look at, and leisure to enjoy them, so as to
keep herself in a pleasant frame of mind. There is nothing he will not
do to make Adeline’s work easy for her. I don’t mean ever to marry till
I find a man just like Fennel Payne. But he has no brother. Alas and
alackaday! Why, he even bought silver-plated knives to save Adeline’s
arms and Adeline’s moments. His Aunt Laura was over yesterday; and she
gave him quite a lecture on extravagance, also threw out something
about the mother of a family sitting down to read in the daytime.
Fennel declared that he could buy a set of knives every month with
what his aunt spent in cooking the unnecessaries of life; and Adeline
did a sum in tarts and doughnuts to show where her reading-time came
from. Fennel said, that, if anybody ought to sit down to read in the
daytime, it is the mother of a family; for she, more than anybody,
needs whatever help books can give. Aunt Laura said she approved of
laying by for a rainy day; and Adeline said that was just what she was
doing,--laying up ideas against the day when her health might not be
so good, or her family so small. ‘The question is, Aunt Laura,’ said
she, ‘who wastes time and money,--you, or I?’ Uncle David and Aunt
Laura have always worked like slaves, and do now; but every dollar
saved is put into the bank or into land. There’s hardly a pretty thing
in their house. They work and save, work and save, denying themselves
almost every enjoyment, except that of eating. They will live well.
Uncle David owned to Fennel once, that he wants to have the name, when
he dies, of leaving property. What a funny idea it is, when you come
to think of it,--the idea of living this life, that can’t be lived but
once, entirely for the sake of accumulating something, which, when
we have done living, can be of no use to us! I agree with Fennel and
Adeline, that we ought to get out of life what is best worth having.
I suppose we can carry that with us; don’t you? And I shall not marry
until I meet with a man--well, something like Fennel, or, at any rate,
who believes as I do in these matters. Though, to be sure, I might take
one that differed a little, supposing one offered, and convert him; but
it would be advisable to do this last before marriage, perhaps before
the engagement....

“Aunt Laura has just come over again, and she and Adeline are
discussing the chapel question. They are on opposite sides, of course.
’Tis as good as a play, being in Tweenit now; and I long to stay
longer. Such exciting times! The women, it seems, have earned money
to build a chapel (there never was any meeting-house here); and now
the men, who have all along discouraged them from doing it, they step
forward, and want to form a regular parish that shall build the chapel,
and run it generally; but they are not going to allow the women to come
to the parish-meetings, and speak,--the meetings that are to dispose of
their own money, They say it would be wicked. Isn’t this funny?”...




XII.

NEW INVENTION WANTED.


I heard Nanny Joe remark, the other day, that begging money was akin
to pulling teeth; and, for her part, she wished there was a way of
putting people’s avaricious propensities under some influence akin to
laughing-gas, that their money might be drawn without pain. I said
to her in reply, that fairs answer the purpose very well, as I could
testify from experience; having taken them often, and found in every
instance the effect to be such, that I scarcely knew of any operation
being performed, until I woke up, and found my money extracted. Nanny
replied, that such machinery was too cumbersome, and that she meant
some little, handy pocket-contrivance to be applied individually.
Probably Mr. David was the individual in her mind at the time. The old
man is pretty well to do for a farmer; yet his dollars come hard. Every
one has roots to it; and the roots are clinched.

Nanny Joe and Nanny Moses have been trying to beg money enough to buy
a second-hand sewing-machine for Mrs. Hannah Knowles. Mr. Knowles, a
year or two ago, was killed by falling from a roof; and his widow has
been struggling ever since to support the family,--yes, struggling, and
among all these Christians!

It would seem no more than fair that a home bereft in such a way
should be provided with even more comforts than the happier homes
around; that a heart thus grief-stricken should be relieved of every
possible burden,--no more than fair, and no more than Christian-like.
Christianity, it is said, is better than other religions, because it
teaches that we are all brothers and sisters. Now, among a family of
children, the rule is, when one has any thing good, “Give dear brother
or sister some.” How often have I heard this at Mrs. Melendy’s! And
another thing. Yesterday, while I was calling there, little Rosa
Melendy fell, and bruised her head. The other children were around
her in a moment,--one with a doll, one with a cooky, one with a kiss,
one with a flower; all trying to comfort the child. Maybe we are all
brothers and sisters, as our religion teaches; but I know that we are
not willing, all of us, when we have any thing good, to “give dear
brother or sister some,” or always eager to heap kindnesses on any
member of the family whose heart has been bruised by sorrow.

Nanny Joe says there are very few people--that is, very few people in
Tweenit (they are doubtless plenty elsewhere)--who are willing, really
willing, to give away half a dollar right out and out. She asked five
individuals to contribute that sum toward the sewing-machine, and they
refused; they were unmarried men, too, earning daily wages, which
were spent freely in tobacco, confectionery, horse-hire, and other
gratifications. Nanny says that half a dollar to be spent on one’s self
is a modest, insignificant little affair; but, if to be given away, it
grows so big it can hardly be got out of the pocket.

I wonder how it would be if we all gave, not from pity, or from duty,
but, as one may say, impersonally. For instance, I deny myself a
pleasure that would cost two dollars, and bestow one costing the same
sum upon Mrs. Knowles, saying to myself, “What matters it, since a
pleasure is enjoyed, whether the individual Henry McKimber enjoys
it, or the individual Hannah Knowles?” This, of course, is merely a
hypothetical case.

Mr. David has arrived at no such state of impersonality; neither has
Mrs. Laura. I happened to be at their house when Nanny Joe called. Mr.
David thought that Hannah Knowles might put out her children, and then
go to the almshouse. He said he gave fifty cents three weeks before to
help buy a new stove for Aunt Jinny under the hill; also that he felt
poorer than common just then, on account of having between one hundred
and two hundred dollars not drawing interest, waiting for him to find
a safe way of investing it; also that his wife’s breaking her arm had
been a great damage to him. Nanny Joe offered to accept potatoes,
and dispose of them at Piper’s Mills. He said potatoes were a cash
article, but finally agreed to her taking half a bushel. The tea-table
was standing; and I observed that there was no lack of good things to
eat. Mr. David, no doubt, takes it for granted that he must have his
comforts, whatever others may lack. Perhaps he thinks this is true
Bible doctrine. Mr. David is a very doctrinal man.

Nanny Joe asked Mrs. Laura for some old pantaloons to make over for
Mrs. Knowles’s son. Mrs. Laura replied that her husband and the boys
were very hard on their pantaloons. There are two sons at home,
Elbridge and Prince, tall, slim _boys_ of thirty-five or forty.
Elbridge has a small face, and a comical, one-sided twinkle of the
eye, which he takes from his father.

[Illustration]

Mrs. Laura brought out various garments, in various stages of decay,
each of which was examined in turn. One pair would stand it a spell for
second-best; another would do for rainy weather; another, for rough
work; and so on. A pair of gray satinets, weak-kneed, and in other
respects decrepit, Elbridge remarked, with his one-sided twinkle, were
“jest about a herrin’.” But his mother declared them to be the very
things to wear in the woods. Then he picked up a pair of brown ones,
saying they were too short ever to be worn again without “splicing,”
and that Hannah Knowles had better take them. His mother said she
would see, first, if there were any pieces like them in the bag, “to
lengthen the legs down.” The bundle-bag was brought forward, roll after
roll taken out, and its label read: “Prince’s mixed suit o’ clothes,”
“Father’s last tail-coat,” “Father’s summer alpaca waistcoat,”
“Elbridge’s sack cut out by Sally Payne’s pattern,” “Prince’s satinet
pantaloons,” “Elbridge’s frock-coat he had cut out by the tailor,”
“Elbridge’s brown small-legs pantaloons”--

“That’s the animal!” cried Elbridge. “But it doesn’t look like ’em.”

“They’ll fade alike, though, some time or other,” his mother remarked.

“These won’t fade alike, though,” he cried, taking up a pair spotted
over with paint.

“I’ve been saving that pair o’ pantaloons to braid,” answered his
mother; “but still” (examining them closely) “they’re rather stiff;
and on the whole, if Hannah Knowles can make any use of that pair of
pantaloons, she may have ’em.” “So, Mrs. Laura,” thought I, “you give
away what is of no use to you. True Bible benevolence that!” Mrs. Laura
is a stanch Bible woman.

Nanny Joe declined the generous gift, and rose to go, fearing, as she
afterward told me, that the chapel question might be introduced; which
question she had then no leisure for discussing. I came out at the same
time, having something to communicate on that very subject. Just as we
got outside the gate, a bundle came down plump on the ground in front
of us, which same, by unrolling, showed itself to be “Elbridge’s brown
small-legs pantaloons.” We turned, and, guided by a loud _hem_, looked
up to the roof, and saw there the comical phiz of the owner protruding
from a scuttle. He gave a nod, a finger-shake of warning, and vanished.
We picked up the prize, but had a narrow escape with it, as Mrs. Laura
opened the door suddenly to ask Nanny Joe if she had seen a certain
piece in the paper about woman’s sphere.

The dispute as to whether women shall or shall not be allowed to
become speaking and voting members of the parish shakes Tweenit to
its centre. The sewing-circle members think they should have a voice
in the disposal of their own money; but the men, many of them, cannot
see their way clear to letting them have a voice in the disposal of
their own money, or a voice in their own chapel when it shall be built.
The quarrel waxes warm. Not only the neighborhood, but families, are
divided. Elbridge Melendy thinks differently from his father. Martha
Fennel and her lover are on opposite sides; and, in their case, the
warmth of the argument has produced a coolness of feeling. We shall see
what we shall see.




XIII.

A TALK IN THE SCHOOLHOUSE.


After the women, by working at home and begging abroad, had obtained
the requisite sum, the men came forward, and proposed meeting together
to form a society, or parish, which should build the chapel, and
regulate all things pertaining thereto. The women said, “Yes, a very
proper thing to do: we’ll come.”--“Oh, no!” the men said: “we can
manage it ourselves. You don’t understand house-building; besides, a
woman would be out of place in a parish meeting.”

Nanny Joe affirmed that she and several members of the sewing-circle
had consulted builders, and obtained their proposals. Mr. David
answered, very well; that, when the parish should be regularly formed,
she could send in a prepared statement, and the parish would act upon
it. The matter created quite a stir in the neighborhood; and it soon
became evident that Mr. David and others strongly objected to “women
speaking in meeting.” Some, however, held views opposite to those of
Mr. David, and were not backward in expressing those views. At last the
direct question was raised, whether, in any future meetings to be held
in the chapel, a woman should, or should not, be allowed to speak.

This question has been freely discussed, not upon set occasions, but
as people met in their usual way of dropping in; what _he_ said, and
what _she_ said, being told from house to house. Two parties have been
formed; and the excitement is very great. Everybody says there was
never any thing like it in Tweenit before. There probably was never so
much Bible-reading. Each side searches out texts whereby to sustain
its position. At first, the women were united; but, latterly, some
of them, influenced by husbands, brothers, or lovers, have come out
against themselves. Mrs. Laura says she has said, “Amen!” or “Glory!”
occasionally in a revival-meeting at Piper’s Mills, but that was before
she looked into the subject; and she sees now, that, as the command
forbids women to speak, one word is as wrong as twenty words. Mr. David
and others say that the text is plain and direct, and therefore they
cannot conscientiously worship in the building, if women speak in the
meetings. The opposite party contend that the prohibition was a local
affair, applying only to the women of those days, and of that Eastern
country. Mr. David replies, that, if you are going to explain away the
Bible, you may as well not have any Bible.

Fennel Payne and some others propose that the men meet in the
schoolhouse, and there talk the matter over, and, if possible, come to
some decision. Mr. David says he is ready to do this, if Fennel Payne’s
party will take the Bible literally, and not add, nor take away, nor
explain away.

Four days later. Last evening the men came together in the schoolhouse.
Those who live near brought lamps, candles, and lanterns, which, being
set in a row on the desk, did their best to bring out the low ceiling
and dingy walls. Mr. David opened the discussion by saying that he saw
no reason for any discussion at all, if we believed the Bible; for
there was the text in plain words: “_It is not permitted that a woman
should speak in the church._”

Fennel Payne asked whether the word “church” meant a building, or the
collection of people who partake of the sacrament, and are called “the
church.” Mr. David said it probably meant either, or both. “Then,” said
Fennel, “if a collection of people who do not belong to the church
assemble in a building which is not a church, a woman may speak to
them?”

Mr. David began to say that the prohibition was probably intended
to cover--but Fennel reminded him that nothing was to be added, or
subtracted, or explained away.

Then a man named Hale rose, and asked if it were right for women
to teach in sabbath schools. “Certainly it is!” answered Mr. Zenas
Melendy, “very right and very proper.”--“And if,” continued Mr. Hale,
“inquirers anxious for the welfare of their souls should come to your
wife, seeking light on religious subjects, it would be right for her to
give them information?”--“Certainly!” answered Mr. Zenas. “She would
be very blameworthy in not doing it.”--“On the contrary,” replied Mr.
Hale, opening his Testament, “she is strictly forbidden to do it. Here
Paul says, ‘_I suffer not a woman to teach._’ This excludes women from
teaching the truths of the gospel, from teaching in the sabbath school,
in high schools, normal schools, any schools.”

“But Paul didn’t mean,” began Mr. Zenas--“Excuse me,” interrupted Mr.
Hale. “The conditions are, not to add, nor subtract, nor explain away.
And here in Ephesians is another text.” Mr. Hale then read, “_Wives,
submit yourselves to your husbands in every thing_,” and asked if that
command were to be obeyed without adding, subtracting, or explaining
away.

“Why, yes,” answered Mr. Zenas, with a hesitancy which caused a general
smile; it being pretty well understood in Tweenit that Mrs. Zenas does
not fulfil that command to the very letter.

“This injunction, then,” remarked Mr. Hale, “takes from wives all
personal responsibility. Submit yourselves to your husbands in _every
thing_. If a husband wishes his wife to do a wrong act, it is her duty
to obey him.”

Mr. David said, that, of course, a woman should not do any thing
against her own conscience. Mr. Hale replied, that the text left her
no right of private judgment, inasmuch as Paul declared over and over
again in his epistles, that the wife must submit to the husband, and
that “_the husband is the head of the wife, as Christ is the head of
the church_.” “And here,” Mr. Hale continued, “is a passage which
commands us to ‘_Owe no man any thing._’ Those who cannot worship in
a building in which women speak cannot worship with any person who is
in debt. And here again” (turning the leaves) “are other texts: ‘_Let
no man seek his own, but every man another’s wealth._’ ‘_Bear ye one
another’s burdens._’ These are equally emphatic: if one binds, all
bind.”

It was at this point that Cyrus Fennel (brother of Martha) made a hit
at Mr. David. He arose, and, looking toward the old man, said he should
like to inquire whether Christ’s commands were as binding as those
of Paul? Mr. David said that certainly they were, and more so. Cyrus
then read these words of Christ: “_Give to every man that asketh of
thee._” This brought to every face an amused, half-pleased expression;
Mr. David’s stinginess being almost a by-word here. He replied, that
every man has a duty to his family. Fennel Payne reminded him again
that nothing was to be explained away, and then read other commands
of Christ, each of a similar import to the one mentioned by Cyrus. He
then repeated all the different texts which had been brought forward,
beginning with that against women speaking in the church. “And now I
want to ask,” he continued, “why the first of these injunctions should
be taken literally, and the others not?”

As Fennel Payne sat down, a tall, gray-haired man arose,--the same who
came through the place, not long ago, selling “Bitters” of his own
making. He is a pleasant-faced, good-humored man, and travels, with
his jugs, in an antique carryall, on the outside of which is written
with chalk, “Archangel Bitters.” His name is Hensiford. This man arose,
and, after asking permission to speak, said in a bland, mild tone,
speaking slowly, “My friends, it comes to my mind to ask a question,
which is this: Why are men met together to decide this matter? My
friends, if the Almighty Creator meant that woman should be judged by
the law, he gave to her an understanding mind to understand the law:
otherwise, God is unjust. And, my friends, if women are to be saved,
or lost, according to the deeds done in the body, it must be that they
have consciences whereby they may tell right from wrong: otherwise, God
is unjust. My friends, woman either is a responsible being, or she is
not a responsible being: she can’t be sometimes one, and sometimes the
other. It does not appear to me, my friends, that we are called upon
to decide this matter. The brother on my right hand allowed, just now,
that woman should be guided by her conscience. Paul asks, ‘Why is my
liberty judged of another man’s conscience?’ Women might ask the same
question by putting in the word ‘any’ in place of ‘another.’ And now,
my friends,” continued the old man, looking round with a persuasive
smile, “what a plain and simple way it would be to let women understand
_Scripter_ with their own understandings, and regulate their behavior
by the voice of their own consciences!”




XIV.

AN ENTERTAINING MEETING.


The great chapel question has been decided at last by a _coup d’état_.
Cyrus Fennel had promised to give a lot of land; and the deed was made
out some time ago, but not signed. At last, growing impatient with what
he called the narrowness of Mr. David and a few others, Cyrus declared
that he never would sign the deed, unless it was agreed that any person
and every person who might feel moved to speak in their meetings should
have liberty to do so. Some one suggested to Mr. David that he come
up with Cyrus by giving a lot of land himself. This thunder-clap of a
suggestion cleared Mr. David’s mental vision sufficiently to enable him
to perceive that the minority should not stand out longer against the
majority, and that possibly, by entering their protest, they had done
all that was required of them.

Previous to this, however, a plan was proposed, which elicited a
curious little bit of information in regard to the law. The plan was,
that the sewing-circle should build and own the chapel. Some one
queried whether or not this could be done legally; and, to make sure,
Mrs. Hale and Adeline Payne went to Elmbridge one day, and consulted a
lawyer.

The sewing-circle met here that afternoon; and, on returning from
Elmbridge, the two delegates hastened over to announce the result of
their mission. The lawyer had assured them, they said, that no company
of married women could own a building, or any other property. “Not even
a hen-house,” said Adeline. “The lawyer told us, that, if we two should
want to set up storekeeping together, we couldn’t own our stock of
goods.”

This announcement was followed by a dead calm, and the dead calm by a
hurricane of exclamations: “Well, I declare!” “Now, if that isn’t a
good one!” “What, not when we earned the money to build it?” “Pretty
state of things!” “I don’t see why not!” “The ones that made that law
better make it over!”[B]

There was an old lady present,--a frequent visitor in Tweenit,--one
Mrs. Heath, commonly called “Aunt Mary,” a white-haired, sallow-faced,
but, on the whole, a pleasant-looking old lady. When the storm had
subsided, Aunt Mary remarked in her quiet way, that she could tell
them a fact or two about law. Her fact or two was as follows. She
married, at the age of twenty-six, a seafaring man five years older
than herself. Her husband made only one voyage after they were
married. He owned a house and a small piece of ground: another piece
was bought, partly with her money, both together making quite a snug
little farm. She kept boarders some of the time, and made a practice
of taking in work (tailoring had been her trade) in order to help
along, so that what money was raised from the place might be spent on
the place. They had no children. After twenty-eight years of married
life she became a widow. The law gave her one-half the personal
property, and the improvement of one-third of the real estate: the
rest went to her husband’s brother. “A share of the place was set
off to me,” said Aunt Mary, “and rights of way ‘allowed me’ across
my own premises. I had wine privileges in the house too, besides
the rooms that were set off to me; the privilege, for instance, of
going through my own front entry, and into my own sink-room. Every
thing in the house was appraised. Samuel took half of the furniture,
dishes, beds, and bedding; took some things made of inlaid work and of
shell-work,--things I set a good deal o’ store by, because my husband
brought them home to me before we were married. Li-zy kind o’ hated to
take ’em; but she said, says she, ‘You know everybody likes to have
what’s their own.’”

“Couldn’t he have made a will?” asked some one.

“Oh, yes! he could, and he did mean to make one. I was only speaking of
the law. He meant to give it all to me.”

While Aunt Mary was telling her story, old Mr. Hale came in, father to
the Mr. Hale who spoke in the meeting. The old man said he couldn’t
help feeling an interest to know how the lawyers laid down the law.

After hearing the decision, and hearing Aunt Mary’s story, he said,
“Wal, ladies, you womankind must make up your minds to let patience
have her parfect work. The laws favor ye more than they did. Women
have come up considerable since Paul’s day. I don’t believe there’s a
minister in the land would stand up and preach a discourse in favor
of that text, ‘Women, submit yourselves unto your husbands in every
thing.’ He’d be laughed down. And suppose a writer should write an
es-_say_ to prove that wives ought to keep that command, and send it to
that biggest New-York double newspaper. What would the editor do with
that es-_say_? Put it into his head column?

“You jest wait. There’s a great to-do now about a woman’s gittin’ up
to speak in a revival-meetin’. Wal, in my father’s day, there was a
great to-do about their not wearin’ their veils into the meetin’-house.
Ministers took sides, and arter a while it got into the Boston
newspapers. The greatest ministers in the State preached for and agin
it. There was a famous minister came to our town. I’ve heard my father
tell the story many a time. Father said he was among the last of his
teens then, and said he used to sit in a square pew in the gallery,
back to the pulpit; and the girl he wanted to go with sat down below,
jest far enough off, and not too near, for him to keep lookin’ at
her, and she at him, now and then; and that kind o’ took up his mind
in sermon-time. He had never durst to try to be her beau in earnest.
He’d walked alongside once or twice, but never’d had the face to offer
his arm; and he’d made dependence on his Sundays, and been steady to
meetin’ for reasons aforesaid. Wal, when the veil question begun to
make a stir, all the girls, and she among ’em, became persuaded in
their minds they ought to wear their veils into the meetin’-house, and
keep ’em down; and this caused a dreadful _de_privation to him, and to
others likewise.

“And, arter things had gone on so a spell, there came a famous preacher
to town, one of the uncommon rare ones; and he preached a sermon with
thirteen heads, all goin’ to show that women could keep their veils
down, or not keep ’em down, jest as they pleased. That was in the
forenoon. Father said, that, in the arternoon, every single girl in
that meetin’-house sat all meetin’-time with her veil up. He said ’twas
jest like light breakin’ in arter a cloudy shadow.”

“And what about the girl?” asked Martha Fennel. “Did he have the girl?”

“No. The girl had a young man that she didn’t look at, that sat over
across in the other gallery.”

“But it can’t be true,” remarked Adeline Payne, “that ministers really
did pretend to dictate whether women should wear veils, or not?”

“Jest what Mr. Picket’s wife said, over at Elm Bridge, when I told them
this same story. I said ’twas actooally true. And Mr. Picket, said
he, ‘I tell you how we’ll prove it. You said ’twas in the old Boston
newspapers. My cousin goes representative to General Court. They keep
files of the old Boston papers in the Boston Library,’ says he; ‘and
I’ll write my cousin word to look ’em over.’ We reckoned back, and
found father must have been among the last of his teens about the year
1800. So Mr. Picket wrote word to his cousin; and his cousin looked
the files over, and found a paper that had a piece in it on this very
subject; and the name of the paper, if I don’t mistake my memory, was
‘The Columbia Sentinel.’”

I was quite interested in this little story of Mr. Hale’s. Indeed,
since my attention has been called to domestic science, I have felt a
steadily-increasing interest in whatever relates to the condition of
women, past, present, and future. Previous to that, I used to think,
or rather took it for granted in an indifferent way without thinking,
that, in matters of religion, women were on an equality with men. I had
the impression that this equality was claimed for one of the results
of Christianity as being enjoined by the text, ending, “Neither male
nor female, but all one in Christ Jesus.” A few sarcastic remarks of
Nanny Joe (which remarks I had in mind while writing one of the early
numbers of these papers), together with some of my own observations,
have caused me to read with close attention the discussions which
are so continually going on in the papers in regard to what woman
should or should not be allowed to do. And, with all my reading and
all my thinking, I can arrive at no other conclusion than that of my
friend who sells “Archangel Bitters;” namely, that woman, having been
endowed by her Creator with mind and with conscience, should be left
to understand Scripture with her own understanding, and to judge for
herself what is right, and what is wrong, man not being accountable
therefor.




XV.

THE WRITER FACES HIS OWN MUSIC.


A lady-friend, after looking over my papers, asked why I harped so much
on the rather low and trivial subject of eating. “Because,” said I,
“daily observation has driven me to it.” And this is just the truth.
I see that everybody takes it for granted they must have good living,
“whatever,” to use Mrs. Melendy’s word, rather than pleasures of a
higher grade, even the pleasure of helping the needy.

Take a close fisted man like Mr. David, who, though well enough off,
practices the strictest stinginess. With him the spending of each dime
is carefully considered. A half-dollar given away is, as one may say,
hung up in his memory, set in a frame, for handy reference. When such a
man affords his family cakes, pies, preserves, and the like, for their
daily food, we may consider such things to be firmly established as
“must haves.” Indeed, all classes, poor as well as rich, seem to agree
that the earning and compounding of these and similar articles rank
among the chief objects of life. The very phrase “good living” shows
this, since it implies that to live well is to eat well. A man said to
me the other day, “When I can’t eat and drink what I want to, then I
want to die.”

Now, if we were created only a _little_ lower than the angels, there
certainly should be a wider space between us and the inferior animals
than such a state of gormandism denotes. Not that the pleasures of
eating are to be wholly despised. There is, after all, a relationship
between us and the brutes; and we need not be ashamed to own our
kindred, or to share in their enjoyments. Besides, these grains,
fruits, vegetables, &c., which we are called to meet three times a day,
are all our relations, on the mother’s side (Mother Nature’s), and
should by no means be regarded with contempt, especially as it is their
destiny to be worked up into human beings, actually made bone of our
bone, and flesh of our flesh.

I believe in festival days with all my heart, which is the very
best way of believing. I think we should sometimes call our friends
together, and gratify the whole of them (not meaning all of them,
but the whole nature of each one),--give them bright thoughts for the
intellect, friendliness for the heart, and good things for the palate,
keeping, as regards the last, within the bounds of common-sense and
healthfulness.

The palate craves enjoyment; and that craving, being a natural one,
must be recognized as such. But what I insist upon is this; namely,
that gratifying the palate shall not rank among the chief occupations
or the chief enjoyments of life, for it has usurped those positions
long enough.

And not only is it an usurper, crowding out better and more ennobling
aims, but it makes slaves of women, and seriously affects their peace
of mind. I have a bright-eyed young cousin, whose one idea, during
the first half of the day at least, is to prepare a dinner which
shall please the fastidious taste of her husband. For this end she
works, plans, ponders, experiments, contrives, invents, and consults
cook-books and cooks; and, this end attained, she is happy. But I have
seen her at mealtime, when he has criticised unfavorably a dish on
which she had spent much labor and more anxiety,--have seen her flush
up, leave the table on some pretended errand, and (this is actual
truth) brush tears from those bright eyes of hers. Another case. An
elderly woman of this village died recently, the chief end and aim
of whose whole married life had been, so people say who know, to cook
in such a manner as exactly to please her husband. She succeeded.
That husband made the remark, in this very house, and within this
very week, that he hadn’t tasted a decent piece of custard-pie since
his wife died. Among the wealthier classes it is just the same. I
believe that Mrs. Manchester goes to her dinner-table every day with
fear and trembling. Perhaps her case is worse than that of my cousin,
as, with Mrs. Manchester, success or failure depends on the uncertain
capabilities of Irish help. The blame, however, if blame there be,
rests on Mrs. Manchester; and I have seen that the sarcastic manner in
which Mr. Manchester blames, sometimes cuts into the quick. These may
be exceptional cases: I trust they are. But that this state of things
does prevail more or less generally, cannot be denied. If, then, the
low and trivial matter of eating be sufficiently high and important
to take so very prominent a position among our enjoyments, and to
seriously affect the peace and happiness of woman’s life, why not harp
on it?

It should be harped on, likewise, because it affects the condition of
almost everybody. Simplify cookery, thus reducing the cost of living,
and how many longing individuals, now forbidden, would thereby be
enabled to afford themselves the pleasures of culture, of travel, of
social intercourse, of tasteful dwellings! And it might be added, at
the risk of raising a smile, how many pairs of waiting lovers, now
forbidden, would thereby be enabled to marry, and go to--paradise,
which is to say housekeeping!

Social intercourse, in a special manner, would be affected by the
change. People “can’t have company, ’tis such hard work!” And no
wonder! A young woman of this village set before her company, the other
afternoon, three kinds of cake, two of pie, three of preserves, besides
Washington-pie, cookies, and hot and cold bread. Every woman who sat at
that tea-table, when her turn of inviting the company comes round, will
feel obliged to make a similar display. When this barbarous practice
of stuffing one’s guests shall have been abolished, a social gathering
will not necessarily imply hard labor and dyspepsia. Perhaps, when that
time arrives, we shall be sufficiently civilized to demand pleasures
of a higher sort. True, the entertainments will then, in one sense, be
more costly, as culture is harder to come by than cake. The profusion
of viands now heaped upon the table betrays poverty of the worst sort.
Having nothing better to offer, we offer victuals; and this we do
with something of that complacent, satisfied air with which some more
northern tribes present their tidbits of whale and walrus.

When we have changed all this, it will then be given us to know the
real pleasure of eating. At present our appetites are so vitiated by
over-eating, that the keen edge of this pleasure is dulled. Whoever
would enjoy it, sharpened at both edges, let him labor hard enough to
feel actual hunger, and then take--why, take any simple thing, a baked
potato, a slice of meat, a piece of bread. The dishes that make the
work, and cost the money, are usually eaten after hunger is satisfied,
and do harm, rather than good.

We often hear people remark, “Oh! we don’t want to be thinking of what
does harm, and what does good. The best way is to eat what’s on the
table.” I know a mother who gives her only child, a little girl three
years old, hot biscuits, mince-pie, rich cake, and the like, believing,
she says, that “a child’s stomach should get used to every thing.” For
her part, she believes in living the natural way, not in picking and
choosing. Why not, on the same principle, let the child get used to all
kinds of reading, and all kinds of companions?

It is curious, the way people assume, that, because the present
system of cooking and serving meals is customary, it is, therefore,
natural; as if the courses of a dinner, each with its central dish, and
that with its revolving lesser dishes, were, equally with the solar
system, an established order of nature. Meal-providers have sought
out many inventions, and call these the “natural way.” They give us,
at one sitting, fish, pork, flour, butter, salt, milk, eggs, raisins,
spices, corn, potatoes, squash, coffee, sugar, saleratus, pickles,
onions, lard, pepper, cooked fruits, tomatoes, essences, all variously
combined, and say, “Here, eat, eat in the natural way.” Why natural?
The men and women it helps to produce are, to some extent, its natural
consequences; but are they natural men and women? Hear them. “Oh, my
head!” “Oh, my back!” “Oh, my side!” “Oh, my liver!” “Oh, my stomach!”
“Oh, my nerves!” On every side resounds the mournful chorus. Seldom do
we hear break in even one jubilant voice, chanting in response, “I am
in perfect health. I feel no ache, no pain.” Is this, then, the natural
way? But the system speaks for itself, or, rather, the innumerable host
of invalids speak for it. So does the grand army of doctors. So do
proprietors of patent medicines, rolling in wealth. Why, people take
ill health for granted. “No use telling your aches: everybody has
’em,” is a remark often heard.

Occasionally an individual rebels, and insists on eating really simple
and natural food. Such individual is straightway called odd. He is
jeered at, ridiculed, accused of thinking about his stomach, and about
what merely goes to sustain the body, as if such thinking were not
worth while.

Now, these bodies are nearer and dearer to us than any other earthly
possession. And, what is more, they will cling to us. We are joined to
them for better or worse; and from this union there is no divorce, till
death do us part. Why, then, scoff at them? Why not, on the contrary,
seriously consider how we may build them up as pure, as strong, and
as perfect as may be? Not worth while to think about one’s stomach?
Why? The stomach is not an obscure party, doing business in a small
way, and on its own account. It is leading partner in an important and
influential firm,--“Stomach, Brains, & Co.” There is nothing vulgar
about brains; oh, no! They have always been respectable. Well, in
this great firm, each member is liable for all, and all for each. If
one runs in debt, the others have to pay. It is well known that the
condition of the brain and other organs is affected by the quality of
the blood, and the quality of the blood, by the quality of the food.
The change of food into blood is a chemical process; and why is not
human chemistry as well worth studying as any other kind? for instance,
that by which the manufacturer selects the best chemicals for his
various dyestuffs, and the gardener those best adapted to his various
soils. The time may come when this chemistry of eating shall rank with
other scientific studies. People shall then be allowed to “pick and
choose” the diet best calculated to make healthy nerves, blood, bones,
&c.; and they shall not suffer ridicule for so doing.




FOOTNOTES:

[A] Clothes-horse, a local term for clothes-frame.

[B] Recent legislative proceedings show that some law-makers are of the
same opinion.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.