"Of course, I couldn't say that I wished the whole set and system of
housekeeping women at the--what-'s-his-name?--because Sophie would
have cried for a week, and been utterly forlorn and disconsolate. I
know it's not the poor girl's fault; I try sometimes to reason with
her, but you can't reason with the whole of your wife's family, to the
third and fourth generation backwards; but I'm sure it's hurting her
health,--wearing her out. Why, you know Sophie used to be the life of
our set; and now she really seems eaten up with care from morning to
night, there are so many things in the house that something dreadful
is happening to all the while, and the servants we get are so clumsy.
Why, when I sit with Sophie and Aunt Zeruah, it's nothing but a
constant string of complaints about the girls in the kitchen. We keep
changing our servants all the time, and they break and destroy so that
now we are turned out of the use of all our things. We not only eat in
the basement, but all our pretty table-things are put away, and we
have all the cracked plates and cracked tumblers and cracked teacups
and old buck-handled knives that can be raised out of chaos. I could
use these things and be merry if I didn't know we had better ones; and
I can't help wondering whether there isn't some way that our table
could be set to look like a gentleman's table; but Aunt Zeruah says
that 'it would cost thousands, and what difference does it make as
long as nobody sees it but us?' You see, there is no medium in her
mind between china and crystal and cracked earthenware. Well, I'm
wondering how all these laws of the Medes and Persians are going to
work when the children come along. I'm in hopes the children will
soften off the old folks, and make the house more habitable."
Well, children did come, a good many of them, in time. There was Tom,
a broad-shouldered, chubby-cheeked, active, hilarious son of mischief,
born in the very image of his father; and there was Charlie, and Jim,
and Louisa, and Sophie the second, and Frank,--and a better, brighter,
more joy-giving household, as far as temperament and nature were
concerned, never existed.
But their whole childhood was a long battle,--children versus
furniture, and furniture always carried the day. The first step of the
housekeeping powers was to choose the least agreeable and least
available room in the house for the children's nursery, and to fit it
up with all the old, cracked, rickety furniture a neighboring
auction-shop could afford, and then to keep them in it. Now everybody
knows that to bring up children to be upright, true, generous, and
religious needs so much discipline, so much restraint and correction,
and so many rules and regulations, that it is all that the parents can
carry out, and all the children can bear. There is only a certain
amount of the vital force for parents or children to use in this
business of education, and one must choose what it shall be used for.
The Aunt Zeruah faction chose to use it for keeping the house and
furniture, and the children's education proceeded accordingly. The
rules of right and wrong of which they heard most frequently were all
of this sort: Naughty children were those who went up the front
stairs, or sat on the best sofa, or fingered any of the books in the
library, or got out one of the best teacups, or drank out of the
cut-glass goblets.
Why did they ever want to do it? If there ever is a forbidden fruit in
an Eden, will not our young Adams and Eves risk soul and body to find
out how it tastes? Little Tom, the oldest boy, had the courage and
enterprise and perseverance of a Captain Parry or Dr. Kane, and he
used them all in voyages of discovery to forbidden grounds. He stole
Aunt Zeruah's keys, unlocked her cupboards and closets, saw, handled,
and tasted everything for himself, and gloried in his sins.
"Don't you know, Tom," said the nurse to him once, "if you are so
noisy and rude, you'll disturb your dear mamma? She's sick, and she
may die, if you're not careful."
"Will she die?" says Tom gravely.
"Why, she may."
"Then," said Tom, turning on his heel,--"then I'll go up the front
stairs."
As soon as ever the little rebel was old enough, he was sent away to
boarding-school, and then there was never found a time when it was
convenient to have him come home again. He could not come in the
spring, for then they were house-cleaning, nor in the autumn, because
then they were house-cleaning; and so he spent his vacations at
school, unless, by good luck, a companion who was so fortunate as to
have a home invited him there. His associations, associates, habits,
principles, were as little known to his mother as if she had sent him
to China. Aunt Zeruah used to congratulate herself on the rest there
was at home, now he was gone, and say she was only living in hopes of
the time when Charlie and Jim would be big enough to send away, too;
and meanwhile Charlie and Jim, turned out of the charmed circle which
should hold growing boys to the father's and mother's side, detesting
the dingy, lonely playroom, used to run the city streets, and hang
round the railroad depots or docks. Parents may depend upon it that,
if they do not make an attractive resort for their boys, Satan will.
There are places enough, kept warm and light and bright and merry,
where boys can go whose mothers' parlors are too fine for them to sit
in. There are enough to be found to clap them on the back, and tell
them stories that their mothers must not hear, and laugh when they
compass with their little piping voices the dreadful litanies of sin
and shame. In middle life, our poor Sophie, who as a girl was so gay
and frolicsome, so full of spirits, had dried and sharpened into a
hard-visaged, angular woman,--careful and troubled about many things,
and forgetful that one thing is needful. One of the boys had run away
to sea; I believe he has never been heard of. As to Tom, the eldest,
he ran a career wild and hard enough for a time, first at school and
then in college, and there came a time when he came home, in the full
might of six feet two, and almost broke his mother's heart with his
assertions of his home rights and privileges. Mothers who throw away
the key of their children's hearts and childhood sometimes have a sad
retribution. As the children never were considered when they were
little and helpless, so they do not consider when they are strong and
powerful. Tom spread wide desolation among the household gods,
lounging on the sofas, spitting tobacco juice on the carpets,
scattering books and engravings hither and thither, and throwing all
the family traditions into wild disorder, as he would never have done
had not all his childish remembrances of them been embittered by the
association of restraint and privation. He actually seemed to hate any
appearance of luxury or taste or order,--he was a perfect Philistine.
As for my friend Bill, from being the pleasantest and most genial of
fellows, he became a morose, misanthropic man. Dr. Franklin has a
significant proverb,--"Silks and satins put out the kitchen fire."
Silks and satins--meaning by them the luxuries of housekeeping--often
put out not only the parlor fire, but that more sacred flame, the fire
of domestic love. It is the greatest possible misery to a man and to
his children to be homeless; and many a man has a splendid house, but
no home.
"Papa," said Jenny, "you ought to write and tell what are your ideas
of keeping a home."
"Girls, you have only to think how your mother has brought you up."
* * * * *
Nevertheless, I think, being so fortunate a husband, I might reduce my
wife's system to an analysis, and my next paper shall be, What is a
Home, and How to Keep it.