Part 24

“I thought you were one of the favored few who had no trouble with them,” says another housekeeper, sighingly. “There is real comfort,—excuse me, my dear Mrs. Sterling—but it is refreshing to a wearied soul to know that you have felt some of our tribulations. It seems to me, at times, that there is no other affliction worthy the name when compared with what we endure from the ‘Necessary Evil.’ I have tried all sorts—the representatives from every nation under heaven, I verily believe—and _they are all alike_! They will wear me into an untimely grave yet.”

“I wouldn’t let them, my dear Martha,” replies Mrs. Sterling, with her sunny smile. “If evils, they are surely minor afflictions. And, after all, I imagine ‘they’ are a good deal like the rest of man and womankind—pretty much as you choose to take them. The truth is, there is no justice in wholesale denunciation of any class. You recollect the Western orator’s truism, ‘Human nature, Mr. President, nine cases out of ten, is human nature.’ When I consider the influences under which a majority of our servants have been reared—ignorance, poverty, superstition, often evil example in their homes—my wonder is, not at the worthlessness of some, but that so many are virtuous, honest, and orderly. You will allow that, as a general thing, they are quite as industrious as their mistresses, and control their tempers almost as well. And we make so many mistakes in our dealings with them!”

My old friend does not often lecture, but she has something to say now, and forgets herself in her subject.

“We err so grievously in our management, that a sense of our failures should teach us charity. Do we understand, ourselves, what is the proper place of a hired ‘help’ in our families? If it is the disposition of Mrs. Shoddy to trample upon them as soulless machines, Mrs. Kindly makes a sort of elder daughter of her maid; indulges, consults, and confides in her, and wonders, by-and-by, to find herself under Abigail’s thumb—her husband and children subject to the caprices of a pampered menial. I never hear a lady say of a valued domestic, ‘I could not get along without her,’ without anticipating as a certainty the hour when she shall announce, ‘There _is_ such a thing as keeping a servant too long.’ The crisis comes, then, to Mrs. Kindly. In a moment of desperation she frees her neck from the yoke. Abigail packs her six trunks, having entered Mrs. Kindly’s service, seven years before, with her worldly all done up in a newspaper, shakes the dust off the neat Balmoral boots which have replaced her brogans, against the heartless tyrant who sits crying, in her own room up-stairs, over thoughts of how Abigail has been so clean, quick, and devoted to her interests; how she has nursed her through a long and dangerous illness, and had the charge of Emma and Bobby from their birth. She has prepared a handsome present for her in memory of all this, and is hurt more than by anything else when she learns that the girl has taken her final departure without even kissing the baby.

“It is not strange that the deceived mistress should, from that day, write down Abigail a monster of ingratitude, and forget the faithful service of years in the smart of wounded feeling; when the truth is that she did the maid more injury by injudicious petting, than the latter could do her mistress had she absconded with all the plate in the house. She has, as might have been expected, proved Abigail’s unfitness to be her confidante and co-adviser; but, at the same time, she has filled her brain with notions of her superiority to her fellow-servants, her heart with burnings for the higher station she can never occupy.

“I speak feelingly upon this subject,” continues Mrs. Sterling, with a laugh; “for I was once led into this very mistake myself, by the attractive qualities of a young woman who lived with me nine years as seamstress and chambermaid. She was so even-tempered, so sensible, industrious, and respectful, that she gained upon the esteem of us all. One day, while we sat together at work, I told her of some family changes in prospect, prefacing the communication by the remark, ‘I want to speak to you of something, Eliza, which you must not mention to any one else at present. The interests of an employer and a servant should be the same.’

“Then, very foolishly, I opened up my mind freely on the subject that engaged it. She answered modestly, but intelligently, entering into my plans with such cordial interest and pledges of co-operation, that I went to prepare for a walk, feeling really strengthened and cheered by the talk. At the front door I was met by a letter requiring an immediate reply. Returning to my chamber to lay off my hat and shawl, I heard Eliza talking loudly and gleefully in the adjoining sewing-room, with the cook, whom she must have called up-stairs through the speaking-tube. You cannot imagine, nor I describe, my sensations at listening, against my will, to an exaggerated account of the interview which had just taken place. Not only my language, but my tones were mimicked with great gusto and much laughter by my late confidante—the phrase ‘The interests of the employer and the servant should be the same’ occurring again and again, and forming, apparently, the cream of the joke. I was very angry. But for the rule adopted early in my married life, never to reprove a servant when out of humor, I should instantly have ordered the treacherous creature—as I named her—from the house. I sat down instead, to cool off and to think. With reflection, common sense rallied to my aid.

“‘The girl does well enough in her place, which is that of a hired chambermaid and seamstress,’ said this monitor. ‘She knew her position, and would have kept it, but for your folly in dragging her up to temporary equality with yourself. You made yourself ridiculous, and she was shrewd enough to see it. Take the lesson to heart; write it out in full for future guidance, and keep your own counsel.’

“Eliza never suspected my discovery. She remained with me until her marriage a year afterward, and we parted upon good terms.”

I have quoted from my friend at length, because I honor her excellent judgment and mature experience, and because I agree so fully with her touching the evil of so-called confidential servants. The principle of acknowledged favoritism is ruinous to domestic comfort, let who may be the object thus distinguished. Rely upon it, my dear lady, at least one third of home-wrangles and social scandal arises from this cause. Be assured, also, that if you do not perceive the impropriety of lowering yourself to the level of your subordinates, _they_ will, and gauge their behaviour accordingly. The connection is an unnatural one, and, like all others of the kind, must terminate disastrously in time. Then the discarded favorite, aggrieved and exasperated, leaves your house to tattle in the ears of some other indiscreet mistress, of your sayings and doings. Show your servant that you respect yourself and her too truly to forget what is due to both. Be kind, pleasant, always reasonable and attentive to her needs, willing to hearken to and meet any lawful request. Make her comfortable, and, so far as you can, happy.

Excuse one more quotation from Mrs. Sterling, whom, when I was much younger than I am now, I consulted with regard to the just medium between familiarity and austerity.

“Remember they are human beings, and treat them as such,” she said. “Not that you are likely to reap a large reward in their gratitude, but because it is right, and because you find no exceptions to the practice of the Golden Rule laid down in the Bible. Be faithful in your obedience to the law of kindness. With the return tide you have nothing to do. This is a safe and straight path. I believe it to be also the smoothest. You will be better and more cheerfully served than your neighbor, who, recognizing in every hireling a natural enemy, is always on the defensive.”

I have found the most serious obstacle to a comfortable pursuance of her safe path, to lie in this same prejudice—rooted by centuries of misunderstandings and caste-wars—the belief of necessary antagonism between employers and employed. Mrs. Sterling’s Eliza only expressed the prevailing sentiment of her class, when she ridiculed her mistress’ proposition that their interests ought to be identical. I have failed so often and so signally in the endeavor to impress the merits of this policy upon domestics, that I rarely attempt it now. There is always a suspicion—more or less apparent—that you have a single eye to self-interest in all your regulations and counsels. “What does she hope to gain? What am I in danger of losing?” are the queries that invariably present themselves to the subordinate’s mind. The arguments by which your plans are supported are thrown away upon ignorant and illogical listeners—your array of facts totally disbelieved. Your auditor does not say this, but in divers and ingenious ways she contrives to let you know that she is not so silly as to be imposed upon by the specious array of evidence.

For how much of this are mistresses responsible? Has this creed of distrust been learned by experience of injustice or exaction, or is it one of the popular prejudices, which are harder to overthrow than sound and well-established principle? Of one thing I am certain: Mistresses and maids would more speedily come to a right understanding of oneness of interest but for the influence exerted over the former by Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Robinson, and Mrs. Brown, who don’t allow this, and couldn’t think of that, and never heard of the other privilege or immunity being granted to servants. Before they would yield such a point, or submit to one syllable of dictation, they would do all their own work, etc., etc. Poor Mrs. Pliable, listening dumbly and meekly, goes home with a low-spirited sense of her own pusillanimity upon her, and tries to assert her authority and redeem past faults by a sudden tightening of the reins, that results in a runaway and general smash-up.

Cannot we remember—you and I, my dear reader—that we may sometimes be as nearly right as those who talk more loudly and strongly than we upon domestic economy, laying down rules we never thought of suggesting; splitting into ninths a hair our short-sighted eyes cannot make out when whole, and annihilating our timid objections with a lordly “_I_ always do so,” which is equal to a decree of infallibility? Cannot we make up our minds, once and for all, to be a law unto ourselves in all matters pertaining to our households? Mrs. Jones’ rule may be good for her; Mrs. Robinson’s better than any other in her particular case, and Mrs. Brown’s best of all for one in her peculiar circumstances; yet any one or all of them be unsuitable for our use.

Avoid talking about your domestic affairs with people whose gossip on these topics is incessant. You are angry when a whiff of some such discussion as enlightened Mrs. Sterling, with regard to her mistake, is wafted to you through the dumb-waiter or register, an accident that will occur while the tones of the plaintiffs are loud and untrained by education or policy. It is mean and unkind—traitorous, in fact, you say, for them so to misrepresent and revile you—after all the kindness you have showed to them, too! Bridget, Chloe, or Gretchen, passing the parlor-door and catching the sound of her name as roughly handled, may have her own sensations, and draw her own inferences—_being human like yourself_. It is tiresome and vulgar, this everlasting exchange of experiences about “my girl,” and “your girl,” and everybody else’s “girl.” It is time sensible women ceased, in this respect, to imitate the fashion of the class they censure, and put down the bootless tattle with a strong will. Order your household, then, so far aright as you can by the help of common sense and grace from on high, and let Mesdames Jones, Robinson, and Brown look to the ways of their own, and expend their surplus energies upon their neighbors’ concerns—counting you out.

(I believe that is slang, but let it stand!)

These worthy and fussy housewives act upon the supposition that all “girls” are cast in the same mould. Being human (do not let us forget that!), the probability is, that there are varieties of the species.

But, if the mistresses are led by their associates, the “girl’s” “acquaintances” sway her yet more powerfully. Every conscientious, well-meaning housewife knows what a brake is this informal, but terrible “Union” upon her endeavors to improve and really benefit those under her direction. I have been amazed and disgusted at the tyranny exercised by this irresponsible body over the best servants I have ever seen.

“We would be hooted at, ma’am, if we didn’t give in to them,” said one, when I represented how senseless and almost suicidal was the course recommended by these evil advisers. “There’s not a girl in the town would speak to us if we didn’t join in with the rest. It’s like a strike, you see—awful upon them as holds back.”

Do not, then, my discouraged fellow-laborer, imagine that I am ignorant of your trials, your doubts, your disheartening experiences. If I disagree with Mrs. S-k-n-s-t-n and do not pronounce our servants to be the greatest plague of life, inclining rather to the belief that—always allowing for human nature and the drawbacks I have enumerated—good mistresses are apt to make good servants, it is in consequence of long and careful study and observation of the practical working of Mrs. Sterling’s rule. Like begets like. Pleasant words are more likely to be answered by pleasant than are tart or hasty ones. If you would have your servants respectful to you, be respectful to them. The best way to teach them politeness is by example. It should not cost you an effort to say, “Thank you,” or “If you please.” The habit exerts an unconscious refining influence upon them, and you dignify instead of degrading your ladyhood by being pitiful and courteous to all. If you can only maintain your position by haughtiness and chilling disregard of the feelings of inferiors, your rank is false, or you unfit to hold it.

To begin, then: Be mistress of yourself. Amid all your temptations to angry or sarcastic speech (and how many and how strong these are, you and I know), curb yourself with the recollection that it is despicable, no less than useless, to say cutting things to one who has no right to retort upon you in kind.

“Ma’,” says Miss Aurelia in Miss Sedgwick’s admirable story, “Live and let Live”—“how can you let your help be so saucy to you?”

Master Julius, who was standing by, took a different view of the matter.

“If Ma’ doesn’t want her help to be _sarcy_ to her,” he said, “she hadn’t ought to be _sarcy_ to them.”

Teach your children the like forms of kindly speech and habits of consideration for the comfort and happiness of your domestics, checking with equal promptness undue freedom and the arrogance of station. It is as graceful to bend as it is mean to grovel.

Learn not to see everything, and, so soon as you can, put far from you the delusive hope that anybody else—unless it be dear old John—will ever serve you as well as you would serve yourself. This failure is attributable to some one of the nine-tenths we spoke of just now. She is a prudent housekeeper who can wink at trifling blemishes without effort or parade. There is one text which has come into my troubled mind hundreds of times on such occasions, calming perturbation into solemnity, and bringing, I hope, charity with humility—

“If _Thou_, Lord, shouldst mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?”

But if your hold of the rein be gentle, let it also be firm. Never forget that the house is yours, and that you—not hirelings—are responsible for the disposition of the stores purchased with John’s money.

“I was much amused the other day,” said an easy-tempered lady to me, “at a talk that passed under my window between my new cook and one of her visitors.

“‘And how are ye gitting along?’ asked the guest.

“‘Oh! pretty well-ish, now,’ was the reply. ‘I was a-feard, when I first come, that _she_ would bother me a-trotting down into the kitchen so constant. But I give her a hint as how that wasn’t the trick of a raal lady, and she’s kep’ out nicely sence then. You’ve got to stand up for your own rights in this wurrld, or you’ll be trod upon.’”

Now, it would be throwing away words to reason with a woman like that cook, or a mistress might show that in no other department of labor would such a principle be tolerated—that from the Secretary of State down to the scavenger who empties your ash-pan, every employé who draws wages has an overlooker, to whom he is accountable for the manner in which his work is done and his money earned; and that the fact that she is an ignorant, high-tempered woman is no just cause of exemption. Yet in how many families is this point tacitly yielded, and the mistress admitted upon sufferance to her own kitchen—the room furnished with her money, and in which she hardly dare touch or look at the articles intended for the consumption of her own family?

One often hears such remarks as, “It isn’t every girl who will stand having the mistress popping in and out while she is at work.” When, in any other situation, the very fact of this unwillingness to have the owner of the materials used in that work present, would be strong presumptive proof of negligence or dishonesty. The principle is pernicious from beginning to end, and should not be tolerated for an instant.

It gives me pleasure to state here, that I know nothing personally of this curious reversal of the rights of employer and domestic. I am inclined to believe, if one-half I hear of other housewives’ trials be true, that I have been highly favored among American women. My authority in the kitchen, as in other parts of the household, has never been disputed—in my hearing or presence, that is. I have always met with a cheerful reception below-stairs when I appeared there to direct or share the labors of my cooks; have found them willing to undertake new dishes, and ready to learn my “way,” however unlike it might be to their own. As a rule, also,—to which the exceptions have been few and very far between—those employed by me have been cleanly, industrious, kind-hearted, and respectful; patient under inconveniences, and attentive in sickness. I should not, therefore, do my duty, did I not lift my voice in a plea for charitable judgment, just and generous treatment of a class which, however faulty, have much to do and to endure. Mrs. Skinflint’s grocer’s account may be less than yours, if you adopt this policy—Mrs. Sharp’s coal-cellar be better dusted, and the paint in her attic scrubbed oftener; but I believe, in the long run, you will be the most comfortable in body, as in conscience. Your machinery will move with fewer jerks and less friction. Your servants will remain with you longer, and be better-tempered while they stay, if you show that you appreciate the fact of a common humanity; that you owe them duties you are resolved to fulfil during their sojourn under your roof, however mercenary may be their performance of those devolving upon them.

Finally, dear sister, do not add to the real miseries of life by regarding the annoyance of a careless, slothful, or impertinent domestic as a real trouble. Class it with petty vexations which are yet curable as well as endurable, and live above it—a noble, beneficent existence in the love of your fellow-creatures and the fear of GOD—a life that can not suffer perceptible disturbance from such a contemptible rootlet of bitterness as this. It is only the feeble, the inefficient, or the indolent mistress whose peace of mind is dependent upon such casualties as a breeze, a hurricane, or a sudden vacancy in the department of the interior.

Recollect, when the infliction is sharpest, that brier-pricks are disagreeable, but never serious, unless the blood be _very_ impure.

PUDDINGS.

I have, for convenience sake, classed among pies all preparations baked _in crust_ in a pie-dish. Many of these, however, are called puddings, such as custards of various kinds, lemon, cocoa-nut, and orange puddings. The reader will have no trouble in finding the receipts for these, if she will bear the above remark in mind.

BAKED PUDDINGS.

Beat your eggs very light—and, if you put in only one or two, whip white and yolk separately, beating the latter into the sugar before adding the whites.

Fruit, rice, corn-starch, and bread puddings require a steady, moderate oven in baking. Custard and batter puddings should be put into the dish, and this into the oven, the instant they are mixed, and baked quickly. _No_ pudding, unless it be raised with yeast, should be allowed to stand out of the oven after the ingredients are put together. Give one final hard stir just before it goes in, and be sure the mould is well greased.

APPLE MÉRINGUE PUDDING.

1 pint stewed apples. 3 eggs—whites and yolks separate. ½ cup white sugar, and one teaspoonful butter. 1 teaspoonful nutmeg and cinnamon mixed. 1 teaspoonful essence bitter almond (for the méringue.)

Sweeten and spice, and, while the apple is still very hot, stir in the butter, and, a little at a time, the yolks. Beat all light, pour into a buttered dish, and bake ten minutes. Cover, without drawing from the oven, with a méringue made of the beaten whites, two tablespoonfuls white sugar, and the bitter almond seasoning. Spread smoothly and quickly, close the oven again, and brown very slightly.

Eat cold, with white sugar sifted over the top, and send around cream to pour over it instead of sauce.

BAKED APPLE PUDDING.

6 large firm pippins (grated.) 3 tablespoonfuls butter. ½ cup sugar. 4 eggs—whites and yolks separate. Juice of one lemon, and half the peel.

Beat butter and sugar to a cream, stir in the yolks, the lemon, the grated apple, lastly the whites. Grate nutmeg over the top, and bake until nicely browned.

Eat cold with cream.

SWEET APPLE PUDDING. ✠

1 quart milk. 4 eggs. 3 cups chopped apple. 1 lemon—all the juice and half the rind. Nutmeg and cinnamon. ¼ teaspoonful of soda dissolved in a little vinegar. Flour for a stiff batter.

Beat the yolks very light, add the milk, seasoning, and flour. Stir hard five minutes, and beat in the apple, then the whites, lastly the soda, well mixed in.

Bake in two square shallow pans one hour, and eat hot, with sweet sauce. Much of the success of this pudding depends upon the mixing—almost as much upon the baking. Cover with paper when half done, to prevent hardening.

PIPPIN PUDDING. ✠

8 fine pippins, pared, cored, and sliced, breaking them as little as possible. ½ cup very fine bread-crumbs. 2 teaspoonfuls butter—melted. 5 eggs—whites and yolks separate. ¾ cup sugar. 1 oz. citron, shred finely. 1 teaspoonful nutmeg, and a dozen whole cloves. 1 cup milk or cream.

Soak the bread-crumbs in the milk, cream the butter and sugar, and beat into this the yolks. Next, adding the milk and soaked bread, stir until very smooth and light. Put in the nutmeg and citron, and whip in the whites lightly. Butter a deep dish, and put in your sliced apple, sprinkling each piece well with sugar, and scattering the cloves among them. Pour the custard you have prepared over them, and bake three-quarters of an hour.

Sift powdered sugar over the top, and eat cold.

BROWN BETTY. ✠

1 cup bread-crumbs. 2 cups chopped apples—tart. ½ cup sugar. 1 teaspoonful cinnamon. 2 tablespoonfuls butter cut into small bits.