Who invented that mischievous falsehood that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach? How many a silly woman, taking it for truth, has let love slip out of the parlour, while she was busy in the kitchen.Of course, if you were foolish enough to marry a pig, I suppose you must be content to devote your life to the preparation of hog's-wash.But are you sure that he IS a pig? If by any chance he be not?--then, Madam, you are making a grievous mistake.My dear Lady, you are too modest.If I may say so without making you unduly conceited, even at the dinner-table itself, you are of much more importance than the mutton.Courage, Madam, be not afraid to tilt a lance even with your own cook.You can be more piquant than the sauce a la Tartare, more soothing surely than the melted butter.There was a time when he would not have known whether he was eating beef or pork with you the other side of the table.Whose fault is it? Don't think so poorly of us.We are not ascetics, neither are we all gourmets: most of us plain men, fond of our dinner, as a healthy man should be, but fonder still of our sweethearts and wives, let us hope.Try us.A moderately-cooked dinner--let us even say a not-too-well-cooked dinner, with you looking your best, laughing and talking gaily and cleverly--as you can, you know--makes a pleasanter meal for us, after the day's work is done, than that same dinner, cooked to perfection, with you silent, jaded, and anxious, your pretty hair untidy, your pretty face wrinkled with care concerning the sole, with anxiety regarding the omelette.
My poor Martha, be not troubled about so many things.YOU are the one thing needful--if the bricks and mortar are to be a home.See to it that YOU are well served up, that YOU are done to perfection, that YOU are tender and satisfying, that YOU are worth sitting down to.We wanted a wife, a comrade, a friend; not a cook and a nurse on the cheap.
But of what use is it to talk? the world will ever follow its own folly.When I think of all the good advice that I have given it, and of the small result achieved, I confess I grow discouraged.Iwas giving good advice to a lady only the other day.I was instructing her as to the proper treatment of aunts.She was sucking a lead-pencil, a thing I am always telling her not to do.
She took it out of her mouth to speak.
"I suppose you know how everybody ought to do everything," she said.
There are times when it is necessary to sacrifice one's modesty to one's duty.
"Of course I do," I replied.
"And does Mama know how everybody ought to do everything?" was the second question.
My conviction on this point was by no means so strong, but for domestic reasons I again sacrificed myself to expediency.
"Certainly," I answered; "and take that pencil out of your mouth.
I've told you of that before.You'll swallow it one day, and then you'll get perichondritis and die."She appeared to be solving a problem.
"All grown-up people seem to know everything," she summarized.
There are times when I doubt if children are as simple as they look.
If it be sheer stupidity that prompts them to make remarks of this character, one should pity them, and seek to improve them.But if it be not stupidity? well then, one should still seek to improve them, but by a different method.
The other morning I overheard the nurse talking to this particular specimen.The woman is a most worthy creature, and she was imparting to the child some really sound advice.She was in the middle of an unexceptional exhortation concerning the virtue of silence, when Dorothea interrupted her with--"Oh, do be quiet, Nurse.I never get a moment's peace from your chatter."Such an interruption discourages a woman who is trying to do her duty.
Last Tuesday evening she was unhappy.Myself, I think that rhubarb should never be eaten before April, and then never with lemonade.
Her mother read her a homily upon the subject of pain.It was impressed upon her that we must be patient, that we must put up with the trouble that God sends us.Dorothea would descend to details, as children will.
"Must we put up with the cod-liver oil that God sends us?""Yes, decidedly."
"And with the nurses that God sends us?"
"Certainly; and be thankful that you've got them, some little girls haven't any nurse.And don't talk so much."On Friday I found the mother in tears.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," was the answer; "only Baby.She's such a strange child.I can't make her out at all.""What has she been up to now?"
"Oh, she will argue, you know."
She has that failing.I don't know where she gets it from, but she's got it.
"Well?"
"Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her she shouldn't take her doll's perambulator out with her.""Yes?"
"Well, she didn't say anything then, but so soon as I was outside the door, I heard her talking to herself--you know her way?""Yes?"
"She said--"
"Yes, she said?"
"She said, 'I must be patient.I must put up with the mother God has sent me.'"She lunches down-stairs on Sundays.We have her with us once a week to give her the opportunity of studying manners and behaviour.
Milson had dropped in, and we were discussing politics.I was interested, and, pushing my plate aside, leant forward with my elbows on the table.Dorothea has a habit of talking to herself in a high-pitched whisper capable of being heard above an Adelphi love scene.I heard her say--"I must sit up straight.I mustn't sprawl with my elbows on the table.It is only common, vulgar people behave that way."I looked across at her; she was sitting most correctly, and appeared to be contemplating something a thousand miles away.We had all of us been lounging! We sat up stiffly, and conversation flagged.
Of course we made a joke of it after the child was gone.But somehow it didn't seem to be OUR joke.
I wish I could recollect my childhood.I should so like to know if children are as simple as they can look.
